Part 33 (2/2)

”How's the new weekly going, Jimmy?” asked 'd.i.c.k, when there came a lull in trade.

”Rotten!” was Jimmy's characteristic answer. ”It's a regular lemon, down here. It's on de blink. I sold ten copies, and I couldn't get rid of another one. So I stowed 'em away, and I got busy with me--I mean my--regular papers. No trouble to sell them. How'd you make out?”

”Not much better. I sold twelve.”

”Say, ain't that the limit? I'll never try a new stunt like that ag'in. Everybody I struck to buy one, had one already, or got it home.”

”Same with me,” agreed d.i.c.k.

”Well, I can see us losin' some of our hard-earned plunks,” went on Jimmy.

”Never mind,” consoled his partner. ”We made a good try, and we'll know better next time.”

”You bet I will. What's that the book says about a trolley conductor stickin' to his car?”

”I guess you mean the one about the shoemaker sticking to his last,”

said d.i.c.k, with a smile.

”Well, last or first, it don't make much difference, only I'm going to stick to daily papers after this. Crimps! T'ink what a lot of fun we could have had with de c.h.i.n.k we lost!”

”Well, we'll make it up, somehow,” said d.i.c.k. ”Don't worry over it.”

But Jimmy could not help it, and it was some time before he got over the financial disaster which came to him and his partner. However, it was, as d.i.c.k said, a good lesson to them, not to venture into a field of which they knew nothing.

Jimmy had, under d.i.c.k's guidance, resumed his studies at night, and Frank Merton came in occasionally. The boys began to plan on attending night school as soon as the term opened, which would be in a few weeks.

”Then you'll have to study harder than you do now, Jimmy,” said d.i.c.k.

”Those teachers will not be as easy on you as I am.”

”Well, I guess I can stand it,” answered Jimmy, with a little sigh.

”As long as I've got to read and write and do arithmetic, I might as well learn to do it good.”

One evening, when Jimmy had not come in, as he had undertaken to dispose of a lot of late extras, d.i.c.k sat alone in the room. He was vainly puzzling over his queer case, and wondering if he would ever learn who he was, and who his folks were, if he had any. He tried and tried again to penetrate back into the past, but he had to stop at a certain place. And that was a confused scene, where he found himself in a crowd, felt a stunning blow on the head and then awoke in the box with Jimmy.

”I'm afraid that's as near it as I ever shall get,” thought poor d.i.c.k.

”If only I could see something, or somebody, or hear something said that would recall the past. But I can't.”

A little later some one knocked on the door. Thinking it was Mr.

Snowden, who used to call on the permanent lodgers in the house occasionally, d.i.c.k called out an invitation to enter.

A tall young man came in. He was a stranger to d.i.c.k, who looked at him in the light of the gas-jet, wondering what was wanted.

”Is Jimmy Small here?” asked the young man.

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