Ragged Dick | Page 2

as
if it had been a bed of down. He dumped down into the straw without
taking the trouble of undressing.
Getting up too was an equally 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 cap over his
uncombed locks, he was all 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
the buttons of which were gone except two, out of which peeped a shirt

which looked as if it had been worn a month. To complete his costume
he wore a coat too long for him, dating back, if one might judge from
its general appearance, to a remote antiquity.
Washing the face and hands is usually considered proper in
commencing the day, but Dick was above such refinement. He had no
particular dislike to dirt, and did not think it necessary to remove
several dark streaks on his face and hands. But in spite of his dirt and
rags there was something about Dick that was 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. He had no office to open. His
little blacking-box was ready for use, and he looked sharply in the faces
of all who passed, addressing each with, "Shine yer boots, sir?"
"How much?" asked a gentleman on his way to his office.
"Ten cents," said Dick, dropping his box, and sinking upon his knees
on the sidewalk, flourishing his brush with the air of one skilled in his
profession.
"Ten cents! Isn't that a little steep?"
"Well, you know 'taint all clear profit," said Dick, who had already set
to work. "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 manshun 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."
"Be quick about it, for I am in a hurry. 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 feller 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 why they don't fit."
"It seems you have distinguished friends. Now, my lad, I suppose you
would like your money."
"I shouldn't have any objection," said Dick.
"I believe," said the gentleman, examining his pocket-book, "I haven't
got anything short of twenty-five cents. Have you got any change?"
"Not a cent," said Dick. "All my money's invested in the Erie
Railroad."
"That's unfortunate."
"Shall I get the money changed, sir?"

"I can't wait; I've got to meet an appointment immediately. 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 to himself, as he walked away. "If he does, I'll 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