MICKY MAGUIRE’S SECOND DEFEAT
Dick was no coward. Nor was he in the habit of submitting passively to
an insult. When, therefore, he recognized Micky as his assailant, he
instantly turned and gave chase. Micky anticipated pursuit, and ran at
his utmost speed. It is doubtful if Dick would have overtaken him, but
Micky had the ill luck to trip just as he had entered a narrow alley,
and, falling with some violence, received a sharp blow from the hard
stones, which made him scream with pain.
“Ow!” he whined. “Don’t you hit a feller when he’s down.”
“What made you fire that stone at me?” demanded our hero, looking down
at the fallen bully.
“Just for fun,” said Micky.
“It would have been a very agreeable s’prise if it had hit me,” said
Dick. “S’posin’ I fire a rock at you jest for fun.”
“Don’t!” exclaimed Micky, in alarm.
“It seems you don’t like agreeable s’prises,” said Dick, “any more’n
the man did what got hooked by a cow one mornin’, before breakfast. It
didn’t improve his appetite much.”
“I’ve most broke my arm,” said Micky, ruefully, rubbing the affected
limb.
“If it’s broke you can’t fire no more stones, which is a very cheerin’
reflection,” said Dick. “Ef you haven’t money enough to buy a wooden
one I’ll lend you a quarter. There’s one good thing about wooden ones,
they aint liable to get cold in winter, which is another cheerin’
reflection.”
“I don’t want none of yer cheerin’ reflections,” said Micky, sullenly.
“Yer company aint wanted here.”
“Thank you for your polite invitation to leave,” said Dick, bowing
ceremoniously. “I’m willin’ to go, but ef you throw any more stones at
me, Micky Maguire, I’ll hurt you worse than the stones did.”
The only answer made to this warning was a scowl from his fallen
opponent. It was quite evident that Dick had the best of it, and he
thought it prudent to say nothing.
“As I’ve got a friend waitin’ outside, I shall have to tear myself
away,” said Dick. “You’d better not throw any more stones, Micky
Maguire, for it don’t seem to agree with your constitution.”
Micky muttered something which Dick did not stay to hear. He backed out
of the alley, keeping a watchful eye on his fallen foe, and rejoined
Henry Fosdick, who was awaiting his return.
“Who was it, Dick?” he asked.
“A partic’lar friend of mine, Micky Maguire,” said Dick. “He playfully
fired a rock at my head as a mark of his ’fection. He loves me like a
brother, Micky does.”
“Rather a dangerous kind of a friend, I should think,” said Fosdick.
“He might have killed you.”
“I’ve warned him not to be so ’fectionate another time,” said Dick.
“I know him,” said Henry Fosdick. “He’s at the head of a gang of boys
living at the Five-Points. He threatened to whip me once because a
gentleman employed me to black his boots instead of him.”
“He’s been at the Island two or three times for stealing,” said Dick.
“I guess he won’t touch me again. He’d rather get hold of small boys.
If he ever does anything to you, Fosdick, just let me know, and I’ll
give him a thrashing.”
Dick was right. Micky Maguire was a bully, and like most bullies did
not fancy tackling boys whose strength was equal or superior to his
own. Although he hated Dick more than ever, because he thought our hero
was putting on airs, he had too lively a remembrance of his strength
and courage to venture upon another open attack. He contented himself,
therefore, whenever he met Dick, with scowling at him. Dick took this
very philosophically, remarking that, “if it was soothin’ to Micky’s
feelings, he might go ahead, as it didn’t hurt him much.”
It will not be necessary to chronicle the events of the next few weeks.
A new life had commenced for Dick. He no longer haunted the gallery of
the Old Bowery; and even Tony Pastor’s hospitable doors had lost their
old attractions. He spent two hours every evening in study. His
progress was astonishingly rapid. He was gifted with a natural
quickness; and he was stimulated by the desire to acquire a fair
education as a means of “growin’ up ’spectable,” as he termed it. Much
was due also to the patience and perseverance of Henry Fosdick, who
made a capital teacher.
“You’re improving wonderfully, Dick,” said his friend, one evening,
when Dick had read an entire paragraph without a mistake.
“Am I?” said Dick, with satisfaction.
“Yes. If you’ll buy a writing-book to-morrow, we can begin writing
to-morrow evening.”
“What else do you know, Henry?” asked Dick.
“Arithmetic, and geography, and grammar.”
“What a lot you know!” said Dick, admiringly.
“I don’t _know_ any of them,” said Fosdick. “I’ve only studied them. I
wish I knew a great deal more.”
“I’ll be satisfied when I know as much as you,” said Dick.
“It seems a great deal to you now, Dick, but in a few months you’ll
think differently. The more you know, the more you’ll want to know.”
“Then there aint any end to learnin’?” said Dick.
“No.”
“Well,” said Dick, “I guess I’ll be as much as sixty before I know
everything.”
“Yes; as old as that, probably,” said Fosdick, laughing.
