“So you didn’t stay long in the match business, Dick?”
“No, I couldn’t sell enough to make it pay. Then there was some folks that wanted me to sell cheaper to them; so I couldn’t make any profit. There was one old lady—she was rich, too, for she lived in a big brick house—beat me down so, that I didn’t make no profit at all; but she wouldn’t buy without, and I hadn’t sold none that day; so I let her have them. I don’t see why rich folks should be so hard upon a poor boy that wants to make a livin’.”
“There’s a good deal of meanness in the world, I’m afraid, Dick.”
“If everybody was like you and your uncle,” said Dick, “there would be some chance for poor people. If I was rich I’d try to help ’em along.”
“Perhaps you will be rich sometime, Dick.”
Dick shook his head.
“I’m afraid all my wallets will be like this,” said Dick, indicating the one he had received from the dropper, “and will be full of papers what ain’t of no use to anybody except the owner.”
“That depends very much on yourself, Dick,” said Frank. “Stewart wasn’t always rich, you know.”
“Wasn’t he?”
“When he first came to New York as a young man he was a teacher, and teachers are not generally very rich. At last he went into business, starting in a small way, and worked his way up by degrees. But there was one thing he determined in the beginning: that he would be strictly honorable in all his dealings, and never overreach anyone for the sake of making money. If there was a chance for him, Dick, there is a chance for you.”
“He knowed enough to be a teacher, and I’m awful ignorant,” said Dick.
“But you needn’t stay so.”
“How can I help it?”
“Can’t you learn at school?”
“I can’t go to school ’cause I’ve got my livin’ to earn. It wouldn’t do me much good if I learned to read and write, and just as I’d got learned I starved to death.”
“But are there no night-schools?”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you go? I suppose you don’t work in the evenings.”
“I never cared much about it,” said Dick, “and that’s the truth. But since I’ve got to talkin’ with you, I think more about it. I guess I’ll begin to go.”
“I wish you would, Dick. You’ll make a smart man if you only get a little education.”
“Do you think so?” asked Dick, doubtfully.
“I know so. A boy who has earned his own living since he was seven years old must have something in him. I feel very much interested in you, Dick. You’ve had a hard time of it so far in life, but I think better times are in store. I want you to do well, and I feel sure you can if you only try.”
“You’re a good fellow,” said Dick, gratefully. “I’m afraid I’m a pretty rough customer, but I ain’t as bad as some. I mean to turn over a new leaf, and try to grow up ’spectable.”
“There’ve been a great many boys begin as low down as you, Dick, that have grown up respectable and honored. But they had to work pretty hard for it.”
“I’m willin’ to work hard,” said Dick.
“And you must not only work hard, but work in the right way.”
“What’s the right way?”
“You began in the right way when you determined never to steal, or do anything mean or dishonorable, however strongly tempted to do so. That will make people have confidence in you when they come to know you. But, in order to succeed well, you must manage to get as good an education as you can. Until you do, you cannot get a position in an office or counting room, even to run errands.”
“That’s so,” said Dick, soberly. “I never thought how awful ignorant I was till now.”
“That can be remedied with perseverance,” said Frank. “A year will do a great deal for you.”
“I’ll go to work and see what I can do,” said Dick, energetically.
IX
A Scene in a Third Avenue Car
The boys had turned into Third Avenue, a long street, which, commencing just below the Cooper Institute, runs out to Harlem. A man came out of a side street, uttering at intervals a monotonous cry which sounded like “glass puddin’.”
“Glass pudding!” repeated Frank, looking in surprised wonder at Dick. “What does he mean?”
“Perhaps you’d like some,” said Dick.
“I never heard of it before.”
“Suppose you ask him what he charges for his puddin’.”
Frank looked more narrowly at the man, and soon concluded that he was a glazier.
“Oh, I understand,” he said. “He means ‘glass put in.’ ”
Frank’s mistake was not a singular one. The monotonous cry of these men certainly sounds more like “glass puddin’,” than the words they intend to utter.
“Now,” said Dick, “where shall we go?”
“I should like to see Central Park,” said Frank. “Is it far off?”
“It is about a mile and a half from here,” said Dick. “This is Twenty-ninth Street, and the Park begins at Fifty-ninth Street.”
It may be explained, for the benefit of readers who have never visited New York, that about a mile from the City Hall the cross-streets begin to be numbered in regular order. There is a continuous line of houses as far as One Hundred and Thirtieth Street, where may be found the terminus of the Harlem line of horsecars. When the entire island is laid out and settled, probably the numbers will reach two hundred or more. Central Park, which lies between Fifty-ninth Street on the south, and One
