DICK SECURES A TUTOR
The next morning Dick was unusually successful, having plenty to do,
and receiving for one job twenty-five cents,—the gentleman refusing to
take change. Then flashed upon Dick’s mind the thought that he had not
yet returned the change due to the gentleman whose boots he had blacked
on the morning of his introduction to the reader.
“What’ll he think of me?” said Dick to himself. “I hope he won’t think
I’m mean enough to keep the money.”
Now Dick was scrupulously honest, and though the temptation to be
otherwise had often been strong, he had always resisted it. He was not
willing on any account to keep money which did not belong to him, and
he immediately started for 125 Fulton Street (the address which had
been given him) where he found Mr. Greyson’s name on the door of an
office on the first floor.
The door being open, Dick walked in.
“Is Mr. Greyson in?” he asked of a clerk who sat on a high stool before
a desk.
“Not just now. He’ll be in soon. Will you wait?”
“Yes,” said Dick.
“Very well; take a seat then.”
Dick sat down and took up the morning “Tribune,” but presently came to
a word of four syllables, which he pronounced to himself a “sticker,”
and laid it down. But he had not long to wait, for five minutes later
Mr. Greyson entered.
“Did you wish to speak to me, my lad?” said he to Dick, whom in his new
clothes he did not recognize.
“Yes, sir,” said Dick. “I owe you some money.”
“Indeed!” said Mr. Greyson, pleasantly; “that’s an agreeable surprise.
I didn’t know but you had come for some. So you are a debtor of mine,
and not a creditor?”
“I b’lieve that’s right,” said Dick, drawing fifteen cents from his
pocket, and placing in Mr. Greyson’s hand.
“Fifteen cents!” repeated he, in some surprise. “How do you happen to
be indebted to me in that amount?”
“You gave me a quarter for a-shinin’ your boots, yesterday mornin’, and
couldn’t wait for the change. I meant to have brought it before, but I
forgot all about it till this mornin’.”
“It had quite slipped my mind also. But you don’t look like the boy I
employed. If I remember rightly he wasn’t as well dressed as you.”
“No,” said Dick. “I was dressed for a party, then, but the clo’es was
too well ventilated to be comfortable in cold weather.”
“You’re an honest boy,” said Mr. Greyson. “Who taught you to be
honest?”
“Nobody,” said Dick. “But it’s mean to cheat and steal. I’ve always
knowed that.”
“Then you’ve got ahead of some of our business men. Do you read the
Bible?”
“No,” said Dick. “I’ve heard it’s a good book, but I don’t know much
about it.”
“You ought to go to some Sunday School. Would you be willing?”
“Yes,” said Dick, promptly. “I want to grow up ’spectable. But I don’t
know where to go.”
“Then I’ll tell you. The church I attend is at the corner of Fifth
Avenue and Twenty-first Street.”
“I’ve seen it,” said Dick.
“I have a class in the Sunday School there. If you’ll come next Sunday,
I’ll take you into my class, and do what I can to help you.”
“Thank you,” said Dick, “but p’r’aps you’ll get tired of teaching me.
I’m awful ignorant.”
“No, my lad,” said Mr. Greyson, kindly. “You evidently have some good
principles to start with, as you have shown by your scorn of
dishonesty. I shall hope good things of you in the future.”
“Well, Dick,” said our hero, apostrophizing himself, as he left the
office; “you’re gettin’ up in the world. You’ve got money invested, and
are goin’ to attend church, by partic’lar invitation, on Fifth Avenue.
I shouldn’t wonder much if you should find cards, when you get home,
from the Mayor, requestin’ the honor of your company to dinner, along
with other distinguished guests.”
Dick felt in very good spirits. He seemed to be emerging from the world
in which he had hitherto lived, into a new atmosphere of
respectability, and the change seemed very pleasant to him.
At six o’clock Dick went into a restaurant on Chatham Street, and got a
comfortable supper. He had been so successful during the day that,
after paying for this, he still had ninety cents left. While he was
despatching his supper, another boy came in, smaller and slighter than
Dick, and sat down beside him. Dick recognized him as a boy who three
months before had entered the ranks of the boot-blacks, but who, from a
natural timidity, had not been able to earn much. He was ill-fitted for
the coarse companionship of the street boys, and shrank from the rude
jokes of his present associates. Dick had never troubled him; for our
hero had a certain chivalrous feeling which would not allow him to
bully or disturb a younger and weaker boy than himself.
“How are you, Fosdick?” said Dick, as the other seated himself.
“Pretty well,” said Fosdick. “I suppose you’re all right.”
“Oh, yes, I’m right side up with care. I’ve been havin’ a bully supper.
What are you goin’ to have?”
“Some bread and butter.”
“Why don’t you get a cup o’ coffee?”
“Why,” said Fosdick, reluctantly, “I haven’t got money enough
to-night.”
“Never mind,” said Dick; “I’m in luck to-day, I’ll stand treat.”
