STUDENT AND SCHOOLMATE°
An Illustrated Monthly,
FOR OUR BOYS AND GIRLS.
Vol. XIX. JANUARY, 1867. No. I.
RAGGED DICK;
OR, STREET LIFE IN NEW YORK.
CHAPTER I.
RAGGED DICK IS INTRODUCED TO THE READER.
“Wake up there, youngster,” said a rough voice.
Ragged Dick opened his eyes slowly, and stared stupidly in the face of the speaker, but did not offer to get up.
“Wake up, you young vagabond!” said the man a little impatiently, “I suppose you’d lay here all day, if I hadn’t called you.”
“What time is it?” asked Dick.
“Seven o’clock.”
“”Seven o’clock! I oughter ‘ve been up an hour ago. I know what ‘t was made me so precious sleepy. I went to the Old Bowery last night, and didn’t turn in till past twelve.”
“You went to the Old Bowery? Where’d you get your money?” asked the man, who was a porter in the employ of a firm on Spruce Street.
“Made it by shines, in course. You don’t catch me stealing, if that’s what you mean.”
“Don’t you ever steal, then?”
“No, and I wouldn’t. Lots of boys does it, but I wouldn’t.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear you say that. I believe there’s some good in you Dick, after all.”
“O, I’m a rough customer,” said Dick. “But I wouldn’t steal. It’s mean.”
“I’m glad you think so, Dick. Have you got any money to buy your breakfast?”
“No, but I’ll some get some.”
While this conversation was going on, Dick had got up. His bedchamber had been a wooden box half full of straw, on which the young boot-black had reposed his weary limbs, and slept as soundly as if he had been on a bed of down. He dumped down into the straw without taking the trouble of undressing. Getting up too, was a short process. He jumped out of the box, shook himself, picked out one or two straws that had found their way into rents in his clothes, and drawing a well-worn felt hat over his uncombed locks, he was ready for the business of the day.
Dick’s appearance, as he stood beside the box was rather peculiar. His pants were torn in several places, and had apparently belonged in the first instance to a boy two sizes larger than himself. He wore a vest, all of the buttons of which were gone except for two – out of which peeped a shirt which looked as if it had been worn a month. To complete his costume he wore a dress-coat, or “tail-coat,” as the boys call it. The sleeves were so long that they had to be rolled up, and the tails nearly reached his feet. Washing the face and hands is usually considered proper in commencing the day, but Dick was above such refinements. He had no particular dislike to dirt, and did not think it necessary to remove several dark streaks on his face and hands. In spite of his dirt and rags, however, there was something about Dick that was rather attractive. It was easy to see that if he had been clean and well dressed, he would have been decidedly good-looking. Some of his companions were sly, and their faces inspired distrust, but Dick had a frank, straight-forward manner that made him a favorite.
Dick’s business hours had commenced. His little blacking box was out ready for use, and he addressed each passer with, “Have a shine, sir?”
“How much do you charge?” asked a gentleman on the way to his counting-room.
“Ten cents,” said Dick.
“Isn’t that a little high?”
“Well, you know, ‘taint all clear profit,” said Dick. “There’s the blacking costs something, and I have to get a new brush pretty often.”
“And you have a large rent, too,” said the gentleman, quizzically, with a glance at a large hole in Dick’s coat.
“Yes sir,” said Dick, always ready to joke; “I have to pay such a big rent for my mansion up on Fifth Avenoo that I can’t afford to take less than ten cents a shine – I’ll give you a bully shine, sir.”
“Well, be quick about it,” said the gentleman, submitting his boot to Dick’s professional skill. “So your house is on Fifth Avenue, is it?”
“It isn’t anywhere else,” said Dick, and Dick spoke the truth there.
“What tailor do you patronize?” asked the gentleman, surveying Dick’s attire.
“Would you like to go to the same one?” asked Dick, shrewdly.
“Well, no, it strikes me that he didn’t give you a very good fit.”
“This coat once belonged to General Washington,” said Dick, comically. “He wore it all through the Revolution, and it got torn some, ‘cause he fit so hard. When he died he told his widder to give it to some smart young fellow that hadn’t got none of his own, so she gave it to me. But if you’d like it, sir, to remember General Washington by, I’ll let you have it reasonable.”
“Thank you, but I wouldn’t want to deprive you of it. And did your pants come from General Washington too?”
“No, they was a gift from Lewis Napoleon. Lewis had outgrown ‘em and sent ‘em to me – he’s bigger than me, and that’s the reason why they’re a little loose.”
“On the whole, I ought to feel honored to have my boots brushed by a friend of the Emperor’s. And now my lad, I suppose you would like your money.”
“I shouldn’t have any objection,” said Dick.
“I believe I haven’t got anything short of twenty-five cents. Have you got any money about you?”
“Not a cent,” said Dick; “All my money ‘s invested in the Erie railway.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“Shall I get the money change, sir?”
“I can’t wait; I’ll hand you twenty-five cents, and you can leave the change at my office any time during the day.”
“All right, sir. Where is it?”
“No. 125 Fulton Street. Shall you remember?”
“Yes sir. What name?”
“Greyson – Office on second floor.”
“All right, sir; I’ll bring it.”
“I wonder whether the little scamp will prove honest,” said Mr. Greyson. “If he does, I will give him my custom regularly. If he don’t, as is most likely, I shan’t mind the loss of fifteen cents.”
Mr. Greyson didn’t understand Dick. Our ragged hero wasn’t a model boy in all respects. I am afraid he swore sometimes, and now and then he played tricks upon unsophisticated boys from the country, or gave a wrong direction to honest old gentlemen unused to the city. A clergyman in search of the Cooper Institute he once directed to the Tombs Prison, and was highly delighted when the unsuspicious stranger walked up the front steps of the great stone building on Centre Street, and tried to obtain admission.
“I guess he won’t want to stay long,” thought Ragged Dick, hitching up his pants – “Leastways I shouldn’t.”
Another of Dick’s faults was his extravagance. Some days he earned considerable, being always wide-awake and ready for business, but he generally spent it all before the next morning. He was fond of going to the Old Bowery Theatre, and Tony Pastor’s, and if he had money enough left over afterwards, he would stop in somewhere and have an oyster stew, so that he generally commenced the day without a penny.
But in spite of all his faults, it was some credit to Dick that he was as good a boy as he was. He had been repeatedly tempted to steal, but there was something mean about stealing, in Dick’s estimation, and he was above meanness. But it is unnecessary to dwell longer upon Dick’s character. We shall become better acquainted with him as our story proceeds.
By the time Dick had finished polishing Mr. Greyson’s boots, he felt hungry. The twenty-five cents would have bought him a breakfast, but he reflected that the greater part of it did not belong to him, and he looked out for another customer. One was soon forthcoming, and another, before that was dispatched, so that Dick had now thirty cents of his own, and felt that he could afford to eat. Accordingly he went up Spruce Street, and turned into Nassau. Two blocks further and he reached Ann Street. On this Street was a small, cheap restaurant, where for five cents Dick could get a cup of coffee, and for ten cents more a plate of beafsteak, with a slice of bread thrown in. These Dick ordered, and sat down at a table. Neither the coffee nor the steak were as good as can be bought at Delmonico’s, but then it is very doubtful whether, in the present state of his wardrobe, Dick would have been received at that aristocratic restaurant, even if he had had money enough to pay the high prices charged. Dick had scarcely been served, when he espied a boy about his own age standing at the door, looking wistfully into the restaurant. This was Johnny Nolan, a boy of twelve, who was engaged in the same profession as Ragged Dick. His wardrobe was in pretty much the same condition as Dick’s.
“Had your breakfast, Johnny?” asked Dick, cutting off a piece of steak.
“No.”
“Come in then. Here’s room for you.”
“I aint got no stamps,” said Johnny.
Stamps, it may be mentioned here, is the New York name for fractional currency.
“Haven’t you had any shines?”
“Yes, I had one, but I shan’t get my pay till to-morrow.”
“Are you hungry?”
“Try me and see.”
“Come in, and I’ll stand treat this morning.”
Johnny Nolan was nowise slow in accepting this invitation, and was soon seated beside Dick.
“What’ll you have, Johnny?”
“Same as you.”
“Cup o’ coffee and beefsteak,” ordered Dick.
These were promptly brought, and Johnny attacked them vigorously.
Now, in the boot-blacking business, as well as in higher avocations, the same rule prevails, that energy and industry are rewarded, and indolence suffers. Dick was energetic and business-like, but Johnny Nolan was the reverse. The natural consequence was, that Dick earned probably three times as much as the other.
“How do you like it?” asked Dick, surveying Johnny’s attacks upon the steak with evident complacency.
“It’s hunky,” said the other.
I don’t believe “hunky” is to be found in either Webster’s or Worcester’s big dictionary, but probably my readers will understand what Johnny meant by it.
“Do you come here often?” asked Johnny.
“Most every day. You’d better come too.”
“I don’t have stamps enough.”
“Well, you’d ought to, then,” said Dick. “What do you do with your money, I’d like to know?”
“I don’t get near as much as you, Dick.”
“Well, you might if you tried – I keep my eyes open, that’s the way I get jobs. You’re lazy, that’s what’s the matter.”
Johnny didn’t see fit to reply to this charge. Probably he felt the justice of it, but proceeded with the breakfast, which he found very agreeable, particularly as it cost him nothing.
Breakfast over, the two boys went out into the street.
“Where are you going, Johnny?”
“Up to Mr. Taylor’s, on Spruce Street, to see if he doesn’t want a shine.”
“Do you work for him reg’lar?”
“Yes. Him and his partner wants a shine most every day. Where are you goin’?”
“Down front of the Astor House. I guess I’ll find some customers there.”
At this moment Johnny started, and dodging into an entry way, hid behind the door, considerably to Dick’s surprise. “What’s the matter now?” asked our hero?
“Has he gone?”
“Who gone, I’d like to know?”
“That man in the brown coat.”
“What of him? You aint scared of him, are you?”
“Yes, he got me a place once.”
“Where?”
“Ever so far off. I ran away.”
“Didn’t you like?”
“No, I had to get up too early. It was on a farm, and I had to get up at five to take care of the cows. I like New York best.”
“Did they give you enough to eat?”
“O yes, plenty.”
“And you had a good bed?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’d better have staid.”
“I felt lonely,” said Johnny.
Johnny could not exactly explain his feelings, but it is often the case that the young vagabond of the streets, though his food is uncertain, and his bed may be any old wagon or barrel that he is lucky enough to find unoccupied when night sets in, gets so attached to his precarious but independent mode of life, that he feels discontented in any other.
“How’d you get away? Did you walk?”
“No, I rode on the cars.”
“Where’d you get your money?”
“I didn’t have none.”
“What did you do then?”
“I got up about three o’clock, and walked to Albany. Then I hid on top of a freight car, and came all the way without their seeing me.* That was the man that got me the place, and I’m afraid he’d want to send me back.”
“Well,” said Dick, “I dunno as I’d like to live in the country – I couldn’t go to Tony Pastor’s or the Old Bowery. But I say, it’s tough in winter, Johnny, ‘specially when your overcoat’s at the tailors, and likely to stay there.”
“That’s so, Dick, but I must be going, or Mr. Taylor’ll get somebody else to shine his boots.”
