Alger Horatio Jr.
Fame and Fortune; or, The Progress of Richard Hunter
CHAPTER XI.
A NEW ALLIANCE
The name of Micky Maguire is already familiar to the readers of "Ragged Dick." He had acquired a prominent position among the down-town boot-blacks by his strength, which he used oftentimes to impose upon boys weaker than himself. He was a young ruffian, indeed, with few redeeming qualities. When Dick was in the same business, he tried on two or three occasions to make him acknowledge his superiority; but it was not in Dick's nature to be subservient to any one whom he did not respect. Moreover, Dick had two good stout arms of his own, and knew how to use them in self-defence. The consequence was that Micky Maguire signally failed in the attempts which he made on different occasions to humble our hero, and was obliged to slink off in discomfiture with his satellite, Limpy Jim.
The last glimpse we had of Micky was in Dick's cast-off clothes, of which by some means, probably not honest, he had become possessed. He did not wear them long, however. The famous Washington coat and Napoleon pants were only mortal, and, being already of venerable antiquity, became at length too fragmentary even for Micky's not very fastidious taste. One morning, accordingly, having levied an unwilling contribution from a weaker but more industrious boot-black, Micky went to Baxter Street, and invested it in a blue coat with brass buttons, which, by some strange chain of circumstances, had found its way thither from some country town, where it may at one time have figured at trainings and on town-meeting days. A pair of overalls completed Micky's costume. He dispensed with a vest, his money not having been sufficient to buy that also.
Certainly Micky presented a noticeable figure as he stood in the City Hall Park, clad in the above-mentioned garments. He was rather proud of the brass buttons, and may even have fancied, in his uncultivated taste, that his new costume became him.
While he was swaggering about he espied part of a cigar, which some one had thrown aside. Micky, who was fond of smoking, picked it up, and looked about him for a light, not being provided with a match. A young man was slowly crossing the park with a cigar in his mouth. But he was evidently plunged in thought, and hardly conscious of the scene about him. Micky observed this, and a cunning scheme suggested itself.
He walked up to the young man, and said, cavalierly, "Give us a light, mister, will yer?"
The young man mechanically took the cigar from his mouth, and passed it to the questioner without observing who he was. Had he done so, it is doubtful whether the request would have been complied with.
Rapidly calculating that he would not notice the substitution, Micky, after lighting the "stub," handed it to the young man, retaining the good cigar himself, and placing it straightway in his mouth.
This trick would probably have passed off undetected, if it had not been observed by some of Micky's fellow-professionals.
A jeering laugh from these called the young man's attention to the substitution, and, with a look of indignation, he said, "You young rascal, you shall pay for this!"
But Micky evaded his grasp, and scudded rapidly through the park, pursued by the victim of misplaced confidence.
"Run, Micky; I'll bet on you!" cried Pat Nevins, encouragingly.
"Go it, long legs!" said another, who backed the opposite party. "Give him a good lickin' when you catch him."
"Maybe you'd have to wait too long for that," said Pat.
"Leave yer cigar wid us, mister," said another boy.
James Gilbert, for he was the young man in question, began to find that he was becoming rather ridiculous, and felt that he would rather let Micky go free than furnish a spectacle to the crowd of boot-blacks who were surveying the chase with eager interest. He accordingly stopped short, and, throwing down the "stub," prepared to leave the park.
"Don't give it up, mister! You'll catch him," said his first backer. "Micky can't run far. Ragged Dick give him a stretcher once."
"Ragged Dick!" said Gilbert, turning abruptly at the sound of this name.
"Maybe you know him?"
"Does he black boots?"
"He used to, but he don't now."
"What does he do?"
"Oh, he's a swell now, and wears good clothes."
"How is that?"
"He's in a store, and gets good pay."
"What's the name of the boy that ran away with my cigar?"
"Micky Maguire."
"Was he a friend of Ragged Dick, as you call him?"
"Not much. They had two or three fights."
"Which beat?"
"Dick. He can fight bully."
Gilbert felt disappointed. He was in hopes our hero had met with a defeat. Somehow he seemed born for success.
"Then I suppose Maguire hates him?"
"I'll bet he does."
"Humph!" thought Gilbert; "I may turn his enmity to some account. Let me consider a little."
At length a plan suggested itself, and his countenance cleared up, and assumed an expression of satisfaction. On reaching home he held the conversation with Roswell and his mother which has been recorded at the close of the last chapter.
Meantime Micky went home to a miserable lodging on Worth Street, in the precincts of the Five Points, and very near where the Five Points House of Industry now stands. This admirable institution has had a salutary influence, and contributed greatly to the improvement of the neighborhood. Then, however, it was about as vile and filthy as could well be.
Micky exulted not a little at the success of his cunning, and smoked the cigar—an expensive one, by the way—with not a little satisfaction. He recounted the story to a group of admiring friends who had not been fortunate enough to witness it.
"It's you that's got the cheek, Micky," said Teddy Donovan.
"You did it neat," said another. "Maybe I'll try that same, some day."