“Anyway, you know too much to be blackin’ boots. Leave that to ignorant
chaps like me.”
“You won’t be ignorant long, Dick.”
“You’d ought to get into some office or countin’-room.”
“I wish I could,” said Fosdick, earnestly. “I don’t succeed very well
at blacking boots. You make a great deal more than I do.”
“That’s cause I aint troubled with bashfulness,” said Dick.
“Bashfulness aint as natural to me as it is to you. I’m always on hand,
as the cat said to the milk. You’d better give up shines, Fosdick, and
give your ’tention to mercantile pursuits.”
“I’ve thought of trying to get a place,” said Fosdick; “but no one
would take me with these clothes;” and he directed his glance to his
well-worn suit, which he kept as neat as he could, but which, in spite
of all his care, began to show decided marks of use. There was also
here and there a stain of blacking upon it, which, though an
advertisement of his profession, scarcely added to its good appearance.
“I almost wanted to stay at home from Sunday school last Sunday,” he
continued, “because I thought everybody would notice how dirty and worn
my clothes had got to be.”
“If my clothes wasn’t two sizes too big for you,” said Dick,
generously, “I’d change. You’d look as if you’d got into your
great-uncle’s suit by mistake.”
“You’re very kind, Dick, to think of changing,” said Fosdick, “for your
suit is much better than mine; but I don’t think that mine would suit
you very well. The pants would show a little more of your ankles than
is the fashion, and you couldn’t eat a very hearty dinner without
bursting the buttons off the vest.”
“That wouldn’t be very convenient,” said Dick. “I aint fond of lacin’
to show my elegant figger. But I say,” he added with a sudden thought,
“how much money have we got in the savings’ bank?”
Fosdick took a key from his pocket, and went to the drawer in which the
bank-books were kept, and, opening it, brought them out for inspection.
It was found that Dick had the sum of eighteen dollars and ninety cents
placed to his credit, while Fosdick had six dollars and forty-five
cents. To explain the large difference, it must be remembered that Dick
had deposited five dollars before Henry deposited anything, being the
amount he had received as a gift from Mr. Whitney.
“How much does that make, the lot of it?” asked Dick. “I aint much on
figgers yet, you know.”
“It makes twenty-five dollars and thirty-five cents, Dick,” said his
companion, who did not understand the thought which suggested the
question.
“Take it, and buy some clothes, Henry,” said Dick, shortly.
“What, your money too?”
“In course.”
“No, Dick, you are too generous. I couldn’t think of it. Almost
three-quarters of the money is yours. You must spend it on yourself.”
“I don’t need it,” said Dick.
“You may not need it now, but you will some time.”
“I shall have some more then.”
“That may be; but it wouldn’t be fair for me to use your money, Dick. I
thank you all the same for your kindness.”
“Well, I’ll lend it to you, then,” persisted Dick, “and you can pay me
when you get to be a rich merchant.”
“But it isn’t likely I ever shall be one.”
“How d’you know? I went to a fortun’ teller once, and she told me I was
born under a lucky star with a hard name, and I should have a rich man
for my particular friend, who would make my fortun’. I guess you are
going to be the rich man.”
Fosdick laughed, and steadily refused for some time to avail himself of
Dick’s generous proposal; but at length, perceiving that our hero
seemed much disappointed, and would be really glad if his offer were
accepted, he agreed to use as much as might be needful.
This at once brought back Dick’s good-humor, and he entered with great
enthusiasm into his friend’s plans.
The next day they withdrew the money from the bank, and, when business
got a little slack, in the afternoon set out in search of a clothing
store. Dick knew enough of the city to be able to find a place where a
good bargain could be obtained. He was determined that Fosdick should
have a good serviceable suit, even if it took all the money they had.
The result of their search was that for twenty-three dollars Fosdick
obtained a very neat outfit, including a couple of shirts, a hat, and a
pair of shoes, besides a dark mixed suit, which appeared stout and of
good quality.
“Shall I send the bundle home?” asked the salesman, impressed by the
off-hand manner in which Dick drew out the money in payment for the
clothes.
“Thank you,” said Dick, “you’re very kind, but I’ll take it home
myself, and you can allow me something for my trouble.”
“All right,” said the clerk, laughing; “I’ll allow it on your next
purchase.”
Proceeding to their apartment in Mott Street, Fosdick at once tried on
his new suit, and it was found to be an excellent fit. Dick surveyed
his new friend with much satisfaction.
“You look like a young gentleman of fortun’,” he said, “and do credit
to your governor.”
“I suppose that means you, Dick,” said Fosdick, laughing.
“In course it does.”
“You should say _of_ course,” said Fosdick, who, in virtue of his
position as Dick’s tutor, ventured to correct his language from time to
time.
“How dare you correct your gov’nor?” said Dick, with comic indignation.
“‘I’ll cut you off with a shillin’, you young dog,’ as the Markis says
to his nephew in the play at the Old Bowery.”