“That boy,” soliloquized Dick, as Johnny took his departure, “aint got no ambition. I’ll bet he won’t get five shines to-day. I’m glad I aint like him, I couldn’t go to the theatre, nor buy no cigars, nor get half as much as I want to eat. Have a shine, sir?”
The person addressed was a young man of twenty-five, rather showily dressed, and sported a cane with a circlet of gold.
“Yes, boy, go ahead.”
The boots were soon polished in Dick’s best style.
“I haven’t got any change,” said the man, “but I’ll hand you a bill and you may run in and get it changed. I’ll pay you five cents extra for your trouble.”
He thereupon handed Dick a two dollar bill, which our hero took into a store on Broadway.
“Will you change that, sir?”
The clerk looked at it, and exclaimed angrily, “Be off, you young vagabond, or I’ll have you arrested.”
“What’s the row?”
“You’ve offered me a counterfeit bill.”
“I didn’t know it,” said Dick.
“Don’t tell me. Be off, or I’ll have you arrested.”

Horatio Alger, Jr.,
Author of “Frank’s Campaign,” “Paul Prescott’s Charge,” etc.

STUDENT AND SCHOOLMATE°
An Illustrated Monthly,
FOR OUR BOYS AND GIRLS.
Vol. XIX. FEBRUARY, 1867. No. II.
RAGGED DICK;
OR, STREET LIFE IN NEW YORK.
CHAPTER II.
Though Dick was somewhat startled at discovering that the bill he had offered was counterfeit, he stood his ground bravely.
“Clear out of this shop, you young vagabond,” repeated the clerk.
“Then give me back the bill.”
“That you may pass it again? I shall do no such thing.”
“It doesn’t belong to me,” said Dick. “A gentlemen that owes for a shine gave it to me to change.”
“A likely story,” said the clerk, but he appeared a little uneasy.
“I’ll go and call him,” said Dick.
Dick went out, and found his late customer standing on the Astor House steps.
“Well, youngster, have you brought me back my change? You were a precious long time about it. I began to think you had cleared out with the money.”
“I never steal,” said Dick, proudly.
“Then where’s the change?”
“I haven’t got it.”
“Where’s the bill, then?”
“I haven’t got that either.”
“You young rascal!”
“Hold on a minute, mister,” said Dick, “and I’ll tell you about it. The man what took the bill said’t wasn’t good, and he kept it.”
“The bill was perfectly good. So he kept it, did he? I’ll go back to the store, and see whether he won’t give it to you.”
Ragged Dick led the way, and the gentleman followed him into the store. At the re-appearance of Dick, the clerk flushed a little, and looked nervous. He did not seem to notice the new-comers, but kept about his work.
“Now,” said the young man, “point out the clerk that has my money.”
Dick did so.
The gentleman walked up to the counter.
“I will trouble you,” he said a little haughtily, “for a bill which that boy offered you, and which you saw fit to keep.”
“It was a bad bill,” said the clerk.
“It was no such thing. I require you to produce it, and let the matter be decided.”
The clerk fumbled in his vest pocket, and drew out a bad-looking bill.
“That is a bad bill, but it is not the one I handed the boy.”
“It is the one he gave me.”
The young man looked doubtful.
“Boy,” he said to Dick, “is this the bill you gave to be changed?”
“No, it isn’t,” said Dick, promptly.
“You lie, you young rascal!” exclaimed the clerk, who found himself in a tight place, and hardly knew how to get out of it.
By this time the proprietor of the store had come up.
“What’s all this, Mr. Hatch?” he demanded.
“That boy, said the clerk, “came in and asked for change for a bad bill. I kept the bill and told him to clear out.”
“Show the bill.”
The merchant looked at it. “Yes, that’s a bad bill,” he said.
“But it is not the one the boy offered,” said the young man, who had employed Dick. “It is the same denomination, but on a different bank.”
“Do you remember what bank it was on?”
“It was on the Merchants’ Bank of Boston.”
“Are you sure of it?”
“I am.”
“Perhaps the boy kept it, and offered the other.”
Dick looked indignant.
“He doesn’t look at if he was likely to have any extra bills. I suspect that your clerk pocketed the good bill, and has substituted instead this counterfeit note. It is a nice little scheme of his for making money.”
“I have not seen any bill on the Merchants’ Bank,” said the clerk, doggedly.
“You had better feel in your pockets.”
“This matter must be investigated,” said the merchant. “If you have this bill, produce it.”
“I haven’t got it,” but the clerk looked guilty.
“I demand that he be searched,” said Dick’s employer.
“I tell you I haven’t got it.”
“Shall I send for a police officer, Mr Hatch, or will you allow yourself to be searched quietly?” said the merchant.
Alarmed a this threat, the clerk put his hand in his vest pocket, and drew out a two dollar bill on the Merchant’s Bank.
“Is this your note?” asked the merchant.
“It is.”
“What explanation can you give of this strange occurrence?” he demanded of the clerk.
“I must have made a mistake,” faltered the clerk.
“I shall not give you a chance to make such another mistake in my employ,” said the merchant, sternly. “You go up to the desk, and ask for what is due you. I shall have no further occasion for your services.”
“Now, youngster,” said the young man, as they went out of the store, after he’ had finally got his bill changed, “I must pay you something extra for your trouble. Here’s fifty cents.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Dick. “You’re very kind.”
“I’m in luck,” thought our hero, complacently. “I guess I’ll go to Barnum’s to-night.”
“As he stood for a moment on the side-walk, waiting for another customer, he overheard a conversation between a gentleman and his nephew, on the steps just behind him.
“I am sorry, Frank, that I can’t go about, and show you some of the sights of New York, but I shall be full of business to-day. It is your first visit to the city too.”
“Yes sir.”
“There’s a great deal worth seeing here, but I’m afraid you’ll have to wait till next time. You can go out and walk by yourself, but don’t venture too far, or you may get lost.”
Frank looked disappointed.
Now Dick was an enterprising young man, and always in for a speculation. He thought he saw a chance of making a little money.
He stepped up to the two, and hitching up his clothes, said, “I know all about the city, sir. “I’ll show him round if you want me to.”
The gentleman looked a little curiously at the ragged figure before him.
“So you are a city boy, are you?”
“Yes sir,” said Dick. “I’ve lived here ever since I was a baby.”
“And you know all about the public buildings, do you?”
“Yes sir.”
“And the Central Park?”
“Yes sir, I’ve been all round.”
“Upon my word, I don’t know but it is a good idea. What do you say, Frank?”
“I wish he wasn’t quite so ragged and dirty,” said Frank, who was a little shy of being seen with such a companion.
“I’m afraid you haven’t washed your face this morning,” said Mr. Whitney, for this was the gentleman’s name,
“They didn’t have no wash bowls at the hotel where I stopped,” said Dick.
“What hotel did you stop at?”
“The Box hotel.”
“The Box hotel!”
“Yes sir, I slept in a box out on Spruce Street.”
Frank surveyed Dick curiously.
“How did you like it?” he asked.
“I slept bully.”
“Suppose it had rained?”
“Then I’d have wet my best clothes,” said Dick.
“Are these all the clothes you have?”
“Yes sir.”
Mr. Whitney spoke a few words to Frank, who answered in the affirmative.
“Follow me, my lad,” he said.
He went into the hotel, followed by Frank and Dick. As Dick was going up stairs after him, one of the servants stopped him.
“Where are going?”
“I have got something for him to do,” said Mr. Whitney.
“O, it’s all right, sir.”
“Now,” said Mr. Whitney, when they had entered a neat room, “my nephew here is on his way to boarding school. He has got a suit of clothes in his trunk that is half worn. He is willing to give it to you. I think it will look better than the one you have on.”
Dick was so astonished that he hardly knew what to say. The clothes were brought out, and turned out to be a neat gray suit.
“Before you put them on, you must wash yourself. Clean clothes and a dirty face won’t go very well together. Frank, you may attend to him. I am obliged to go out. Have you got money enough to carry you round?”
“Yes, uncle, thank you.”
The process of cleansing commenced. Frank added to his gift, a shirt and some stockings, and an old pair of shoes. “I am sorry I haven’t any cap,” said he.
“I can get one cheap, on Chatham Street, said Dick.
When Dick was dressed in his new attire, with his face and hands clean, and his hair brushed, it was difficult to imagine that he was the same boy. He now looked quite handsome, and might readily have been taken for a young gentleman, except that his hands were red and grimy.
“Look at yourself,” said Frank, leading him to the mirror.
“By gracious,” said Dick, starting back in astonishment, “that isn’t me, is it?”
“Don’t you know yourself?” asked Frank, smiling.
“It ‘minds me of Cinderella,” said Dick, “when she was changed into a fairy princess. I see it one night at Barnum’s. What’ll Johnny Nolan say when he sees me? He won’t dare to speak to such a young swell as I be now. Aint it rich?” and Dick burst into a loud laugh. His fancy was tickled by the anticipation of his friend’s surprise. Then the thought of this valuable gift he had received occurred to him, and he looked gratefully at Frank.
“You’re a brick!” he said.
“A what!”
“A brick! You’re a jolly good fellow, to make me such a present.”
“You’re quite welcome, Dick,” said Frank kindly, “I’m better off than you are, and I can spare the clothes just as well as not. You must have a new hat, though. That old hat of yours,” pointing to the soiled and torn hat Dick had worn into the hotel, “won’t correspond with the clothes you have on. I’ll tell you what. You can wear my hat down stairs, and go over to the place where you say you can buy a better one, and then come back. Here’s some money.”
“I’ve got some,” said Dick.
“How much?”
“Fifty cents.”
“That won’t be enough. Here’s a dollar.”
“Dick hung back. “You’ve give me a good deal already,” he said.
“Then let this be in payment for your going round with me to-day.”
On this understanding, Dick took the dollar, and in a few minutes returned with a hat, not new indeed, but quite neat looking. He was now completely dressed.
“The old clothes you had better make into a bundle,” said Frank.
“Wait a minute till I get my handkercher.”
Dick pulled out a dirty rag, which had originally been white, and apparently had once formed part of a sheet or shirt.
“You mustn’t carry that,” said Frank.
“But I’ve got a cold,” said Dick.
“O, I don’t mean you to go without a handkerchief. I’ll give you one.
Frank opened his trunk and pulled out two, which he gave to Dick.
“I wonder if I aint dreamin’,” said Dick, once more survey himself, with a bewildered look, in the glass. “I’m afraid I’m dreamin’, and shall wake up in a barrel, as I did night before last.”
“Shall I pinch you, so you can wake here?” asked Frank, playfully.
“Yes,” said Dick, seriously, “I wish you would.”
He pulled up the sleeve of his jacket, and Frank pinched him pretty hard, so that Dick winced.
“Yes, I guess I’m awake,” said Dick. “You’ve got a pair of nippers, you have.”
“But what’ll I do with my brush and blacking?” he asked.
“You can leave them here till we come back,” said Frank. “They will be safe.”
“Hold on a minute,” said Dick, surveying Frank’s boots with a professional eye, “you aint got a good shine on them boots – I’ll make ‘em shine so you can see your face in them.”
And he was as good as his word.
