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<h2>CHAPTER XI. DICK AS A DETECTIVE</h2> 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’ve seen him before, and I know he’s up to them kind of tricks. When I heard how he looked, I was sure I knowed 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 is 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 any foolish questions.” The boat had by this time reached the Brooklyn pier, and Mr. Ephraim Smith seemed 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 policeman.” “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 ashore.” “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’re 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 influence with the president to have him tried by habeas corpus,” said Dick. “And of course that frightened him. But tell me, without joking, how you managed.” 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 five 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 the traces of deep 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. Oh, 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 despatched his cakes, was so overcome by the thought of his loss that he burst into 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, than from the depths of anguish he was exalted to the most ecstatic joy. He seized Dick’s hand, and shook it with so much energy that our hero began to feel rather alarmed for its safety. “’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 some time.” 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 affair to his satisfaction. “Now,” said Frank, “I think I’ll 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 to the hotel. When they arrived at the Astor House, Dick said, “Good-by, 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, where, as he had thought probable, he found his uncle already arrived, and reading a copy of “The Evening Post,” which he had just purchased outside. “Well, boys,” he said, looking up, “have you had a pleasant jaunt?” “Yes, sir,” said Frank. “Dick’s a capital guide.” “So this is Dick,” said Mr. Whitney, surveying him with a smile. “Upon my word, I should hardly have known him. I must congratulate him on his improved appearance.” “Frank’s been very kind to me,” said Dick, who, rough street-boy as he was, had a heart easily touched by kindness, of which he had never experienced much. “He’s a tip-top fellow.” “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 added, with a smile, “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 I have been obliged to go without my dinner because I didn’t have enough 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 I was in the printing-office which 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 that 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 goin’ to black boots for a livin’.” “All labor is respectable, my lad, and you have no cause 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, avoid extravagance, and save up a little money if you can.” “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 judge you rightly, it won’t be long before you change it. Save your money, my lad, buy books, and determine to be somebody, and you may yet fill an honorable position.” “I’ll try,” said Dick. “Good-night, sir.” “Wait a minute, Dick,” said Frank. “Your blacking-box and old clothes are upstairs. You may want them.” “In course,” said Dick. “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, Dick, before you go.” “Yes, sir,” said Dick. “Where are you going to sleep to-night, Dick?” asked Frank, as they went upstairs together. “P’r’aps at the Fifth Avenue 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. “Oh, ’twas a bully bed—full of straw! I slept like a top.” “Don’t you earn enough to pay for a room, Dick?” “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 am going to a boarding-school in Connecticut. The name of the town is Barnton. Will you write to me, Dick?” “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 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 should hardly be seen coming out of the hotel displaying such a professional sign. “Uncle, Dick’s ready to go,” said Frank. “Good-by, my lad,” said Mr. Whitney. “I hope to hear good accounts of you sometime. Don’t forget what I have told you. Remember that your future position depends mainly upon yourself, and that it will be high or low as you choose to make it.” 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 upward as you are now.” “I will, sir,” said Dick, manfully. He no longer refused the money, but took it gratefully, and, bidding Frank and his uncle good-by, went out into the street. 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. <h2>CHAPTER XII. DICK HIRES A ROOM ON MOTT STREET</h2> 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 refectory 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 now 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 a good supper was placed before him. “I wish I could come here every day,” thought Dick. “It seems kind o’ nice and ’spectable, side of 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 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. Besides, 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 occupy 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. He decided that it would hardly be advisable for him to seek lodgings in 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 took his way to Mott Street, which is considerably less pretentious, and halted in front of a shabby brick lodging-house kept by a Mrs. Mooney, with whose son Tom, Dick was acquainted. Dick rang the bell, which sent back a shrill metallic response. The door was opened