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
“Dick,” said Fosdick, one evening, after they had completed their studies, “I think you’ll have to get another teacher soon.”
“Why?” asked Dick, in some surprise. “Have you been offered a more loocrative position?”
“No,” said Fosdick, “but I find I have taught you all I know myself. You are now as good a scholar as I am.”
“Is that true?” said Dick, eagerly, a flush of gratification coloring his brown cheek.
“Yes,” said Fosdick. “You’ve made wonderful progress. I propose, now that evening schools have begun, that we join one, and study together through the winter.”
“All right,” said Dick. “I’d be willin’ to go now; but when I first began to study I was ashamed to have anybody know that I was so ignorant. Do you really mean, Fosdick, that I know as much as you?”
“Yes, Dick, it’s true.”
“Then I’ve got you to thank for it,” said Dick, earnestly. “You’ve made me what I am.”
“And haven’t you paid me, Dick?”
“By payin’ the room-rent,” said Dick, impulsively. “What’s that? It isn’t half enough. I wish you’d take half my money; you deserve it.”
“Thank you, Dick, but you’re too generous. You’ve more than paid me. Who was it took my part when all the other boys imposed upon me? And who gave me money to buy clothes, and so got me my situation?”
“Oh, that’s nothing!” said Dick.
“It’s a great deal, Dick. I shall never forget it. But now it seems to me you might try to get a situation yourself.”
“Do I know enough?”
“You know as much as I do.”
“Then I’ll try,” said Dick, decidedly.
“I wish there was a place in our store,” said Fosdick. “It would be pleasant for us to be together.”
“Never mind,” said Dick; “there’ll be plenty of other chances. P’r’aps A. T. Stewart might like a partner. I wouldn’t ask more’n a quarter of the profits.”
“Which would be a very liberal proposal on your part,” said Fosdick, smiling. “But perhaps Mr. Stewart might object to a partner living on Mott Street.”
“I’d just as lieves move to Fifth Avenoo,” said Dick. “I aint got no prejudices in favor of Mott Street.”
“Nor I,” said Fosdick, “and in fact I have been thinking it might be a good plan for us to move as soon as we could afford. Mrs. Mooney doesn’t keep the room quite so neat as she might.”
“No,” said Dick. “She aint got no prejudices against dirt. Look at that towel.”
Dick held up the article indicated, which had now seen service nearly a week, and hard service at that,—Dick’s avocation causing him to be rather hard on towels.
“Yes,” said Fosdick, “I’ve got about tired of it. I guess we can find some better place without having to pay much more. When we move, you must let me pay my share of the rent.”
“We’ll see about that,” said Dick. “Do you propose to move to Fifth Avenoo?”
“Not just at present, but to some more agreeable neighborhood than this. We’ll wait till you get a situation, and then we can decide.”
A few days later, as Dick was looking about for customers in the neighborhood of the Park, his attention was drawn to a fellow boot-black, a boy about a year younger than himself, who appeared to have been crying.
“What’s the matter, Tom?” asked Dick. “Haven’t you had luck to-day?”
“Pretty good,” said the boy; “but we’re havin’ hard times at home. Mother fell last week and broke her arm, and to-morrow we’ve got to pay the rent, and if we don’t the landlord says he’ll turn us out.”
“Haven’t you got anything except what you earn?” asked Dick.
“No,” said Tom, “not now. Mother used to earn three or four dollars a week; but she can’t do nothin’ now, and my little sister and brother are too young.”
Dick had quick sympathies. He had been so poor himself, and obliged to submit to so many privations that he knew from personal experience how hard it was. Tom Wilkins he knew as an excellent boy who never squandered his money, but faithfully carried it home to his mother. In the days of his own extravagance and shiftlessness he had once or twice asked Tom to accompany him to the Old Bowery or Tony Pastor’s, but Tom had always steadily refused.
“I’m sorry for you, Tom,” he said. “How much do you owe for rent?”
“Two weeks now,” said Tom.
“How much is it a week?”
“Two dollars a week—that makes four.”
“Have you got anything towards it?”
“No; I’ve had to spend all my money for food for mother and the rest of us. I’ve had pretty hard work to do that. I don’t know what we’ll do. I haven’t any place to go to, and I’m afraid mother’ll get cold in her arm.”
“Can’t you borrow the money somewhere?” asked Dick.
Tom shook his head despondingly.
“All the people I know are as poor as I am,” said he. “They’d help me if they could, but it’s hard work for them to get along themselves.”
“I’ll tell you what, Tom,” said Dick, impulsively, “I’ll stand your friend.”
“Have you got any money?” asked Tom, doubtfully.
“Got any money!” repeated Dick. “Don’t you know that I run a bank on my own account? How much is it you need?”
“Four dollars,” said Tom. “If we don’t pay that before to-morrow night, out we go. You haven’t got as much as that, have you?”
“Here are three dollars,” said Dick, drawing out his pocket-book. “I’ll let you have the rest to-morrow, and maybe a little more.”
“You’re a right down good fellow, Dick,” said Tom; “but won’t you want it yourself?”
“Oh, I’ve got some more,” said Dick.
“Maybe I’ll never be able to pay you.”
“S’pose you don’t,” said Dick; “I guess I won’t fail.”
“I won’t forget it, Dick. I hope I’ll be able to do somethin’ for you sometime.”
“All right,” said Dick. “I’d ought to help you. I haven’t got no mother to look out for. I wish I had.”