Frank next insisted on his brushing his own shoes, and then they went down stairs together. They met the same servant who had spoken to Dick a few minutes before, but there was no recognition.
“He don’t know me,” said Dick, grinning. “He thinks I’m a young swell like you.”
“What’s a swell?” asked Frank.
“O, a fellow that wears nobby clothes like you.”
“And you, too, Dick.”
“Yes,” said Dick, “who’d ever have thought as I should ever have turned into a swell!”
They had now got out on Broadway, and were slowly walking along the west side, when who should Dick see in front of him but Johnny Nolan!
Instantly Dick was seized with a fancy for witnessing Johnny’s amazement at the change in his appearance. He stole up behind him, and struck him on the back.
“Hallo, Johnny, how many shines have you had?”
Johnny turned round, expecting to see Dick, whose voice he recognized, but his astonished eyes rested on a nicely dressed boy, who looked indeed, like our hero, but so transformed by dress that he did not suspect it was Dick.
“What luck, Johnny?” repeated Dick.
Johnny surveyed him from head to foot in great bewilderment.
“Who be you?” he said.
“Well, that’s a good one!” laughed Dick. “So you don’t know Dick?”
“Where’d you get all them clothes?” asked Johnny. “Have you been stealin’?”
“Say that again, I’ll lick you. No, I’ve changed clothes with the Prince of Wales. He wanted to wear mine coz his mother was goin’ to give a party, and wanted to look nice.”
Without deigning any further explanation, Dick went off, followed by the astonished gaze of Johnny Nolan, who did not feel sure whether the neat looking boy he had been talking with, was really ragged Dick or not. Horatio Alger, Jr.,
Author of “Frank’s Campaign,” “Paul Prescott’s Charge,” etc.

STUDENT AND SCHOOLMATE°
An Illustrated Monthly,
FOR OUR BOYS AND GIRLS.
Vol. XIX. March, 1867. No. III.
RAGGED DICK;
OR, STREET LIFE IN NEW YORK.
CHAPTER III.
AN ADVENTURE IN CHATHAM STREET.
“Now,” said Dick, addressing his companion, “where will we go?”
“You know better than I do,” said Frank, “I’ve never been in New York before. I want to see as much as I can of it to-day.”
“All right,” said Dick, “I’m your man – we’ll cross the Park, and go up Chatham street and the Bowery first.”
To do this it was necessary to cross Broadway. This was easier proposed than done. There is always such a throng of omnibuses, drays, carriages and vehicles of all kinds in the neighborhood of the Astor House that the crossing is formidable to one not used to it. Dick made nothing of it, dodging in and out among the horses and wagons with perfect self-possession. Reaching the opposite sidewalk he looked back and found that Frank had retreated in dismay, and that the width of the street was between them.
“Come across!” called out Dick.
“I don’t see any chance. I’m afraid of being run over.”
“If you are, you can sue ‘em for damages,” said Dick.
Finally Frank got safely over, after several narrow escapes.
“Is it always so crowded?” he asked.
“A good deal worse sometimes,” said Dick. “I knowed a young man once who waited six hours for a chance to cross, and at last got run over by an omnibus, leaving a wider and a large family of orphan children. His widder, a beautiful young woman, was obliged to start a peanut and apple stand. There she is now.”
“”Where?”
Dick pointed to a hideous old woman of large proportions, wearing a bonnet of immense size, who presided over an apple stand close by.
Frank laughed.
“In that case,” said he, “I guess I must patronize her.”
“Leave it to me,” said Dick, winking.
He advanced gravely to the apple stand, and said, “old lady, have you paid your taxes?”
The astonished woman opened her eyes.
“I’m a Gov’ment officer,” said Dick, “sent by the Mayor to collect your taxes. I’ll take it in apples. That big red one will about pay what you’re owin’ the Gov’ment.”
“I don’t know anything about no taxes,” said the old woman, in bewilderment.
“Then,” said Dick, “I’ll let you off this time. Give us two of your best apples, and my friend here, the President of the Common Council, will pay you.”
Frank smiling, paid three cents apiece for the apples, and they sauntered on, Dick remarking, “if these apples ain’t good, old lady, we’ll return ‘em and get the money back.” This would have been rather difficult in his own case, as his apple was already half consumed.
They were soon in Chatham Street, walking between rows of clothing shops, chiefly ready-made, many of which had half their stock in trade exposed on the sidewalk.
“Walk in young gentleman,” said a stout man.
“No I thank you,” said Dick, “as the fly said to the spider.”
“We’re selling off at less than cost.”
“Of course you be. That’s where you makes your money,” said Dick. “There aint nobody of any enterprise that pretends to make any profit on his goods.”
The Chatham Street trader looked after our hero as if he didn’t quite comprehend him, but Dick, without waiting for a reply, passed on with his companion.
“Clothes seem to be pretty cheap here,” said Frank.
“Yes, but Baxter Street is the cheapest place.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. Johnny Nolan got a whole rig out there last week for a dollar – coat, cap, vest, pants, and shoes. They was very good measure too, like my best clothes that I took off to oblige you.”
“I shall know where to come for clothes next time,” said Frank, laughing. “I had no idea the city was so much cheaper than the country. I suppose the Baxter Street tailors are fashionable.”
“In course they are. Me and Alexander T. Stewart and Horace Greeley always go there for clothes. When Horace gets a new suit, I always have one made just like it, but I can’t go the white hat. It ain’t becomin’ to my style of beauty.”
A little farther on a man was standing out on the sidewalk, distributing small printed handbills. One was handed to Frank, which he read as follows:
GRAND CLOSING OUT SALE! – A Variety of Beautiful and Costly Articles for
Sale, at a Dollar apiece. Unparalleled Inducements. Walk in, Gentlemen!
“Whereabouts is this sale?” asked Frank.
“In here, young gentlemen,” said a black whiskered individual, who appeared suddenly on the scene. “Walk in.”
“Shall we go in, Dick?”
“Yes,” said Dick, in a low voice. “You’ll see fun. He’s a dead beat, he is.”
“A what?”
“A reg’lar cheat.”
“Then perhaps we’d better not go in.”
“O, I know him like a book. I’ll take care of you. He’s seen me before, but he don’t know me coz of my clothes.”
The man led the way into a small dingy shop, which contained only a single show-case filled with a variety of cheap articles, conspicuous among which was a large watch which looked as if it might be silver. There were two or three other large articles of apparent value, but most were cheap.
As the boys went in, another person followed, apparently attracted by curiosity.
“He’s another dead beat,” whispered Dick.
Frank looked puzzled.
“He’s a confed’rit of the other man!” exclaimed Dick.
Frank now began to understand that it was a swindling game which the two men were about to practice for their benefit. Having heard a good deal of the wiles of the sharpers who infest our large cities, he was interested to watch their proceedings.
“Now, gentlemen,” said the man behind the counter, briskly, “our sale is conducted on rather a new principle, which I will explain to you. You see these dice.”
Here he emptied eight dice from a dice box on the glass cover of the show-case.
“Well, you pay a dollar, and then shake. I count the spots, and the number determines the article you obtain. It may be that silver pitcher, or the watch.”
“Or a six cent breast-pin,” suggested Dick.
“We have none of that value,” said the man. “Everything is worth a dollar.”
“That must be very profitable to you,” suggested Frank.
“I don’t mean that we pay a dollar for all we have. We get the articles cheap at auction, and give customers the advantage of our cheap purchases. To illustrate, will you, young gentleman, shake the dice?”
Frank did so.
“Three and five are nine, and six are eighteen, and four are twenty-three, and five are thirty, and three are thirty-four, and five are forty,” said the man behind the counter, making his calculation so rapidly that it was difficult to see his mistakes. “If it isn’t right, count it yourself.”
But there was no chance for this, as he had already gathered up the dice in his hand.
“Well, that was a lucky throw,” said he. “You see what forty is. Forty draws the watch.”
“Can he have the watch, then?” asked the confederate, who was quietly dressed, and had the air of a respectable young man of somewhat limited experience.
“No, of course not. He didn’t pay his dollar. If he had paid his dollar first, he could have had it, and I’d have given him ten dollars for it myself.”
“Now, gentlemen,” he proceeded, “here’s a chance to make something handsome. That watch would look very well on you,” addressing Dick. “You may get it for a dollar.”
“Can you change a fifty?” asked Dick.
“Have you got one?”
“In course I have.”
“I can go out and get it changed.”
“Never mind.”
“I’ll take my chance,” said the confederate, thinking it time for him to step in.
He accordingly handed over a dollar to the man behind the counter, and taking the dice-box, shook.
The other rapidly reckoned up the spots.
“Five and four are eleven, and three are fifteen, and six are twenty-three, and two are twenty-five, and four are thirty, and six are thirty-six, and five are forty-two. If it isn’t right, count it yourself. Let me see what’s forty-two.”
“It’s the silver pitcher,” said the confederate, appearing excited.
“So it is,” said the other, in a tone of vexation. “I don’t believe I counted right.”
“Yes you did,” said the other. “And if you didn’t, it’s too late now, for you’ve picked up the dice.”
“Pretty hard luck for me,” said the man behind the counter.
“I’ll trouble you to hand over the pitcher.”
“I’ll give you fifteen dollars instead.”
“I’d rather have the pitcher. I know something about ware, and I know it’s worth twenty-five dollars at least.”
“Very well, then, I’ll put fifteen dollars in greenbacks in place of the pitcher. Now, young gentlemen, will you try your luck?”
Frank was half inclined to do so, but Dick gave his head a little negative shake, which he thought it best to heed, feeling that Dick must know a great deal more about what was judicious than himself.
Finding it unavailing to urge the boys to invest, the swindler tried another game. Producing three cards, he said, “Now, gentlemen, here’s something else I would like to show you. You see these cards?”
Dick took one of them up, and brought it within an inch of his nose, gravely remarking, after a sharp scrutiny, “Yes, I do.”
“You see that they are marked in the corner with different numbers?”
He displayed the faces of the cards.
One was marked with a large 2, another with 3, and the third with 4.
“Now,” said he, “I am about to change the position of these cards rapidly, and turn them with their backs upward. Then you may pick up which you please. If you pick up the card marked 4, I will give you five dollars. If you pick up either of the other two, you give me five dollars. That’s fair, isn’t it?”
“That gives you two chances to our one,” said the confederate.
“That’s true, but then you have the chance of picking up. That makes it even.”
“Very well,” said the confederate, “I think I can tell.”
“Then plank your money.”
He pulled out a five dollar bill, and placed it in Frank’s hand, and the man behind the counter did the same. Frank hardly knew how to object to holding the stakes, though he did so unwillingly, perceiving that it was simply gambling, which he had always been taught to regard as wrong. He could not help feeling interested, however, in the result.
The principal shifted the cards, but in such a deliberate manner that Frank felt quite sure that he could himself have told which was the one marked 4, and so have won the bet, if he had been the person interested. The confederate picked up the right card, and Frank, of course, passed over the money to him.
“Five dollars more lost,” said the dealer, in a tone of chagrin. “Come, I am bound to win back all I have lost, or lose as much more. I’ll shift the cards again, and but you twenty dollars you can’t pick up the right one. Do you agree?”
“I’ll bet five dollars and this pitcher,” said the other. “You said it was worth fifteen dollars.”
