Part 19 (1/2)
”Wait a minute, d.i.c.k,” said Frank. ”Your blacking-box and old clothes are upstairs. You may want them.”
”In course,” said d.i.c.k. ”I couldn't get along without 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, d.i.c.k, before you go.”
”Yes, sir,” said d.i.c.k.
”Where are you going to sleep to-night, d.i.c.k?” asked Frank, as they went upstairs together.
”P'r'aps at the Fifth Avenue Hotel--on the outside,” said d.i.c.k.
”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, compa.s.sionately.
”Oh, 'twas a bully bed--full of straw! I slept like a top.”
”Don't you earn enough to pay for a room, d.i.c.k?”
”Yes,” said d.i.c.k; ”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, d.i.c.k?” said Frank, laying his hand persuasively on his companion's shoulder.
”No, I won't,” said d.i.c.k.
”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 am going to a boarding-school in Connecticut. The name of the town is Barnton. Will you write to me, d.i.c.k?”
”My writing would look like hens' tracks,” said our hero.
”Never mind. I want you to write. When you write you can tell me how to direct, and I will send you a letter.”
”I wish you would,” said d.i.c.k. ”I wish I was more like you.”
”I hope you will make a much better boy, d.i.c.k. Now we'll go in to my uncle. He wishes to see you before you go.”
They went into the reading-room. d.i.c.k had wrapped up his blacking-brush in a newspaper with which Frank had supplied him, feeling that a guest of the Astor House should hardly be seen coming out of the hotel displaying such a professional sign.
”Uncle, d.i.c.k's ready to go,” said Frank.