by a slatternly servant, who looked at him inquiringly, and not without curiosity. It must be remembered that Dick was well dressed, and that nothing in his appearance bespoke his occupation. Being naturally a good-looking boy, he might readily be mistaken for a gentleman’s son. “Well, Queen Victoria,” said Dick, “is your missus at home?” “My name’s Bridget,” said the girl. “Oh, indeed!” said Dick. “You looked so much like the queen’s picter what she gave me last Christmas in exchange for mine, that I couldn’t help calling you by her name.” “Oh, go along wid ye!” said Bridget. “It’s makin’ fun ye are.” “If you don’t believe me,” said Dick, gravely, “all you’ve got to do is to ask my partic’lar friend, the Duke of Newcastle.” “Bridget!” called a shrill voice from the basement. “The missus is calling me,” said Bridget, hurriedly. “I’ll tell her ye want her.” “All right!” said Dick. The servant descended into the lower regions, and in a short time a stout, red-faced woman appeared on the scene. “Well, sir, what’s your wish?” she asked. “Have you got a room to let?” asked Dick. “Is it for yourself you ask?” questioned the woman, in some surprise. Dick answered in the affirmative. “I haven’t got any very good rooms vacant. There’s a small room in the third story.” “I’d like to see it,” said Dick. “I don’t know as it would be good enough for you,” said the woman, with a glance at Dick’s clothes. “I aint very partic’lar about accommodations,” said our hero. “I guess I’ll look at it.” Dick followed the landlady up two narrow stair-cases, uncarpeted and dirty, to the third landing, where he was ushered into a room about ten feet square. It could not be considered a very desirable apartment. It had once been covered with an oilcloth carpet, but this was now very ragged, and looked worse than none. There was a single bed in the corner, covered with an indiscriminate heap of bed-clothing, rumpled and not over-clean. There was a bureau, with the veneering scratched and in some parts stripped off, and a small glass, eight inches by ten, cracked across the middle; also two chairs in rather a disjointed condition. Judging from Dick’s appearance, Mrs. Mooney thought he would turn from it in disdain. But it must be remembered that Dick’s past experience had not been of a character to make him fastidious. In comparison with a box, or an empty wagon, even this little room seemed comfortable. He decided to hire it if the rent proved reasonable. “Well, what’s the tax?” asked Dick. “I ought to have a dollar a week,” said Mrs. Mooney, hesitatingly. “Say seventy-five cents, and I’ll take it,” said Dick. “Every week in advance?” “Yes.” “Well, as times is hard, and I can’t afford to keep it empty, you may have it. When will you come?” “To-night,” said Dick. “It aint lookin’ very neat. I don’t know as I can fix it up to-night.” “Well, I’ll sleep here to-night, and you can fix it up to-morrow.” “I hope you’ll excuse the looks. I’m a lone woman, and my help is so shiftless, I have to look after everything myself; so I can’t keep things as straight as I want to.” “All right!” said Dick. “Can you pay me the first week in advance?” asked the landlady, cautiously. Dick responded by drawing seventy-five cents from his pocket, and placing it in her hand. “What’s your business, sir, if I may inquire?” said Mrs. Mooney. “Oh, I’m professional!” said Dick. “Indeed!” said the landlady, who did not feel much enlightened by this answer. “How’s Tom?” asked Dick. “Do you know my Tom?” said Mrs. Mooney in surprise. “He’s gone to sea,—to Californy. He went last week.” “Did he?” said Dick. “Yes, I knew him.” Mrs. Mooney looked upon her new lodger with increased favor, on finding that he was acquainted with her son, who, by the way, was one of the worst young scamps in Mott Street, which is saying considerable. “I’ll bring over my baggage from the Astor House this evening,” said Dick in a tone of importance. “From the Astor House!” repeated Mrs. Mooney, in fresh amazement. “Yes, I’ve been stoppin’ there a short time with some friends,” said Dick. Mrs. Mooney might be excused for a little amazement at finding that a guest from the Astor House was about to become one of her lodgers—such transfers not being common. “Did you say you was purfessional?” she asked. “Yes, ma’am,” said Dick, politely. “You aint a—a—” Mrs. Mooney paused, uncertain what conjecture to hazard. “Oh, no, nothing of the sort,” said Dick, promptly. “How could you think so, Mrs. Mooney?” “No offence, sir,” said the landlady, more perplexed than ever. “Certainly not,” said our hero. “But you must excuse me now, Mrs. Mooney, as I have business of great importance to attend to.” “You’ll come round this evening?” Dick answered in the affirmative, and turned away. “I wonder what he is!” thought the landlady, following him with her eyes as he crossed the street. “He’s got good clothes on, but he don’t seem very particular about his room. Well; I’ve got all my rooms full now. That’s one comfort.” Dick felt more comfortable now that he had taken the decisive step of hiring a lodging, and paying a week’s rent in advance. For seven nights he was sure of a shelter and a bed to sleep in. The thought was a pleasant one to our young vagrant, who hitherto had seldom known when he rose in the morning where he should find a resting-place at night. “I must bring my traps round,” said Dick to himself. “I guess I’ll go to bed early to-night. It’ll feel kinder good to sleep in a reg’lar bed. Boxes is rather hard to the back, and aint comfortable in case of rain. I wonder what Johnny Nolan would say if he knew I’d got a room of my own.” <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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