“All right. Pass it to that young man, and I’ll hand him twenty dollars.”
“I think I’d rather not hold it,” said Frank, mustering up courage to decline.
“What’s the harm? Perhaps the other young gentleman will be willing,” suggested the dealer.
“I’ll take all the money you’ll bring on,” said Dick, “and keep it for you any length of time, from five to ten years.”
“That’s a little longer than we want you to keep it.”
“All right. Hand over.”
Again the trial was made. this time, though the dealer was just as careless as before in displaying the cards, the confederate picked up the wrong card, being the one at the left hand, which was marked 3.
“You’ve lost,” said the dealer, briskly.
“Isn’t that a 4?” asked the other, seeming to be disappointed.
“No, don’t you see?”
“Then I suppose I’ve lost?”
“Yes. Won’t you try again?”
“Not just yet. Perhaps one of these young gentlemen will try.”
“Well,” said Dick, “I don’t mind trying my luck. Here’s a V.”
So saying, he handed Frank what appeared to be a greenback of the denomination of five dollars. The dealer handed him another. Frank took them unwillingly, but it was done so quick that he hardly had time to remonstrate.
The cards were shifted, and Dick picked up a card.
But it was a 2 he picked up.
“Lost!” said the dealer, exultingly. “Hand over that money, young man.”
Frank unwillingly passed it to him, but was astonished at an angry exclamation.
“That bill’s worth nothing. You’ve swindled me.” As he said this, he held up the bill which was a very good imitation of a greenback, but read as follows –

“What’s the row?” asked Dick, coolly.
“Give me a good bill instantly, for this,” said the dealer, wrathfully.
“I’d rather not,” said Dick. “In the first place I haven’t got any other bills.”
“Then let your friend lend you, unless you wish to be handed over to the police.”
“Try it on if you want to,” said Dick, “I guess the police will have as much to say to you as me. I wouldn’t advise you to call ‘em in.”
The dealer knew well enough that his establishment was an illegal one, and he felt that Dick had him at advantage. Of course that made him all the more angry.
“Clear out of this, you young rascals,” he said, “if you don’t want to be kicked out.”
“Thank you, for your werry kind offer,” said Dick, “but kicks don’t agree with my constitution. Come along, Frank, let us leave this kind gentleman. The Mayor’s expectin’ us to a oyster stew at the Mason Dory.”*
With this parting remark, Dick backed out gracefully, followed by Frank, leaving the dealer almost choking with rage which he did not dare to vent.
“I know them rascals,” said Dick, when they got out. “They cleaned a green feller from the country out o’ fifty dollars last week. I ain’t quite such a fool as to be took in by their tricks.”
They soon turned into the Bowery, a wide street running parallel with Broadway, and walked along for about a mile, till they came to a large building standing by itself just at the opening of Third and Fourth Avenues, and with one side on each.
“What is that building?” asked Frank.
“That’s the Cooper Institute,” said Dick, “built by Mr. Cooper, a partic’lar friend of mine. Me and Peter Cooper used to go to school together.” Horatio Alger, Jr.

STUDENT AND SCHOOLMATE°
An Illustrated Monthly,
FOR OUR BOYS AND GIRLS.
Vol. XIX. April, 1867. No. IV.
RAGGED DICK;
OR, STREET LIFE IN NEW YORK.
CHAPTER IV.
DICK BUYS A POCKET BOOK.
Directly opposite the Cooper Institute, Frank saw a very large building of brick, covering about an acre of ground.
“Is that a hotel?” he asked.
“No,” said Dick,” that’s the Bible House. It’s the place where they make Bibles. I was in there once. Saw a big pile of them.”
“Did you ever read the Bible?” asked Frank, who had some idea of the neglected state of Dick’s moral education.
“No,” said Dick. “Ive heard it’s a good book, but I never read one. I ain’t much on readin’! It makes my head ache.
“I suppose you can’t read fast.”
“I can read the little words pretty well, but the big ones is what stick me.”
“If I lived in the city you might come every evening to me, and I would teach you.”
“Would you take so much trouble about me?” said Dick, earnestly.
“Certainly, I should like to see you getting on.”
“You’re a good feller,” said Dick. “I wish you did live in New York. I’d like to know somethin’. Whereabouts do you live?”
“About fifty miles off, in a town on the left bank of the Hudson. I wish you’d come up and see me sometime. You can come and stop two or three days.
“Honor bright?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Do you mean it?” asked Dick, rather incredulously.
“Of course I do. Why shouldn’t I?”
“What would your folks say if they know’d you had a bootblack to visit you?”
“You ain’t any the worse for being a bootblack, Dick.”
“I ain’t used to genteel society,” said Dick. “I shouldn’t know how to act.”
“Then I’d show you. You won’t be a bootblack all your life, you know.”
“No,” said Dick. “I ‘m going to knock off when I get to be ninety.”
“Before that, I hope,” said Frank, smiling.
“I wish I could get somethin’ else to do,” said Dick, soberly. “I’d like to be a office boy and learn business, and grow up ‘spectable.”
“Why don’t you try to get into one?”
“Who’d take ‘Ragged Dick’?”
“But you ain’t ragged now, Dick?”
“No,” said Dick, “I look a little better than I did in my Washington coat and Lewis Napoleon pants. But they wouldn’t give me but three dollars a week, if I got a place, and I couldn’t live ‘spectable on that.”
“No, I suppose not,” said Frank, thoughtfully.
“Whereabouts are we now?” he asked, as they emerged from Fourth Avenue into Union Square.
“That is Union Park,” said Dick, pointing to a beautiful enclosure, in the center of which was a pond, with a fountain playing.
“Is that the statue of General Washington?” asked Frank, pointing to a bronze equestrian figure, placed upon a granite pedestal.
“Yes,” said Dick, “he’s growed some since he was President. If he’d been as tall as that when he fit in the revolution, he’d have walloped the Britishers sound, I reckon.”
Frank looked up at the statue, which is fourteen and a half feet high, and saw the justice of Dick’s remark.
“How about his coat, Dick?” he asked. “Does it fit you?”
“Well, it is rather loose,” said Dick. “I ain’t much more’n ten feet high with my boots off.”
“No, I should think not,” said Frank, laughing. “You’re a queer boy, Dick.”
“Well, I’ve been brought up queer. Some boys is born with a silver spoon in their mouth. Victory’s boys is born with a gold spoon, set with di’monds, but gold and silver was scarce where I was born, and mine was pewter.”
“Perhaps the gold and silver will come by and by, Dick. Did you ever hear of Dick Whittington?”
“Never did. Was he a ragged Dick?”
“I shouldn’t wonder if he was. At any rate he was very poor when he was a boy, but he didn’t stay so. Before he died he became Lord Mayor of London.”
“Did he?” asked Dick, interested. “How did he do it?”
“Why, you see, a rich merchant took pity on him, and admitted him into his house. One day he noticed Dick picking up pins and needles that had been dropped, and asked him why he did it. Dick told him he was going to sell them when he got enough. The merchant was pleased with his saving disposition, and when soon after he was going to send a vessel to foreign parts, he told Dick he might send anything he pleased in it, and it should be sold to his advantage. Now Dick had nothing in the world but a kitten, which had been given him a short time before.”
“How much taxes did he have to pay on it?” asked Dick.
“Not very high, probably. But having only the kitten, he concluded to send her along. After sailing a good many months, during which the kitten grew up to be a strong cat, the ship touched at an island never before known, which happened to be infested with rats and mice, to such an extent, that they worried everybody’s life out, and even ransacked the king’s palace. To make a long story short, the captain, seeing how matters stood, brought Dick’s cat ashore, and she soon made the rats and mice scatter. The king bought her at a great price, which was faithfully carried back to Dick, and laid the foundation of his fortune. He prospered as he grew up, and in time became a very rich merchant, respected by all, and was elected Lord Mayor of London.”
“That’s a pretty good story,” said Dick, “but I don’t believe all the cats in New York will ever make me Mayor.”
“No, probably not, but you may rise in some other way. A good many distinguished men have once been poor boys. There’s hope for you, Dick, if you try.”
“Nobody ever talked to me so before,” said Dick. “They just called me ragged Dick, and told me I’d grow up to be a vagabone” (boys who are better educated mustn’t criticize Dick’s language too closely) “and gallows bird.”
“Telling you so won’t make you so, Dick. If you’ll try to be somebody, and grow up into a respectable member of society, you will. You may not turn out rich – it isn’t everybody that becomes rich, you know – but you can obtain a good position and be respected.”
“I’ll try,” said Dick, earnestly. “I needn’t have been ragged Dick so long if I hadn’t spent my money in going to the theatre, and treating boys to oyster stews, and bettin’ money on cards, and such like.”
“Have you lost money that way?”
“Yes,” said Dick, “lots of it. One time I saved up five dollars to buy me a new rig out, cos my best suit was all in rags, when limpy Jim wanted me to play a game with him.”
“Limpy Jim?” said Frank, interrogatively.
“Yes, he’s lame, that’s what makes us call him Limpy Jim.”
“I suppose you lost.”
“Yes, I lost every cent, and had to sleep out, ‘cause I hadn’t a cent to pay for lodgin’s. “T was a awful cold night, and I got most froze.”
“Wouldn’t Jim let you have any of the money he had won to pay for a lodging?”
“No, I axed him for five cents, but he wouldn’t let me have it.”
“Can you get lodging for five cents?” asked Frank, in surprise.
“Yes,” said Dick, “but not at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. That’s it.”
By this time they were at the junction of Broadway and Fifth Avenue. Before them was a beautiful park of ten acres. On the left hand side was a large marble building, presenting a fine appearance with its white front. This was the building to which Dick pointed.
“Is that the Fifth Avenue Hotel?” asked Frank. “I’ve heard of it often. My uncle William always stops there when he comes to New York.”
“I once slept on the outside of it,” said Dick. “They was very reasonable in their charges, and told me I might come agin.”
“Perhaps sometime you’ll be able to sleep inside,” said Frank.
“I guess that’ll be when Queen Victory comes to the Five Points to live,” said Dick.
“It looks like a palace,” said Frank. “The Queen needn’t be ashamed to live in such a beautiful building as that.”
Though Frank did not know it, one of the Queen’s palaces is far from being as fine a building, externally at least, as the Fifth Avenue Hotel. St. James’ Palace is a very ugly looking brick structure, appearing much more like a factory than like the home of royalty. There is no hotel either in London or Paris as fine looking as this democratic institution.
At that moment a gentleman passed them on the sidewalk who looked back at Dick as if his face looked familiar.
“I know that man,” said Dick, after he had passed. “He’s one of my customers.”
“What is his name?”
“I don’t know.”
“He looked back as if he knew you.”
“He would have know’d me at once but for my new clothes,” said Dick. “I don’t look much like Ragged Dick now.”
“I suppose your face looked familiar.”
“All but the dirt,” said Dick, laughing. “I don’t always have a chance to wash my face and hands in the Astor House.”
“You told me,” said Frank, “that there was a place where you could get lodging for five cents. Where is that?”
“It’s the Newsboy’s Lodgin’ House, on Fulton Street,” said Dick, “up over the Sun office. It’s a good place. I don’t know what us boys would do without it. They give you supper for five cents, and a bed for five cents more.”
