At Eighth Street Dick turned to the right, and pointed out the Clinton Hall Building now occupied by the Mercantile Library, comprising at that time over fifty thousand volumes.5
A little farther on they came to a large building standing by itself just at the opening of Third and Fourth Avenues, and with one side on each.
“What is that building?” asked Frank.
“That’s the Cooper Institute,” said Dick; “built by Mr. Cooper, a particular friend of mine. Me and Peter Cooper used to go to school together.”
“What is there inside?” asked Frank.
“There’s a hall for public meetin’s and lectures in the basement, and a readin’ room and a picture gallery up above,” said Dick.
Directly opposite Cooper Institute, Frank saw a very large building of brick, covering about an acre of ground.
“Is that a hotel?” he asked.
“No,” said Dick; “that’s the Bible House. It’s the place where they make Bibles. I was in there once—saw a big pile of ’em.”
“Did you ever read the Bible?” asked Frank, who had some idea of the neglected state of Dick’s education.
“No,” said Dick; “I’ve heard it’s a good book, but I never read one. I ain’t much on readin’. It makes my head ache.”
“I suppose you can’t read very fast.”
“I can read the little words pretty well, but the big ones is what stick me.”
“If I lived in the city, you might come every evening to me, and I would teach you.”
“Would you take so much trouble about me?” asked Dick, earnestly.
“Certainly; I should like to see you getting on. There isn’t much chance of that if you don’t know how to read and write.”
“You’re a good feller,” said Dick, gratefully. “I wish you did live in New York. I’d like to know somethin’. Whereabouts do you live?”
“About fifty miles off, in a town on the left bank of the Hudson. I wish you’d come up and see me sometime. I would like to have you come and stop two or three days.”
“Honor bright?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Do you mean it?” asked Dick, incredulously.
“Of course I do. Why shouldn’t I?”
“What would your folks say if they knowed you asked a bootblack to visit you?”
“You are none the worse for being a bootblack, Dick.”
“I ain’t used to genteel society,” said Dick. “I shouldn’t know how to behave.”
“Then I could show you. You won’t be a bootblack all your life, you know.”
“No,” said Dick; “I’m goin’ to knock off when I get to be ninety.”
“Before that, I hope,” said Frank, smiling.
“I really wish I could get somethin’ else to do,” said Dick, soberly. “I’d like to be a office boy, and learn business, and grow up ’spectable.”
“Why don’t you try, and see if you can’t get a place, Dick?”
“Who’d take Ragged Dick?”
“But you ain’t ragged now, Dick.”
“No,” said Dick; “I look a little better than I did in my Washington coat and Louis Napoleon pants. But if I got in a office, they wouldn’t give me more’n three dollars a week, and I couldn’t live ’spectable on that.”
“No, I suppose not,” said Frank, thoughtfully. “But you would get more at the end of the first year.”
“Yes,” said Dick; “but by that time I’d be nothin’ but skin and bones.”
Frank laughed. “That reminds me,” he said, “of the story of an Irishman, who, out of economy, thought he would teach his horse to feed on shavings. So he provided the horse with a pair of green spectacles which made the shavings look eatable. But unfortunately, just as the horse got learned, he up and died.”
“The hoss must have been a fine specimen of architectur’ by the time he got through,” remarked Dick.
“Whereabouts are we now?” asked Frank, as they emerged from Fourth Avenue into Union Square.
“That is Union Park,” said Dick, pointing to a beautiful enclosure, in the centre of which was a pond, with a fountain playing.
“Is that the statue of General Washington?” asked Frank, pointing to a bronze equestrian statue, on a granite pedestal.
“Yes,” said Dick; “he’s growed some since he was President. If he’d been as tall as that when he fit in the Revolution, he’d have walloped the Britishers some, I reckon.”
Frank looked up at the statue, which is fourteen and a half feet high, and acknowledged the justice of Dick’s remark.
“How about the coat, Dick?” he asked. “Would it fit you?”
“Well, it might be rather loose,” said Dick, “I ain’t much more’n ten feet high with my boots off.”
“No, I should think not,” said Frank, smiling. “You’re a queer boy, Dick.”
“Well, I’ve been brought up queer. Some boys is born with a silver spoon in their mouth. Victoria’s boys is born with a gold spoon, set with di’monds; but gold and silver was scarce when I was born, and mine was pewter.”
“Perhaps the gold and silver will come by and by, Dick. Did you ever hear of Dick Whittington?”
“Never did. Was he a Ragged Dick?”
“I shouldn’t wonder if he was. At any rate he was very poor when he was a boy, but he didn’t stay so. Before he died, he became Lord Mayor of London.”
“Did he?” asked Dick, looking interested. “How did he do it?”
“Why, you see, a rich merchant took pity on him, and gave him a home in his own house, where he used to stay with the servants, being employed in little errands. One day the merchant noticed Dick picking up pins and needles that had been dropped, and asked him why he did it. Dick told him he was going to sell them when he got enough. The merchant was pleased with his saving disposition, and when soon after, he was going to send a vessel to foreign parts, he told Dick he might send anything he pleased in it, and it should be sold
