Part 42 (2/2)
”He wasn't nothin' but a boot-black,” said Micky, in an injured tone.
”What are you?”
”I'm a boot-black too; but I don't put on airs.”
”Do you mean to be a boot-black all your life?”
”I dunna,” said Micky; ”there aint anything else to do.”
”Tell me truly, wouldn't you rather wear good clothes than poor ones, and keep yourself clean and neat?”
”Yes, I should,” said Micky, after a slight hesitation.
”Then why do you blame d.i.c.k for preferring to do the same?”
”He licked me once,” said Micky, rather reluctantly, s.h.i.+fting his ground.
”What for?”
”I fired a stone at him.”
”You can't blame him much for that, can you?”
”No,” said Micky, slowly, ”I dunno as I can.”
”For my own part I have a very good opinion of Richard,” said Mr.
Rockwell. ”He wants to raise himself in the world, and I am glad to help him. If that is putting on airs, I should be glad to see you doing the same.”
”There aint no chance for me,” said Micky.
”Why not?”
”I aint lucky as d.i.c.k is.”
”d.i.c.k may have been lucky,” said Mr. Rockwell, ”but I generally find that luck comes oftenest to those who deserve it. If you will try to raise yourself I will help you.”
”Will you?” asked Micky, in surprise.
The fact was, he had been an Ishmaelite from his earliest years, and while he had been surrounded by fellows like Limpy Jim, who were ready to encourage and abet him in schemes of mischief, he had never had any friends who deserved the name. That a gentleman like Mr. Rockwell should voluntarily offer to a.s.sist him was indeed surprising.
”How old are you?” asked Mr. Rockwell.
”Seventeen,” said Micky.
”How long have you blacked boots?”
”Ever since I was eight or nine.”
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