“I suppose some boys don’t have even the five cents to pay, do they?”
“They’ll trust the boys,” said Dick. “But I don’t like to get trusted. I’d be ashamed to get trusted for five cents, or ten either. One night I was comin’ down Chatham Street, with fifty cents in my pocket. I was goin’ to get a good oyster stew, and then go to the Lodgin’ House, but somehow it slipped through a hole in my trowses pocket, and I hadn’t a cent left. If it had been summer I shouldn’t mind, but it’s rather tough stayin’ out winter nights.”
“What did you do?”
“I went to the Times office. I know’d one of the pressmen, and he let me sit down in a corner where I was warm, and I soon got fast asleep.”
“Why don’t you get a room somewhere, and so have a home to go to?”
“I dunno,” said Dick. “I never thought of it. P’rhaps I may hire a furnished house on Madison Square.”
“That’s where Flora McFlimsey lived.”
“I don’t know her,” said Dick, who had never read the popular poem of “Nothing to Wear.”
While this conversation was going on, they had mechanically turned into Twenty-fifth Street, and walked eastward, and had by this time reached Third Avenue.
Just before entering it, their attention was drawn to the rather singular conduct of an individual in front of them. Stooping suddenly, he appeared to pick up something from the sidewalk, and then looked about him in rather a confused way.
“I know his game,” whispered Dick. “Come along, and you’ll see what it is.”
He hurried Frank forward until they overtook the man, who had come to a stand still.
“Have you found anything?” asked Dick.
“Yes,” said the man. “I’ve found this.”
He exhibited a wallet which seemed stuffed with bills, to judge from its plethoric appearance.
“Whew!” said Dick, “you’re in luck.”
“I suppose somebody has lost it,” said the man, “and will offer a handsome reward.”
“Which you’ll get.”
“Unfortunately I’ve got to take the next train to Boston. That’s where I live. I haven’t time to hunt up the owner.”
“Then I suppose you’ll take the pocket book with you,” said Dick, with apparent simplicity.
“I should like to leave it with some honest fellow,” said the man, “who would see it returned to the owner.”
“I’m honest,” said Dick.
“I’ve no doubt of it,” said the other. “Well, young man, I’ll make you an offer. You take the pocket book –“
“Hand it over, then.”
“Wait a minute. There must be a large sum inside. I should think there might be a thousand dollars. The owner will probably give you a hundred dollars reward. I’d stay myself, only there is sickness in my family, and I must get back to-night. Just give me twenty dollars, and I’ll hand you the pocket book, and let you make whatever you can out of it.”
Dick was well dressed, so that the other did not regard it as impossible that he might possess such a sum. He was prepared, however, to let him have it for less, if necessary.
“Twenty dollars is a good deal of money,” said Dick, appearing to hesitate.
“You’ll get it back, and a good deal more,” said the stranger, persuasively.
“I don’t know but I shall. What would you do, Frank?”
“I don’t know but I would,” said Frank, “if you’ve got the money.” He was surprised to think Dick had so much by him.
“I don’t know but I will,” said Dick, after a little irresolution. “I guess I won’t lose much.”
“You can’t lose anything,” said the stranger. “Only be quick, for I must be on my way to the cars. I’m afraid I shall miss them now.”
Dick pulled out a bill from his pocket, and handed it to the stranger, receiving the pocket book in return. At that moment a policeman turned the corner, and the stranger, hurriedly thrusting the bill into his pocket without looking at it, made off with rapid steps.
Horatio Alger, Jr.

STUDENT AND SCHOOLMATE°
An Illustrated Monthly,
FOR OUR BOYS AND GIRLS.
Vol. XIX. MAY, 1867. No. V.
RAGGED DICK;
OR, STREET LIFE IN NEW YORK.
CHAPTER V. “What is there in the pocket-book, Dick?” asked Frank, with some excitement. “I hope there’s enough to pay you for the money you gave him.”
Dick laughed.
“I’ll risk that,” he said.
“But you gave him twenty dollars. That’s a good deal of money.”
“If I had given him as much as that, I should deserve to be cheated out of it.”
“But you did, didn’t you?”
“He thought so.”
“What was it, then?”
“It was a bill on the North Missouri Railroad.”
Frank looked sober.
“You ought not to have cheated him, Dick.”
“Didn’t he want to cheat me?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you s’pose there is in this pocket-book?” asked Dick, holding it up.
Frank surveyed its ample proportions, and answered sincerely enough, “money, and a good deal of it.”
“There ain’t stamps enough in it to buy a oyster stew,” said Dick. “If you don’t b’leeve it, jest look.”
So saying, he opened the pocket-book, and showed Frank that it was stuffed out with pieces of blank paper carefully folded up in the shape of bills. Frank, who had seldom been in the city, and never heard anything of the “drop game,” looked amazed at this development.
“I knowed how it was all the time,” said Dick. “I guess I got the best of him there. This wallet’s worth somethin’. I shall keep it to hold my stiff kits of stock in the Erie Railroad, and all my papers what ain’t of no use to any one but the owner.”
“That’s the kind of papers it’s got in now,” said Frank, smiling.
“That’s so,” said Dick. “By hokey!” he exclaimed, suddenly, “if there ain’t the old chap comin’ back agin’. He looks as if he’d heard bad news from his sick family.”
By this time the pocket-book dropper had come up. Approaching the boys, he said in an undertone to Dick, “Give me back that pocket-book, you young rascal!”
“Beg your pardon, Mister,” said Dick, “but was you addressin’ me?”
“Yes, I was.”
“Cause you called me by the wrong name. I’ve knowed some rascals, but I ain’t the honor to belong to the family.”
He looked significantly at the other as he spoke, which didn’t improve the man’s temper. Accustomed to swindle others, he did not fancy being practiced on in return.
“Give me back that pocket-book,” he repeated.
“Couldn’t do it,” said Dick. “I’m goin to restore it to the owner. The contents is so valuable that most likely the loss of it has made him sick, and he’ll be likely to come down libural to the honest finder.”
“You gave me a bad bill,” said the man.
“It’s what I use myself,” said Dick. “All you’ve got to do is to go to St. Louis, and present it at the office of the railroad, and p’rhaps they’ll change it for you.”
“None of your nonsense,” said the other angrily. “If you don’t give up that wallet, I’ll call a policeman.”
“I wish you would,” said Dick. “They’ll know most likely whether it’s A. T. Stewart or Astor that’s lost the pocket book, and I can get them to return it.”
The “dropper,” whose object it was to recover the pocket-book in order to try the same game on a more satisfactory customer, was irritated by Dick’s refusal, and above all by the coolness which he displayed. He resolved to make one more attempt.
“Do you want to pass the night in the Tombs?” he said.
“Thank you for your very obliging proposal,” said Dick, “but it ain’t convenient to-day. Any other time when you’d like to have me come and stop with yer, I’m agreeable; but my two youngest children is down with the measles, and I expect I’ll have to sit up all night and take care of ‘em. Is the Tombs, in general, a pleasant place of residence?”
Dick asked this question with an air of so much earnestness that Frank could scarcely forbear laughing, though it is hardly necessary to say that the “dropper” was by no means so inclined.
“You’ll know some time,” said he, scowling.
“I’ll make you a fair offer,” said Dick. “If I get more than fifty dollars as a reward for my honesty, I’ll give it to you. But I say, ain’t it most time to return to your sick family in Boston?”
Finding that nothing was to be made out of Dick, the man strode away with a muttered curse.
“You were too smart for him, Dick,” said Frank.
“Yes, said Dick, “I ain’t knocked round the city streets all my life for nothin’.”
“Have you always lived in New York, Dick?”
“Ever since I could remember.”
“I wish you’d tell me a little about yourself. Have you got any father or mother?”
“I ain’t got no mother. She died when I wasn’t more ‘n two years old. My father went to sea, but he went off before mother died, and nothin’ was ever heard of him. I expect he got wrecked, or died at sea.”
“And what became of you when your mother died?”
“The folks she boarded with took care of me, but they was poor, and they couldn’t do much. When I was seven, the wife died, and her husband went out West, and then I had to shift for myself.”
“At seven years old?” exclaimed Frank, in amazement.
“Yes,” said Dick, “I was a little feller to take care of myself, but” he added with pardonable pride, “I did it.”
“What could you do?” asked Frank.
“Sometimes one thing, and sometimes another,” said Dick. “I changed my business accordin’ as I had to. Sometimes I was a newsboy, and diffused intelligence among the people, as I heard somebody say once in a big speech he made in the Park. Them was the times when Horace Greeley and James Gordon Bennett made money.”
“Through your enterprise?” said Frank, laughing.
“Yes;” said Dick, “but I give it up after a while.”
“What for?”
“Well, they didn’t always put news enough in their papers, and people wouldn’t buy as fast as I wanted ‘em to. So one morning I was stuck on a lot of Heralds, and I thought I’d make a sensation. So I called out: ‘GREAT NEWS! QUEEN VICTORY ASSASSINATED!’ All my Heralds went off like hot cakes, and I went off too, but one of the gentlemen what got sold remembered me, and said he’d have me took up, and so I thought I’d better change my business.”
“That wasn’t right, Dick,” said Frank.
“I know it,” said Dick, “but lots of boys does it.”
“That don’t make it any better.”
“No,” said Dick, “I was sort of ashamed at the time, ‘specially about one poor old gentleman – a Englishman he was. He couldn’t help cryin’ to think the Queen was dead, and his hands shook when he handed me the money for the paper.”
“What did you do next?”
“I went into the match business,” said Dick. “But it was small sales and small profits. Most of the people I called on had just laid in a stock, and didn’t want to buy. So one cold night when I hadn’t money enough to get a lodgin’, I burned the last of my matches to keep me from freezing’. But it was expensive fuel, and I couldn’t keep it up.”
“You’ve seen hard times, Dick,” said Frank, compassionately.
“Yes,” said Dick. “I’ve know’d what it was to be hungry and cold, with nothin’ to eat or to warm me, but there’s one thing I never did,” he added, proudly.
“What’s that?”
“I never stole,” said Dick. “It’s mean, and I wouldn’t do it.”
“Were you ever tempted to?”
“Lots of times. Once I’d been goin’ round all day, and hadn’t sold any matches, except three cents worth early in the mornin’. With that I bought an apple, thinkin’ I should get some more bimeby. When evenin’ come I was awful hungry. I went into a baker’s just to look at the bread. It made me feel sort of good just to look at the bread and cakes, and I thought maybe they would give me some. Just as I went in, the man behind the counter went into the back-room, and I had a great mind to take just one loaf, and go off with it. I don’t think he’d have know’d it.”
“But you didn’t?”
“No, I didn’t, and I was glad of it, for when the man come in agin, he said he wanted some one to carry some cake to a lady in St. Mark’s Place. His boy was sick, and he hadn’t got no one to send, so he told me he’d give me ten cents if I would go. My business wasn’t very pressin’, so I went, and took my pay in bread and cakes. Didn’t they taste good, though?”
“So you didn’t stay long in the match business, Dick?”
