Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Ragged Dick, Or, Street Life in New York with the Boot-Blacks by Jr. Horatio Alger (free ebooks for android .txt) 📖
- Author: Jr. Horatio Alger
Book online «Ragged Dick, Or, Street Life in New York with the Boot-Blacks by Jr. Horatio Alger (free ebooks for android .txt) 📖». Author Jr. Horatio Alger
“Never mind, my lad. It’s an honest business,” said the policeman, who was a sensible man and a worthy citizen. “It’s an honest business. Stick to it till you get something better.”
“I mean to,” said Dick. “It aint easy to get out of it, as the prisoner remarked, when he was asked how he liked his residence.”
“I hope you don’t speak from experience.”
“No,” said Dick; “I don’t mean to get into prison if I can help it.”
“Do you see that gentleman over there?” asked the officer, pointing to a well-dressed man who was walking on the other side of the street.
“Yes.”
“Well, he was once a newsboy.”
“And what is he now?”
“He keeps a bookstore, and is quite prosperous.”
Dick looked at the gentleman with interest, wondering if he should look as respectable when he was a grown man.
It will be seen that Dick was getting ambitious. Hitherto he had thought very little of the future, but was content to get along as he could, dining as well as his means would allow, and spending the evenings in the pit of the Old Bowery, eating peanuts between the acts if he was prosperous, and if unlucky supping on dry bread or an apple, and sleeping in an old box or a wagon. Now, for the first time, he began to reflect that he could not black boots all his life. In seven years he would be a man, and, since his meeting with Frank, he felt that he would like to be a respectable man. He could see and appreciate the difference between Frank and such a boy as Micky Maguire, and it was not strange that he preferred the society of the former.
In the course of the next morning, in pursuance of his new resolutions for the future, he called at a savings bank, and held out four dollars in bills besides another dollar in change. There was a high railing, and a number of clerks busily writing at desks behind it. Dick, never having been in a bank before, did not know where to go. He went, by mistake, to the desk where money was paid out.
“Where’s your book?” asked the clerk.
“I haven’t got any.”
“Have you any money deposited here?”
“No, sir, I want to leave some here.”
“Then go to the next desk.”
Dick followed directions, and presented himself before an elderly man with gray hair, who looked at him over the rims of his spectacles.
“I want you to keep that for me,” said Dick, awkwardly emptying his money out on the desk.
“How much is there?”
“Five dollars.”
“Have you got an account here?”
“No, sir.”
“Of course you can write?”
The “of course” was said on account of Dick’s neat dress.
“Have I got to do any writing?” asked our hero, a little embarrassed.
“We want you to sign your name in this book,” and the old gentleman shoved round a large folio volume containing the names of depositors.
Dick surveyed the book with some awe.
“I aint much on writin’,” he said.
“Very well; write as well as you can.”
The pen was put into Dick’s hand, and, after dipping it in the inkstand, he succeeded after a hard effort, accompanied by many contortions of the face, in inscribing upon the book of the bank the name
DICK HUNTER.
“Dick!—that means Richard, I suppose,” said the bank officer, who had some difficulty in making out the signature.
“No; Ragged Dick is what folks call me.”
“You don’t look very ragged.”
“No, I’ve left my rags to home. They might get wore out if I used ’em too common.”
“Well, my lad, I’ll make out a book in the name of Dick Hunter, since you seem to prefer Dick to Richard. I hope you will save up your money and deposit more with us.”
Our hero took his bank-book, and gazed on the entry “Five Dollars” with a new sense of importance. He had been accustomed to joke about Erie shares, but now, for the first time, he felt himself a capitalist; on a small scale, to be sure, but still it was no small thing for Dick to have five dollars which he could call his own. He firmly determined that he would lay by every cent he could spare from his earnings towards the fund he hoped to accumulate.
But Dick was too sensible not to know that there was something more than money needed to win a respectable position in the world. He felt that he was very ignorant. Of reading and writing he only knew the rudiments, and that, with a slight acquaintance with arithmetic, was all he did know of books. Dick knew he must study hard, and he dreaded it. He looked upon learning as attended with greater difficulties than it really possesses. But Dick had good pluck. He meant to learn, nevertheless, and resolved to buy a book with his first spare earnings.
When Dick went home at night he locked up his bank-book in one of the drawers of the bureau. It was wonderful how much more independent he felt whenever he reflected upon the contents of that drawer, and with what an important air of joint ownership he regarded the bank building in which his small savings were deposited.
DICK SECURES A TUTOR
The next morning Dick was unusually successful, having plenty to do, and receiving for one job twenty-five cents,—the gentleman refusing to take change. Then flashed upon Dick’s mind the thought that he had not yet returned the change due to the gentleman whose boots he had blacked on the morning of his introduction to the reader.
“What’ll he think of me?” said Dick to himself. “I hope he won’t think I’m mean enough to keep the money.”
Now Dick was scrupulously honest, and though the temptation to be otherwise had often been strong, he had always resisted it. He was not willing on any account to keep money which did not belong to him, and he immediately started for 125 Fulton Street (the address which had been given him) where he found Mr. Greyson’s name on the door of an office on the first floor.
The door being open, Dick walked in.
“Is Mr. Greyson in?” he asked of a clerk who sat on a high stool before a desk.
“Not just now. He’ll be in soon. Will you wait?”
“Yes,” said Dick.
“Very well; take a seat then.”
Dick sat down and took up the morning “Tribune,” but presently came to a word of four syllables, which he pronounced to himself a “sticker,” and laid it down. But he had not long to wait, for five minutes later Mr. Greyson entered.