“That’s kind in you,” said Fosdick, gratefully.
“Oh, never mind that,” said Dick.
Accordingly he ordered a cup of coffee, and a plate of beefsteak, and
was gratified to see that his young companion partook of both with
evident relish. When the repast was over, the boys went out into the
street together, Dick pausing at the desk to settle for both suppers.
“Where are you going to sleep to-night, Fosdick?” asked Dick, as they
stood on the sidewalk.
“I don’t know,” said Fosdick, a little sadly. “In some doorway, I
expect. But I’m afraid the police will find me out, and make me move
on.”
“I’ll tell you what,” said Dick, “you must go home with me. I guess my
bed will hold two.”
“Have you got a room?” asked the other, in surprise.
“Yes,” said Dick, rather proudly, and with a little excusable
exultation. “I’ve got a room over in Mott Street; there I can receive
my friends. That’ll be better than sleepin’ in a door-way,—won’t it?”
“Yes, indeed it will,” said Fosdick. “How lucky I was to come across
you! It comes hard to me living as I do. When my father was alive I had
every comfort.”
“That’s more’n I ever had,” said Dick. “But I’m goin’ to try to live
comfortable now. Is your father dead?”
“Yes,” said Fosdick, sadly. “He was a printer; but he was drowned one
dark night from a Fulton ferry-boat, and, as I had no relations in the
city, and no money, I was obliged to go to work as quick as I could.
But I don’t get on very well.”
“Didn’t you have no brothers nor sisters?” asked Dick.
“No,” said Fosdick; “father and I used to live alone. He was always so
much company to me that I feel very lonesome without him. There’s a man
out West somewhere that owes him two thousand dollars. He used to live
in the city, and father lent him all his money to help him go into
business; but he failed, or pretended to, and went off. If father
hadn’t lost that money he would have left me well off; but no money
would have made up his loss to me.”
“What’s the man’s name that went off with your father’s money?”
“His name is Hiram Bates.”
“P’r’aps you’ll get the money again, sometime.”
“There isn’t much chance of it,” said Fosdick. “I’d sell out my chances
of that for five dollars.”
“Maybe I’ll buy you out sometime,” said Dick. “Now, come round and see
what sort of a room I’ve got. I used to go to the theatre evenings,
when I had money; but now I’d rather go to bed early, and have a good
sleep.”
“I don’t care much about theatres,” said Fosdick. “Father didn’t use to
let me go very often. He said it wasn’t good for boys.”
“I like to go to the Old Bowery sometimes. They have tip-top plays
there. Can you read and write well?” he asked, as a sudden thought came
to him.
“Yes,” said Fosdick. “Father always kept me at school when he was
alive, and I stood pretty well in my classes. I was expecting to enter
at the Free Academy* next year.”
* Now the college of the city of New York.
“Then I’ll tell you what,” said Dick; “I’ll make a bargain with you. I
can’t read much more’n a pig; and my writin’ looks like hens’ tracks. I
don’t want to grow up knowin’ no more’n a four-year-old boy. If you’ll
teach me readin’ and writin’ evenin’s, you shall sleep in my room every
night. That’ll be better’n door-steps or old boxes, where I’ve slept
many a time.”
“Are you in earnest?” said Fosdick, his face lighting up hopefully.
“In course I am,” said Dick. “It’s fashionable for young gentlemen to
have private tootors to introduct ’em into the flower-beds of
literatoor and science, and why shouldn’t I foller the fashion? You
shall be my perfessor; only you must promise not to be very hard if my
writin’ looks like a rail-fence on a bender.”
“I’ll try not to be too severe,” said Fosdick, laughing. “I shall be
thankful for such a chance to get a place to sleep. Have you got
anything to read out of?”
“No,” said Dick. “My extensive and well-selected library was lost
overboard in a storm, when I was sailin’ from the Sandwich Islands to
the desert of Sahara. But I’ll buy a paper. That’ll do me a long time.”
Accordingly Dick stopped at a paper-stand, and bought a copy of a
weekly paper, filled with the usual variety of reading matter,—stories,
sketches, poems, etc.
They soon arrived at Dick’s lodging-house. Our hero, procuring a lamp
from the landlady, led the way into his apartment, which he entered
with the proud air of a proprietor.
“Well, how do you like it, Fosdick?” he asked, complacently.
The time was when Fosdick would have thought it untidy and not
particularly attractive. But he had served a severe apprenticeship in
the streets, and it was pleasant to feel himself under shelter, and he
was not disposed to be critical.
“It looks very comfortable, Dick,” he said.
“The bed aint very large,” said Dick; “but I guess we can get along.”
“Oh, yes,” said Fosdick, cheerfully. “I don’t take up much room.”
“Then that’s all right. There’s two chairs, you see, one for you and
one for me. In case the mayor comes in to spend the evenin’ socially,
he can sit on the bed.”
The boys seated themselves, and five minutes later, under the guidance
of his young tutor, Dick had commenced his studies.