“No, I couldn’t sell enough. Then there was some folks that wanted me to sell cheaper to them, so I couldn’t make no profit. There was one old lady, she was rich, too, for she lived in a big brick house, beat me down so, I didn’t make no profit at all, but she wouldn’t buy without, and I hadn’t sold none that day, so I let her have them. I don’t see why rich folks should be so hard upon a poor boy that wants to make a livin’.”
“There’s a good deal of meanness in the world, I am afraid, Dick,” said Frank.
“If everybody was like you and your uncle,” said Dick, “there’d be a chance for poor people. If I was rich I’d try to help them along.”
“Perhaps you will be rich sometime, Dick.”
Dick shook his head.
“I’m afraid all my money ‘ll be in bills on the North Missouri Railroad,” he said, “and that all my pocket-books ‘ll be filled with what ain’t no use to any one but the owner.”
“That depends on yourself, Dick,” said Frank. “Stewart wasn’t always rich, you know.”
“I never heard him say.”
“When he first came to New York as a young man, he was a teacher, and teachers are generally poor.”
“He know’d enough to be a teacher, and I’m awful ignorant,” said Dick.
“Can’t you learn at school?”
“I can’t go to school ‘cause I’ve got my livin’ to earn. It wouldn’t do me much good if just as I’d learned to read and cipher, I starved to death.”
“But are there no night schools?”
“Yes, they have one at the Newsboys Home.”
“Why don’t you go?”
“I never cared much about it before, but I guess I’ll go.”
“I wish you would, Dick. You’ll make a smart man if you only get a little education.”
“Do you think so?” asked Dick, doubtfully.
“I know so. A boy who has earned his own living ever since he was seven years old must have something in him, Dick. I feel very much interested in you. I want you to do well, and I am sure you can.”
“You’re a good feller,” said Dick, gratefully. “I’m afraid I’m a pretty rough customer, but I ain’t so bad as some. I mean to turn over a new leaf, and see if I can’t grow up ‘spectable.”
The boys had turned into Third Avenue, a long street, which, commencing just below the Cooper Institute, runs out to Harlem. A man came out of a side street, uttering at intervals a monotonous cry which sounded like “glass puddin’.”
“Glass pudding?” repeated Frank, looking in surprised wonder at Dick. “What does he mean?”
“Perhaps you’d like some,” said Dick, laughing.
“I never heard of it before.”
“Suppose you ask him what he charges for his puddin’?”
Frank looked more narrowly at the man, and soon concluded that he was a glazier.
“O, I understand,” he said. “He means ‘glass put in.’”
Frank’s mistake was not a singular one. The monotonous cry of these mean certainly sounds more like “glass puddin’” than the words they intend to utter.
“Now,” said Dick, “where shall we go?”
“I should like to see Central Park,” said Frank. “I have heard a great deal about it. Is it far off?”
“It is about a mile and a half from here,” said Dick. “This is Twenty-ninth Street, and the Park begins at Fifty-ninth Street.”
It may be explained for the benefit of readers who have never visited New York, that about a mile from the City Hall, the cross streets begin to be named in regular order. There is a continuous line of houses as far as One Hundred and Thirtieth Street, where may be found the terminus of the Harlem line of horse cars. When the entire island is laid out and settled, probably the numbers will reach two hundred or more. Central Park, which lies between Fifty-ninth Street on the south, and One Hundred and Tenth Street on the north, is true to its name, occupying about the center of the island. The distance between two parallel streets is called a block, and twenty blocks make a mile. It will therefore be seen that Dick was exactly right when he said they were a mile and a half from Central Park.
“That is too far to walk,” said Frank.
“’T won’t cost but six cents apiece to ride,” said Dick.
“You mean in the horse cars?”
“Yes.”
“All right, then. We’ll jump aboard the next car.”
The Third Avenue and Harlem line of horsecars is better patronized than any other in New York, though not much can be said for the cars, which are usually dirty and overcrowded. Still, when it is considered that only seven cents is charged for the entire distance to Harlem, about seven miles from the city Hall, the fare can hardly be complained of. But of course most of the profit is made from way passengers who only ride a short distance.
A car was at that moment approaching, but it seemed pretty well crowed.
“Shall we take that, or wait for another?” asked Frank.
“The next ‘ll most likely be as bad,” said Dick.
The boys accordingly signaled to the conductor to stop, and got on the front platform. They were obliged to stand up till the car reached Fortieth Street, when so many of the passengers had got off that they obtained seats.
Frank was seated beside a middle-aged woman, or lady, as she probably called herself, whose sharp visage and then lips did not seem to promise a very pleasant disposition. When the two gentlemen who sat beside her rose, she spread her skirts in the endeavor to fill two seats. Disregarding this, the two boys sat down.
“There ain’t room for two,” said she, looking sourly at Frank.
“There were two here before,” said Frank.
“Well, there ought not to have been. Some people like to crowd in where they’re not wanted.”
“And some like to take up a double allowance of room,” thought Frank, but he did not say so. He saw that the woman had a bad temper, and he thought it wisest to say nothing.
Frank had never ridden as far up the city as this, and it was with much interest that he looked out of the car windows at the stores on either side. Third Avenue is a broad street, but in the character of its houses and stores it is quite inferior to Broadway, though better than some of the avenues farther east. Fifth Avenue, as most of my readers already know, is the finest street in the city, being lined with splendid private residences, occupied by the wealthier classes. Many of the cross streets also boast houses which may almost be considered palaces, so elegant are they, both externally and internally. Frank caught glimpses of some of these as he was carried towards the Park. After the first conversation already mentioned with the lady at his side, he supposed he should have nothing further to do with her, but in this he was mistaken. While he was busy looking out of the car window, she plunged her hand into her pocket in search of her purse, which she proved unable to find. Instantly she jumped to the conclusion that it had been stolen, and her suspicions fastened on Frank with whom she was already provoked for “crowding her,” as she termed it.
“Conductor!” she exclaimed, in a sharp voice.
“What’s wanted, ma’am?” returned that functionary.
“I want you to come here right off.”
“What’s the matter?”
“My purse has been stolen. There was four dollars and eighty cents in it. I know, because I counted when I paid my fare.”
“Who stole it?”
“That boy,” she said, pointing to Frank, who listened to the charge with the most intense astonishment. “He crowed in here on purpose to rob me, and I want you to search him right off.”
“That’s a lie,” said Dick, indignantly.
“O, you’re in league with him, I dare say,” said the woman, spitefully. “You’re as bad as he is, I’ll be bound.”
“You’re a nice female, you be!” said Dick, scornfully.
“Don’t you dare to call me a female, sir!” said the lady, furiously.
“Why you ain’t a man in disguise, be you?” said Dick.
“You are very much mistaken, madam,” said Frank quietly. “The conductor may search me if you desire it.”
Horatio Alger, Jr.

STUDENT AND SCHOOLMATE°
An Illustrated Monthly,
FOR OUR BOYS AND GIRLS.
Vol. XIX. JUNE, 1867. No. VI.
RAGGED DICK;
OR, STREET LIFE IN NEW YORK.
CHAPTER VI.
FROM CENTRAL PARK TO WALL STREET.
A charge of theft, made in a crowded car, of course made quite a sensation. Cautious passengers instinctively put their hands on their pockets, to make sure that they, too, had not been robbed. As for Frank, his cheek flushed, and he felt very indignant that he should even be suspected of so mean a crime. He had been carefully brought up, and been taught to regard stealing as low and wicked.
Dick, on the contrary, thought it a capital joke, that such a charge should have been made against his companion. Though he had brought himself up, and known plenty of boys and men too, who would steal, he had never done so himself. He thought it mean. But he could not be expected to regard it as Frank did. He had been too familiar with it in others, to regard it with horror.
Meanwhile the passengers rather sided with the boys. Appearances go a great ways, and Frank did not look like a thief.
“I think you must be mistaken, madam,” said a gentleman opposite. “The lad does not look as if he would steal.”
“You can’t tell by looks,” said she sourly. “They’re deceitful; villains are always well dressed.”
“Be they?” said Dick. “You’d ought to see me with my Washington coat on. You’d think I was the biggest villain ever you saw.”
“I’ve no doubt you are,” said the lady, scowling in the direction of our hero.
“Thank you, ma’am,” said Dick, bowing. “’T aint often I get such fine compliments.”
“None of your impudence,” said the lady, wrathfully. “I believe you’re the wust of the two.”
Meanwhile the car had been stopped.
“How long are we going to stop here?” asked a passenger, impatiently. “I’m in a hurry, if none of the rest of you are.”
“I want my pocket-book,” said the lady, defiantly.
“Well, ma’am, I haven’t got it, and I don’t see as it’s doing you any good detaining us all here.”
“Conductor, will you call a policeman to search that young scamp,” continued the aggrieved lady. “You don’t expect I’m going to lose my money and do nothing about it!”
“I’ll turn my pockets inside out if you want me to,” said Frank, proudly. “There’s no need of a policeman. The conductor, or any one else, may search me.”
“Well, youngster,” said the conductor, “if the lady agrees, I’ll search you.”
The lady signified her assent.
Frank accordingly turned his pocket inside out, but nothing was revealed except his own pocket-book, and a penknife.
“Well, ma’am, are you satisfied?” asked the conductor.
“No, I aint,” said the lady, decidedly.
“You don’t think he’s got it still?”
“No, but he’s passed it over to his confederate – that boy there, that’s so full of impudence.”
“That’s me,” said Dick, comically.
“He confesses it,” said the lady. “I want him searched.”
“All right,” said Dick. “I’m ready for the operation, only as I’ve got valuable property about me, be careful not to drop any of my Erie bonds.”
the conductor’s hand forthwith dove into Dick’s pocket and drew out a rusty jack-knife, a battered cent, and the capacious pocket-book which he had received from the swindler who was anxious to get back to his sick family in Boston.
“Is that yours, ma’am?” asked the conductor, holding up the pocket-book, which excited some amazement by its ample size, among the remaining passengers.
“It seems to me you carry a large pocket-book for a young man of your age,” said the conductor.
“that’s what I carry my cash capital and valooable papers in,” said Dick.
“I suppose this isn’t yours, ma’am?” said the conductor, turning towards the lady.
“No,” said she scornfully. “I wouldn’t carry round such a great wallet as that. Most likely he’s stolen it from somebody else.”
“What a prime detective you’d be,” said Dick. “P’raps you know who I took it from.”
“I don’t know but my money’s in it,” said the lady, sharply. “Conductor, will you open that wallet, and see what there is in it?”
“Don’t disturb the valooable papers,” said Dick, in a tone of much anxiety.
The contents of the wallet excited some amusement among the passengers.
“There don’t seem to be much money,” said the conductor, talking out a roll of tissue paper cut out in the shape of bills, and rolled up.
“No,” said Dick. “Didn’t I tell you them were papers of no valoo to anybody but the owner. If the lady’d like to borrow, I won’t charge no interest.”
“Where is my money, then?” asked the lady, in some discomfiture. “I shouldn’t wonder if one of the young scamps had thrown it out of the window.”
“You’d better search your pocket once more,” said the gentleman opposite. “I don’t believe either of the boys is in fault. They don’t look to me as if they would steal.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Frank.
The lady followed out the suggestion, and plunging her hand once more into her pocket, drew out a small porte-monnaie. She hardly knew whether to be glad or sorry at this discovery. It placed her in rather an awkward position after the fuss she had made, and the detention to which she had caused the passengers to be subjected, now as it proved, for nothing.