“Did you wish to speak to me, my lad?” said he to Dick, whom in his new clothes he did not recognize.
“Yes, sir,” said Dick. “I owe you some money.”
“Indeed!” said Mr. Greyson, pleasantly; “that’s an agreeable surprise. I didn’t know but you had come for some. So you are a debtor of mine, and not a creditor?”
“I b’lieve that’s right,” said Dick, drawing fifteen cents from his pocket, and placing in Mr. Greyson’s hand.
“Fifteen cents!” repeated he, in some surprise. “How do you happen to be indebted to me in that amount?”
“You gave me a quarter for a-shinin’ your boots, yesterday mornin’, and couldn’t wait for the change. I meant to have brought it before, but I forgot all about it till this mornin’.”
“It had quite slipped my mind also. But you don’t look like the boy I employed. If I remember rightly he wasn’t as well dressed as you.”
“No,” said Dick. “I was dressed for a party, then, but the clo’es was too well ventilated to be comfortable in cold weather.”
“You’re an honest boy,” said Mr. Greyson. “Who taught you to be honest?”
“Nobody,” said Dick. “But it’s mean to cheat and steal. I’ve always knowed that.”
“Then you’ve got ahead of some of our business men. Do you read the Bible?”
“No,” said Dick. “I’ve heard it’s a good book, but I don’t know much about it.”
“You ought to go to some Sunday School. Would you be willing?”
“Yes,” said Dick, promptly. “I want to grow up ’spectable. But I don’t know where to go.”
“Then I’ll tell you. The church I attend is at the corner of Fifth Avenue and Twenty-first Street.”
“I’ve seen it,” said Dick.
“I have a class in the Sunday School there. If you’ll come next Sunday, I’ll take you into my class, and do what I can to help you.”
“Thank you,” said Dick, “but p’r’aps you’ll get tired of teaching me. I’m awful ignorant.”
“No, my lad,” said Mr. Greyson, kindly. “You evidently have some good principles to start with, as you have shown by your scorn of dishonesty. I shall hope good things of you in the future.”
“Well, Dick,” said our hero, apostrophizing himself, as he left the office; “you’re gettin’ up in the world. You’ve got money invested, and are goin’ to attend church, by partic’lar invitation, on Fifth Avenue. I shouldn’t wonder much if you should find cards, when you get home, from the Mayor, requestin’ the honor of your company to dinner, along with other distinguished guests.”
Dick felt in very good spirits. He seemed to be emerging from the world in which he had hitherto lived, into a new atmosphere of respectability, and the change seemed very pleasant to him.
At six o’clock Dick went into a restaurant on Chatham Street, and got a comfortable supper. He had been so successful during the day that, after paying for this, he still had ninety cents left. While he was despatching his supper, another boy came in, smaller and slighter than Dick, and sat down beside him. Dick recognized him as a boy who three months before had entered the ranks of the boot-blacks, but who, from a natural timidity, had not been able to earn much. He was ill-fitted for the coarse companionship of the street boys, and shrank from the rude jokes of his present associates. Dick had never troubled him; for our hero had a certain chivalrous feeling which would not allow him to bully or disturb a younger and weaker boy than himself.
“How are you, Fosdick?” said Dick, as the other seated himself.
“Pretty well,” said Fosdick. “I suppose you’re all right.”
“Oh, yes, I’m right side up with care. I’ve been havin’ a bully supper. What are you goin’ to have?”
“Some bread and butter.”
“Why don’t you get a cup o’ coffee?”
“Why,” said Fosdick, reluctantly, “I haven’t got money enough to-night.”
“Never mind,” said Dick; “I’m in luck to-day, I’ll stand treat.”
“That’s kind in you,” said Fosdick, gratefully.
“Oh, never mind that,” said Dick.
Accordingly he ordered a cup of coffee, and a plate of beefsteak, and was gratified to see that his young companion partook of both with evident relish. When the repast was over, the boys went out into the street together, Dick pausing at the desk to settle for both suppers.
“Where are you going to sleep to-night, Fosdick?” asked Dick, as they stood on the sidewalk.
“I don’t know,” said Fosdick, a little sadly. “In some doorway, I expect. But I’m afraid the police will find me out, and make me move on.”
“I’ll tell you what,” said Dick, “you must go home with me. I guess my bed will hold two.”
“Have you got a room?” asked the other, in surprise.
“Yes,” said Dick, rather proudly, and with a little excusable exultation. “I’ve got a room over in Mott Street; there I can receive my friends. That’ll be better than sleepin’ in a door-way,—won’t it?”
“Yes, indeed it will,” said Fosdick. “How lucky I was to come across you! It comes hard to me living as I do. When my father was alive I had every comfort.”
“That’s more’n I ever had,” said Dick. “But I’m goin’ to try to live comfortable now. Is your father dead?”
“Yes,” said Fosdick, sadly. “He was a printer; but he was drowned one dark night from a Fulton ferry-boat, and, as I had no relations in the city, and no money, I was obliged to go to work as quick as I could. But I don’t get on very well.”
“Didn’t you have no brothers nor sisters?” asked Dick.
“No,” said Fosdick; “father and I used to live alone. He was always so much company to me that I feel very lonesome without him. There’s a man out West somewhere that owes him two thousand dollars. He used to live in the city, and father lent him all his money to help him go into business; but he failed, or pretended to, and went off. If father hadn’t lost that money he would have left me well off; but no money would have made up his loss to me.”
“What’s the man’s name that went off with your father’s money?”
“His name is Hiram Bates.”
“P’r’aps you’ll get the money again, sometime.”
“There isn’t much chance of it,” said Fosdick. “I’d sell out my chances of that for
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