There was a tinge of sadness in his tone, as he pronounced the last four words; but Dick’s temperament was sanguine, and he never gave way to unavailing sadness. Accordingly he began to whistle as he turned away, only adding, “I’ll see you to-morrow, Tom.”
The three dollars which Dick had handed to Tom Wilkins were his savings for the present week. It was now Thursday afternoon. His rent, which amounted to a dollar, he expected to save out of the earnings of Friday and Saturday. In order to give Tom the additional assistance he had promised, Dick would be obliged to have recourse to his bank-savings. He would not have ventured to trench upon it for any other reason but this. But he felt that it would be selfish to allow Tom and his mother to suffer when he had it in his power to relieve them. But Dick was destined to be surprised, and that in a disagreeable manner, when he reached home.
DICK LOSES HIS BANK-BOOK
It was hinted at the close of the last chapter that Dick was destined to be disagreeably surprised on reaching home.
Having agreed to give further assistance to Tom Wilkins, he was naturally led to go to the drawer where he and Fosdick kept their bank-books. To his surprise and uneasiness the drawer proved to be empty!
“Come here a minute, Fosdick,” he said.
“What’s the matter, Dick?”
“I can’t find my bank-book, nor yours either. What’s ’come of them?”
“I took mine with me this morning, thinking I might want to put in a little more money. I’ve got it in my pocket, now.”
“But where’s mine?” asked Dick, perplexed.
“I don’t know. I saw it in the drawer when I took mine this morning.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, positive, for I looked into it to see how much you had got.”
“Did you lock it again?” asked Dick.
“Yes; didn’t you have to unlock it just now?”
“So I did,” said Dick. “But it’s gone now. Somebody opened it with a key that fitted the lock, and then locked it ag’in.”
“That must have been the way.”
“It’s rather hard on a feller,” said Dick, who, for the first time since we became acquainted with him, began to feel down-hearted.
“Don’t give it up, Dick. You haven’t lost the money, only the bank-book.”
“Aint that the same thing?”
“No. You can go to the bank to-morrow morning, as soon as it opens, and tell them you have lost the book, and ask them not to pay the money to any one except yourself.”
“So I can,” said Dick, brightening up. “That is, if the thief hasn’t been to the bank to-day.”
“If he has, they might detect him by his handwriting.”
“I’d like to get hold of the one that stole it,” said Dick, indignantly. “I’d give him a good lickin’.”
“It must have been somebody in the house. Suppose we go and see Mrs. Mooney. She may know whether anybody came into our room to-day.”
The two boys went downstairs, and knocked at the door of a little back sitting-room where Mrs. Mooney generally spent her evenings. It was a shabby little room, with a threadbare carpet on the floor, the walls covered with a certain large-figured paper, patches of which had been stripped off here and there, exposing the plaster, the remainder being defaced by dirt and grease. But Mrs. Mooney had one of those comfortable temperaments which are tolerant of dirt, and didn’t mind it in the least. She was seated beside a small pine work-table, industriously engaged in mending stockings.
“Good-evening, Mrs. Mooney,” said Fosdick, politely.
“Good-evening,” said the landlady. “Sit down, if you can find chairs. I’m hard at work as you see, but a poor lone widder can’t afford to be idle.”
“We can’t stop long, Mrs. Mooney, but my friend here has had something taken from his room to-day, and we thought we’d come and see you about it.”
“What is it?” asked the landlady. “You don’t think I’d take anything? If I am poor, it’s an honest name I’ve always had, as all my lodgers can testify.”
“Certainly not, Mrs. Mooney; but there are others in the house that may not be honest. My friend has lost his bank-book. It was safe in the drawer this morning, but to-night it is not to be found.”
“How much money was there in it?” asked Mrs. Mooney.
“Over a hundred dollars,” said Fosdick.
“It was my whole fortun’,” said Dick. “I was goin’ to buy a house next year.”
Mrs. Mooney was evidently surprised to learn the extent of Dick’s wealth, and was disposed to regard him with increased respect.
“Was the drawer locked?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Then it couldn’t have been Bridget. I don’t think she has any keys.”
“She wouldn’t know what a bank-book was,” said Fosdick. “You didn’t see any of the lodgers go into our room to-day, did you?”
“I shouldn’t wonder if it was Jim Travis,” said Mrs. Mooney, suddenly.
This James Travis was a bar-tender in a low groggery in Mulberry Street, and had been for a few weeks an inmate of Mrs. Mooney’s lodging-house. He was a coarse-looking fellow who, from his appearance, evidently patronized liberally the liquor he dealt out to others. He occupied a room opposite Dick’s, and was often heard by the two boys reeling upstairs in a state of intoxication, uttering shocking oaths.
This Travis had made several friendly overtures to Dick and his room-mate, and had invited them to call round at the bar-room where he tended, and take something. But this invitation had never been accepted, partly because the boys were better engaged in the evening, and partly because neither of them had taken a fancy to Mr. Travis; which certainly was not strange, for nature had not gifted him with many charms, either of personal appearance or manners. The rejection of his friendly proffers had caused him to take a dislike to Dick and Henry, whom he considered stiff and unsocial.
“What makes you think it was Travis?” asked Fosdick. “He isn’t at home in the daytime.”
“But he was to-day. He said he had got a bad cold, and had to come home for a clean handkerchief.”
“Did you see him?” asked Dick.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Mooney. “Bridget was hanging out clothes, and I went to the door to let him in.”
“I wonder if he had a key that would fit our drawer,” said Fosdick.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Mooney. “The bureaus in the two rooms are just alike. I got ’em at auction, and most likely the locks is the same.”
“It must
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