“Is that the pocket-book you thought stolen?” demanded the conductor.
“Yes,” said she, rather confusedly.
“Then you’ve been keeping me waiting all this time for nothing,” said he, sharply. “I wish you’d take care to be sure next time, before you make such a disturbance for nothing. I’ve lost five minutes, and shall not be able to be on time.”
“I can’t help it,” said she, crossly. “Of course I didn’t know it was in my pocket.”
“It seems to me you owe an apology to the boys you accused of a theft which they had not committed,” said the gentleman opposite.
“I shan’t apologize to anybody,” said the lady, whose temper was not of the best, “least of all to such whipper-snappers as they are.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” said Dick, comically; “your handsome apology is accepted. It aint of no consequence, only I didn’t like to expose the contents of my valooable pocket-book, for fear it might excite the envy of some of my poor neighbors.”
“You’re a character,” said the gentleman who had already spoken, smiling.
“A bad character,” muttered the lady.
But it was quite evident that the sympathies of those present were against the lady, and on the side of the boys who had been falsely accused, while Dick’s drollery created considerable amusement.
But the cars had now reached Fifty-Ninth Street, the southern boundary of the Park, and here our hero and his companion got off.
“You’d better look out for pickpockets, my lad,” said the conductor. “That big wallet of yours might prove a great temptation.”
“That’s so,” said Dick. “That’s the misfortun’ of bein’ rich. A. T. Stewart and me don’t sleep much for fear of burglars breakin’ in and robbin’ us of our valooable treasures. Sometimes I think I’ll give all my money to a Orphan Asylum, and take part of it out in board. I guess I’d make money by the operation.”
“What a queer chap you are, Dick,” said Frank, laughing. “You always seem to be in good spirits.”
“No, I aint always. Sometimes I have the blues.”
“When?”
“Well, once last winter, it was awful cold, and there was big holes in my shoes, and my gloves and all my warm clothes was at the tailor’s. I felt as if life was sort of tough, and I’d like it if some rich man would adopt me, and give me plenty to eat and drink and wear, without my havin’ to look so sharp after it. Then ag’in, when I’ve seen boys with good homes, and fathers, and mothers, I’ve thought I’d like to have somebody to care for me.”
Dick’s tone changed, as he said this, from his usual levity, and he spoke with seriousness. Frank, blessed with a home and parents, could not help pitying the friendless boy who had found life such up-hill work.
“Don’t say you have no one to care for you, Dick,” he said warmly. “I’ll care for you.”
“Will you?” said Dick.
“If you will let me.”
“I wish you would,” said Dick, “I’d like to feel that I had one friend that cared about me.”
Central Park was now before them, but it was far from presenting the appearance which it now exhibits. It had not been long since work had been commenced upon it, and it was still very rough and unfinished. A rough tract of land, two miles and a half from North to South, and a half a mile broad, which would be considered rather poor pasturage, was the material from which the Park Commissioners have made the present beautiful inclosure. But Frank, of course, only regarded it as it was, and he felt disappointed.
“If this is Central Park,” he said, “I don’t think much of it. My father’s got a large pasture that is much nicer.”
“It’ll look better some time,” said Dick. “There aint much to see now but rocks. We will take a walk over it if you want to.”
“No,” said Frank, “I’ve seen as much as I want to of it. Besides, I feel tired.”
“Then we’ll go back,” said Dick. “We can take the Sixth Avenue cars. They will bring us out at Vesey Street, just beside the Astor House.”
“All right,” said Frank, “we’ll take them, then. I hope,” he added, laughing, “our agreeable lady friend won’t be there. I don’t care about being accused of theft again.”
“She was a tough one,” said Dick. “Wouldn’t she make a nice wife for a man that liked to live in hot water and didn’t mind bein’ scalded two or three times a day?”
“Yes, I think she’d just suit him. Is that the right car, Dick?”
“Yes, jump on, and I’ll follow.”
The Sixth Avenue is lined with stores, many of them of very good appearance, and would make a very respectable principal street for a good sized city. But it is only one of several long business streets which run up the island, and illustrate the extent and importance of the city to which they belong.
No incidents worth mentioning took place during their ride down town. In about three quarters of an hour the boys got out of the car beside the Astor House.
“Are you going in, Frank?” asked Dick.
“That depends upon whether there is anything else you have to show me,” said Frank.
“Wouldn’t you like to go to Wall Street?” asked Dick.
“That’s the street where there are so many bankers and broker, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I s’pose you aint afraid of bulls and bears, are you?”
“Bulls and bears?” repeated Frank, puzzled.
“Yes,” said Dick.
What are they?
“The bulls is what trys to make the stocks go up, and the bears try to growl them down.”
“O, I see. Yes, I’d like to go.”
Accordingly they walked down as far as Trinity Church, and then crossing Broadway, entered a cross street not very wide or long, but of very great importance. The reader would be astonished if he could know the amount of money involved in the transactions which take place in a single day in this street. It would be found that although Broadway is much greater in length, and lined with stores, it stands second to Wall Street in this respect.
“What is that large marble building?” asked Frank, pointing to a massive structure on the corner of Wall and Nassau Streets. It was in the form of a parallelogram, two hundred feet long by ninety wide, and about eighty feet in height, the ascent to the entrance being by eighteen granite steps.
“That’s the Custom House,” said Dick.
“It looks like pictures I have seen of the Parthenon at Athens,” said Frank, meditatively.
“Where’s Athens?” asked Dick. “It aint in York State, is it?”
“Not the Athens I mean, at any rate,” said Frank. “It is in Greece, and was a famous city about two thousand years ago.”
“That’s longer than I can remember,” said Dick. “I can’t remember distinctly more ‘n about a thousand years.”
“What a chap you are, Dick!” said Frank, laughing. “Do you know if we can go in?”
The boys ascertained, after a little inquiry, that they would be allowed to do so. They accordingly entered the Custom House, and made their way up to the roof, from which they had a fine view of the harbor, the wharves crowded with shipping, and the neighboring shores of Long Island and New Jersey. Towards the north they looked down for many miles upon continuous lines of streets, and thousands of roofs with here and there a church-spire rising above its neighbors. Dick had never before been up here, and he as well as Frank was interested by the grand view spread before them.
At length they descended, and were going down the granite steps on the outside of the building, when they were addressed by a young man whose appearance is worth describing.
He was tall, and rather loosely put together, with small eyes and rather a prominent nose. His clothing had evidently not been furnished by a city tailor. He wore a blue coat with brass buttons, and pantaloons of rather scanty dimensions, which were several inches too short to cover his lower limbs. His hat was of beaver, and of generous dimensions. He held in his hand a piece of paper, and his countenance wore a look of mingled bewilderment and anxiety.
“Be they a payin’ out money inside there?” he asked, indicating the interior by a motion of his hand.
“I guess so,” said Dick. “Are you a goin’ in for some?”
“Wal yes. I’ve got an order here for sixty dollars – made a kind of a speculation this morning.”
“How was it?” asked Frank.
“Well, you see I brought down some money to put in the bank, fifty dollars it was, and I hadn’t justly made up my mind what bank to put it in, when a chap came up in a terrible hurry, and said it was very unfortunate, but the bank wasn’t open, and he must have some money right off. He was obliged to go out of the city by the next train. I asked him how much he wanted. He said fifty dollars. I told him I’d got that, and he offered me a check on the bank for sixty, if I’d let him have it. I thought that was a pretty easy way to earn ten dollars, so I counted out the money, and he went off. He told me I’d hear a bell ring when they began to pay out money, but I’ve waited most two hours, and I hain’t heard it yet. I’d ought to be going, for I told dad I’d be home to-night. Do you think I can get it now?”
“Will you show me the check?” asked Frank, who had listened attentively to the story, and had very strong suspicions that all was not right.
It was made out upon the “Washington Bank,” in the sum of sixty dollars, and was signed “Ephraim smith.”
“Washington Bank!” repeated Frank. “Dick, is there such a bank in New York?”
“Not as I knows on,” said Dick. “Leastways I don’t own any shares in it.”
“Aint this the Washington Bank?” asked the countryman, pointing to the building, on the steps of which, the three were now standing.
“No, it’s the Custom House.”
“And won’t they give me any money for this?” asked the young man, the perspiration standing upon his brow.
“I am afraid the man who gave it to you was a swindler,” said Frank, gently.
“And won’t I ever see my fifty dollars again?” asked the youth, in agony.
“I am afraid no.”
“What’ll dad say?” ejaculated the miserable youth. “It makes me feel sick to think of it. I wish I had that feller here. I’d shake him out of his boots.”
“What did he look like? I’ll call a policeman, and you shall describe him. Perhaps in that way you can get track of your lost money.”
Dick called a policeman, who listened to the description, and recognized the operator, as an experienced swindler. He assured the countryman that there was very little chance of his ever seeing his money again. The boys left the miserable youth loudly bewailing his bad luck, and proceeded on their way down the street.
“He’s a baby,” said Dick, contemptuously. “He’d ought to know how to take care of himself and his money. A feller has to look sharp in this city, or he’ll lose his eye teeth before he knows it.”
“I suppose you never got swindled out of fifty dollars, Dick,” said Frank, smiling.
“No, I don’t carry no such small bills. I wish I did,” he added, comically.
‘So do I, Dick. What’s that building there at the end of the street?”
“That’s the Wall Street Ferry to Brooklyn.”
“How long does it take to go across?”
“Not more ‘n five minutes.”
“Suppose we just ride over and back.”
“All right!” said Dick. “It’s rather expensive, but if you don’t mind it, I don’t.”
“Why, how much does it cost?”
“Two cents apiece.”
“I guess I can stand that. Let us go.”
“They passed the gate, and were soon on the ferry-boat, bound for Brooklyn.
They had scarcely entered the boat, when Dick, grasping Frank by the arm, pointed to a man who was standing just outside of the gentlemen’s cabin.
“Do you see that man, Frank?” he asked.
“Yes. What of him.”
“He’s the man that cheated the country chap out of his fifty dollars.

STUDENT AND SCHOOLMATE°
An Illustrated Monthly,
FOR OUR BOYS AND GIRLS.
Vol. XX. JULY, 1867. No. I.
RAGGED DICK;
OR, STREET LIFE IN NEW YORK.
CHAPTER VII.
DICK AS A DETECTIVE.
Dick’s ready identification of the rogue who had cheated the countryman, surprised Frank.
“What makes you think it is he?” he asked.
“Because I have seen him before,” said Dick, “and I know he’s up to them kind of tricks. When I heard how he looked, I was sure I knowd him.”
“Our recognizing him won’t be of much use,” said Frank. “It won’t give back the countryman his money.”
“I don’t know,” said Dick thoughtfully.
“May be I can get it.”
“How?” asked Frank, incredulously.
“Wait a minute and you’ll see.”
Dick left his companion and went up to the man whom he suspected.
“Ephraim Smith,” said Dick, in a low voice.
The man turned suddenly, and looked at Dick uneasily.
“What did you say?” he asked.
“I believe your name’s Ephraim Smith,” continued Dick.
“You’re mistaken,” said the man, and was about to move off.
