Fame and Fortune Part 24

Fosd.i.c.k laughed. "There's no chance for me there either," he said. "She evidently prefers you."

"I'll adopt her for my aunt if it'll be gratifying to her feelings,"

said d.i.c.k; "but I aint partial to ringlets as a general thing."

It is well perhaps that Miss Peyton did not hear these remarks, as she cherished the idea that both Fosd.i.c.k and d.i.c.k were particularly pleased with her.

A day or two afterwards d.i.c.k was walking leisurely through Chatham Street, about half past one o'clock. He was allowed an hour, about noon, to go out and get some lunch, and he was now on his way from the restaurant which he usually frequented. As it was yet early, he paused before a window to look at something which attracted his attention.

While standing here he became conscious of a commotion in his immediate neighborhood. Then he felt a hand thrust into the side-pocket of his coat, and instantly withdrawn. Looking up, he saw Micky Maguire dodging round the corner. He put his hand into his pocket mechanically, and drew out a pocket-book.

Just then a stout, red-faced man came up puffing, and evidently in no little excitement.

"Seize that boy!" he gasped, pointing to d.i.c.k. "He's got my pocket-book."

Contrary to the usual rule in such cases, a policeman did happen to be about, and, following directions, stepped up, and laid his hand on d.i.c.k's shoulder.

"You must go with me, my fine fellow," he said "Hand over that pocket-book, if you please."

"What's all this about?" said d.i.c.k. "Here's the pocket-book, if it is yours. I'm sure I don't want it."

"You're a cool hand," said the guardian of the public peace. "If you don't want it, what made you steal it from this gentleman's pocket?"

"I didn't take it," said d.i.c.k, shortly.

"Is this the boy that stole your pocket-book?" demanded the policeman of the red-faced man, who had now recovered his breath.

"It's the very young rascal. Does he pretend to deny it?"

"Of course he does. They always do."

"When it was found on him too! I never knew such barefaced impudence."

"Stop a minute," said d.i.c.k, "while I explain. I was standing looking in at that window, when I felt something thrust into my pocket. I took it out and found it to be that pocket-book. Just then that gentleman came up, and charged me with the theft."

"That's a likely story," said the officer. "If any one put the pocket-book into your pocket, it shows you were a confederate of his.

You'll have to come with me."

And poor d.i.c.k, for the first time in his life, was marched to the station-house, followed by his accuser, and a gang of boys. Among these last, but managing to keep at a respectful distance, was Micky Maguire.

CHAPTER XIII.

d.i.c.k IN THE STATION-HOUSE.

Poor d.i.c.k! If Trinity Church spire had suddenly fallen to the ground, it could scarcely have surprised and startled him more than his own arrest for theft.

During the hard apprentices.h.i.+p which he had served as a street boy, he had not been without his share of faults and errors; but he had never, even under the severest pressure, taken what did not belong to him.

Of religious and moral instruction he had then received none; but something told him that it was mean to steal, and he was true to this instinctive feeling. Yet, if he had been arrested a year before, it would have brought him less shame and humiliation than now. Now he was beginning to enjoy the feeling of respectability, which he had compa.s.sed by his own earnest efforts. He felt he was regarded with favor by those whose good opinion was worth having, and his heart swelled within him as he thought that they might be led to believe him guilty. He had never felt so down-hearted as when he walked in company with the policeman to the station-house, to be locked up for examination the next morning.

"You wasn't sharp enough this time, young fellow," said the policeman.

"Do you think I stole the pocket-book?" asked d.i.c.k, looking up in the officer's face.

"Oh, no, of course not! You wouldn't do anything of that kind," said the policeman, ironically.

"No, I wouldn't," said d.i.c.k, emphatically. "I've been poor enough and hungry enough sometimes, but I never stole. It's mean."

"What is your name?" said the officer. "I think I have seen you before."

"I used to black boots. Then my name was Ragged d.i.c.k. I know you. Your name is Jones."

"Ragged d.i.c.k! Yes, yes, I remember. You used to be pretty well out at elbows, if I remember rightly."

"My clothes used to be pretty well ventilated," said d.i.c.k, smiling faintly. "That was what made me so healthy, I expect. But did you ever know me to steal?"

"No," said the officer, "I can't say I have."

"I lived about the streets for more then eight years," said d.i.c.k, "and this is the first time I was ever arrested."

"What do you do now?"

"I'm in a store on Pearl Street."

"What wages do you get?"

"Ten dollars a week."

"Do you expect me to believe that story?"

"It's true."

"I don't believe there's a boy of your age in the city that gets such wages. You can't earn that amount."

"I jumped into the water, and saved the life of Mr. Rockwell's little boy. That's why he pays me so much."

"Where did you get that watch and chain? Are they gold?"

"Yes, Mrs. Rockwell gave them to me."

"It seems to me you're in luck."

"I wasn't very lucky to fall in with you," said d.i.c.k. "Don't you see what a fool I should be to begin to pick pockets now when I am so well off?"

"That's true," said the officer, who began to be shaken in his previous conviction of d.i.c.k's guilt.