“Stop a minute,” said Dick. “Don’t you keep your money in the Washington Bank?”
“I don’t know any such bank. I’m in a hurry, young man, and I can’t stop to answer foolish questions.”
The boat had by this time reached the pier on the Brooklyn side, and Mr. Ephriam Smith seemed to be in a hurry to land.
“Look here,” said Dick, significantly, “you’d better not go on shore unless you want to jump into the arms of a p’liceman.”
“What do you mean?” asked the man, startled.
“That little affair of yours is known to the police,” said Dick, “about how you got fifty dollars out of a greenhorn, on a false check, and it mayn’t be safe for you to go on shore.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said the swindler, with affected boldness, though Dick could see that he was ill at ease.
“Yes you do,” said Dick. “There isn’t but one thing to do. Just give me back that money, and I’ll see that you are not touched. If you don’t, I’ll give you up to the first p’liceman we meet.”
Dick looked so determined, and spoke so confidently, that the other, overcome by his fears, no longer hesitated, but passed a roll of bills to Dick, and hastily left the boat.
All this Frank witnessed with great amazement, not understanding what influence Dick could have obtained over the swindler sufficient to compel restitution.
“How did you do it?” he asked, eagerly.
“I told him I’d exert my inflooence with the President to have him tried by habeas corpus,” said Dick.
“And of course that frightened him,” said Frank, laughing. “But tell me, without joking, what you said.”
Dick gave a truthful account of what occurred, and then said, “Now we’ll go back and carry the money.”
“Suppose we don’t find the poor countryman?”
“Then the p’lice will take care of it.”
They remained on board the boat, and in a few minutes were again in New York. Going up Wall Street they met the countryman a little distance from the Custom House. His face was marked with anguish, but in his case even grief could not subdue the cravings of appetite. He had purchased some cakes of one of the old women, who spread out for the benefit of passers by an array of apples and seed-cakes, and was munching them with melancholy satisfaction.
“Hilloa,” said Dick, “Have you found your money?”
“No,” ejaculated the young man with a convulsive gasp, “I shan’t ever see it again. The mean skunk’s cheated me out of it. Consarn his picter! It took me most six months to save it up. I was workin’ for Deacon Pinkham in our place. O, I wish I’d never come to New York. The Deacon, he told me he’d keep it for me, but I wanted to put it in the bank, and now it’s all gone, boo hoo!”
And the miserable youth, having dispatched his cakes, was overcome by the thought of his loss, and indulged in a burst of tears.
“I say,” said Dick, “dry up, and see what I’ve got here.”
The youth no sooner saw the roll of bills, and comprehended that it was indeed his lost treasure restored to him, than from the depths of anguish he was raised to the most ecstatic joy. He seized Dick’s hand, and shook it with such vigor that our hero was rather alarmed.
“’Pears to me you take my arm for a pump-handle.” said he, “Couldn’t you show your gratitood some other way? It’s just possible I may want to use my arm ag’in, sometime.”
The young man desisted, but invited Dick, most cordially, to come up and stop a week with him at his country home, assuring him that he wouldn’t charge him anything for board.
“All right!” said Dick. “If you don’t mind I’ll bring my wife along, too. She’s delicate, and the country air might do her good.”
Jonathan stared at him in amazement, uncertain whether to credit the fact of his marriage. Dick walked on with Frank, leaving him in an apparent state of stupefaction, and it is possible that he has not yet settled the matter to his own satisfaction.
“Now,” said Frank, “I think I will go back to the Astor House. Uncle has probably got through his business and returned.”
“All right,” said Dick.
The two boys walked up to Broadway, just where the tall steeple of Trinity faces the street of bankers and brokers, and walked leisurely up towards the hotel. When they arrived at the Astor House, Dick said “Good bye, Frank.”
“Not yet,” said Frank, “I want you to come in with me.”
Dick followed his young patron up the steps. Frank went to the reading room, and there, as he had thought probable, he found his uncle, reading the New York Evening Post, which he had just purchased outside.
“Well boys,” said he, looking up, “have you had a good jaunt?”
“Yes, sir,” said Frank. “Dick’s a capital guide.”
“So this is Dick,” said Mr. Whitney, surveying him with a smile.
“I should hardly have known him. I must congratulate him on his improved appearance.”
“Frank’s been very kind to me,” said Dick, who had a warm heart, easily touched by kindness. “He’s a reg’lar tiptop feller.”
“I believe he is a good boy,” said Mr. Whitney. “I hope my lad, you will prosper and rise in the world. You know, in this free country, poverty in early life is no bar to a man’s advancement. I haven’t risen very high myself,” he said smiling, “But have met with moderate success in life; yet there was a time when I was as poor as you.”
“Were you, sir?” asked Dick, eagerly.
“Yes, my boy, I have known the time when I have been obliged to go without my dinner because I didn’t have money to pay for it.”
“How did you get up in the world?” asked Dick, anxiously.
“I entered a printing office as an apprentice, and worked for some years. Then my eyes gave out, and I was obliged to give that up. Not knowing what else to do, I went into the country, and worked on a farm. After a while, I was lucky enough to invent a machine, which has brought me in a great deal of money. But there was one thing I got, while in the printing office, that I value more than money.”
“What was that, sir?”
“A taste for reading and study. During my leisure hours I improved myself by study, and acquired a large part of the knowledge which I now possess. Indeed, it was one of my books which first put me on the track of the invention which I afterwards made. So you see, my lad, that my studious habits paid me in money, as well as in another way.”
“I’m awful ignorant,” said Dick, soberly.
“But you are young, and, I judge, a smart boy. If you try to learn, you can, and if you ever expect to do anything in the world, you must know something of books.”
“I will,” said Dick, resolutely. “I aint always going to shine boots for a livin’.”
“All labor is respectable, my lad, and you have no call to be ashamed of any honest business, yet when you can get something to do that promises better for your future prospects, I advise you to do so. Till then, earn your living in the way you are accustomed to.”
“Thank you for your advice,” said our hero. “There aint many that takes an interest in ragged Dick.”
“So that’s your name,” said Mr. Whitney. “If I know you, it won’t be long. Save your money, my lad, buy books, and determine to be somebody, and you will yet fill an honorable position.”
“I’ll try,” said Dick. “Good night, sir.”
“Wait a minute, Dick,” said Frank. “Your black box, and old clothes are up stairs. You may want them.”
“In course,” said Dick. “I couldn’t leave my best clothes, and my stock in trade.”
“You may go up to the room with him, Frank,” said Mr. Whitney. “The clerk will give you the key. I want to see you, Dick, before you go.”
“Yes sir,” said Dick.
“Where are you going to sleep to-night, Dick?” asked Frank, as they went up stairs together.
“P’raps at the Fifth Avenoo Hotel – on the outside,” said Dick.
“Haven’t you any place to sleep, then?”
“I slept in a box last night.”
“In a box?”
“Yes, on Spruce Street.”
“Poor fellow!” said Frank, compassionately.
“O, ‘t was a bully bed – full of straw. I slept like a top.”
“Don’t you earn enough to pay for a room, Dick?” asked Frank.
“Yes,” said Dick, “only I spend my money foolish, goin’ to the Old Bowery, and Tony Pastor’s, and sometimes gamblin’ in Baxter Street.”
“You won’t gamble any more, will you Dick?” said Frank, laying his hand persuasively on his companion’s shoulder.
“No, I won’t,” said Dick.
“You’ll promise?”
“Yes, and I’ll keep it. You’re a good feller. I wish you was goin’ to be in New York.”
“I’m going to a boarding-school in Connecticut. The name of the town is Barnton. Will you write to me, Dick?”
“My writin’ would look like hen’s tracks,” said our hero.
“Never mind, I want you to write. When you write, you can tell me how to direct to you, and I will send you a letter.”
“I wish you would,” said Dick. “I wish I was more like you.”
“I hope you will make a much better boy, Dick. Now we’ll go in to my uncle. He wishes to see you before you go.”
They went into the reading-room. Dick had wrapped up his blacking-brush in a newspaper with which Frank had supplied him, feeling that a guest of the Astor House would hardly be welcome, who displayed such a professional badge.
“Uncle, Dick’s all ready to go,” said Frank.
“Good bye,” my lad, said Mr. Whitney. “I hope to hear good accounts of you sometime.” He held out his hand, in which was a five dollar bill.
Dick shrunk back.
“I don’t like to take it,” he said. “I haven’t earned it.”
“Perhaps not,” said Mr. Whitney, “but I give it to you because I remember my own friendless youth; I hope it may be of service to you. Sometime when you are a prosperous man, you can repay it in the form of aid to some poor boy, who is struggling upwards as you are now.”
“I will sir,” said Dick, in a manly tone.
He no longer refused the money, but took it gratefully, and bidding Frank good bye, went out into the street outside. A feeling of loneliness came over him as he left the presence of Frank, for whom he had formed a strong attachment in the few hours he had known him.
Going out into the fresh air, Dick felt the pangs of hunger. He accordingly went to a restaurant, and got a substantial supper. Perhaps it was the new clothes he wore, which made him feel a little more aristocratic. At all events, instead of patronizing the cheap restaurant, where he usually procured his meals, he went into the restaurant attached to Lovejoy’s Hotel, where the prices were higher, and the company more select. In his ordinary dress, Dick would have been excluded, but he had the appearance of a very respectable, gentlemanly boy, whose presence would not discredit any establishment. His orders were therefore received with attention by the waiter, and in due time he had a good supper placed before him.
“I wish I could come here every day,” thought our hero. “It seems kind o’ nice and ‘spectable, compared with the other place. There’s a gent at that other table that I’ve shined boots for more ’n once. He don’t know me in my new clothes. Guess he don’t know his boot-black patronizes the same establishment.”
His supper over, Dick went up to the desk, and, presenting his check, tendered in payment his five dollar bill, as if it were only one of a large number which he possessed. Receiving back his change he went out into the street.
Two questions now arose. How should he spend the evening, and where should he pass the night? Yesterday, with such a sum of money in his possession, he would have answered both questions readily. For the evening, he would have passed it at the Old Bowery, and gone to sleep in any out of the way place that offered. But he had turned over a new leaf, or resolved to do so. He meant to save his money for some useful purpose, to aid his advancement in the world. So he could not afford the theatre. Then, with his new clothes, he was unwilling to pass the night out of doors.
“I should spile ‘em,” he thought, “and that wouldn’t pay.”
So he determined to hunt up a room, which he could rent regularly, and consider as his own, where he could sleep nights, instead of depending on boxes and old wagons for a chance shelter. This would be the first step towards respectability, and Dick determined to take it.
He accordingly passed through the City Hall Park, and walked leisurely up Centre Street.
Horatio Alger, Jr.

STUDENT AND SCHOOLMATE°
An Illustrated Monthly,
FOR OUR BOYS AND GIRLS.
Vol. XX. AUGUST, 1867. No. II.
RAGGED DICK;
OR, STREET LIFE IN NEW YORK.
CHAPTER VIII.
DICK SECURES LODINGS.
Dick decided that it would hardly be advisable for him to seek lodgings on Fifth Avenue, although his present cash capital consisted of nearly five dollars in money, besides the valuable papers contained in his wallet. Besides, he had reason to doubt whether any in his line of business lived on that aristocratic street. He too