"You'd better not. The copp might get hold of you."
"Was it a good cigar, Micky?"
"Wasn't it, just! I wish I'd got another. Stand treat, Teddy."
"I would if I had the stamps. I'm savin' up my money to go to the Old Bowery to-night."
The boys were standing in a little group, and in the interest of their discussion did not observe the approach of James Gilbert, who was now visiting the park with a special object in view. With an expression of satisfaction he recognized the boy who had served him a trick the day before. Indeed, it was not easy to mistake Micky. The blue coat with brass buttons and the faded overalls would have betrayed him, even if his superior height had not distinguished him from his comrades.
Had Micky been aware of Gilbert's approach he would have thought it prudent to "change his base;" but, his back being turned, he was taken by surprise. His attention was drawn by a tap on the shoulder, and, looking round, he recognized his enemy, as he regarded him. He started to run, but was withheld by a strong grasp.
"Leave me alone, will yer?" he said, ducking his head as if he expected a blow.
"I believe you are fond of smoking," said Gilbert, continuing to hold him tight.
Micky maintained silence.
"And sometimes exchange a poor cigar for a good one?" continued his captor.
"It was a mistake," said Micky.
"What did you run for, then?"
"What you going to do about it, mister?" asked one boy, curiously.
"So it was a mistake,—was it?" said Gilbert.
"Yes, sir," said Micky, glibly.
"Take care you don't make the mistake again, then. Now you may black my boots."
Not only the boys who were standing by, but Micky himself, were considerably surprised at this unexpected turn. They confidently expected that Micky would "get a lickin'," and instead of that, he had found a customer. Their respect for Gilbert was considerably diminished for failing to exact punishment, and, their interest in the affair being over, they withdrew.
Micky laid down his box, and commenced operations.
"How long have you been a boot-black?" asked Gilbert.
"Five years—goin' on six," said Micky.
"Can you earn much?"
"No," said Micky. "Business aint very good now."
"You manage to dress well," said Gilbert, with an amused look at Micky's habiliments.
"Yes," said Micky, with a glance at the brass buttons; "but I had to borrer the money to buy my clo'es."
"There used to be a boy around here that was called Dick. Did you know him?"
"There be a good many Dicks. Which did you mean?"
"This boy was nearly your size. I believe they called him 'Ragged Dick.'"
"I know'd him," said Micky, shortly, with a scowl.
"Was he a friend of yours?"
"No, he wasn't. I give him a lickin' once."
The fact happened to be the other way; but Micky was not very scrupulous as to the strict truth of his statements.
"You don't like him, then? Where is he now?"
"He's in a store, and swells round with good clothes."
"Have you seen him lately?"
"No, an' I don't want to."
"He wears a gold watch now. I suppose he wouldn't have anything to say to you."
"Maybe not," said Mickey.
"It would be a good joke if he should lose his place and have to go back to boot-blacking again."
"I wish he would," said Micky, fervently. "It 'ould cure him of puttin' on airs."
"If, for example, his employer should be convinced that he was a thief, he would discharge him."
"Do you know him, mister?" asked Micky, looking up suddenly.
"Yes."
"Is he a friend of yours?"
"I like him about as well as you do," said Gilbert.
"Done!" said Micky, releasing the second foot.
"Suppose you brush the other boot again. I'll pay you double. I want to talk to you a little."
"All right!" said Micky, and he resumed operations.
The conversation that followed we do not propose to chronicle. The results will appear hereafter. Enough that Gilbert and Micky departed mutually satisfied, the latter the richer by five times his usual fee.
CHAPTER XII.
DICK FALLS INTO A TRAP
One evening, when Dick and Fosdick returned from their respective stores, a surprise awaited them.
"The postman left some letters for you," said the servant, as she opened the door to admit them.
"Maybe they're from the tax-collectors," said Dick. "That's the misfortun' of being men of property. What was your tax last year, Fosdick?"
"I don't remember such trifles," said Fosdick.
"I don't think they was taxes," said the girl, seriously; "they looked as if they was from a young lady."
"Very likely they are from Fosdick's wife," said Dick. "She's rusticatin' in the country for the benefit of her health."
"Maybe they're from yours, Mr. Hunter," said the girl, laughing.
"No," said Dick, gravely, "I'm a disconsolate widower, which accounts for my low spirits most of the time, and my poor appetite. Where are the letters?"
"I left them on the bureau in your room," said the servant. "They come this afternoon at three o'clock."
Both Fosdick and Dick felt not a little curious as to who could have written them letters, and hastened upstairs. Entering their chamber, they saw two very neat little notes, in perfumed French envelopes, and with the initial G in colors on the back. On opening them they read the following in a neat, feminine, fine handwriting. As both were alike, it will be sufficient to give Dick's.
"Miss Ida Greyson presents her compliments to Mr. Richard Hunter, and solicits the pleasure of his company on Thursday evening next, at a little birthday party.
"No. – West Twenty-Fourth Street."
"We're getting fashionable," said Dick. "I didn't use to attend many parties when we lived in Mott Street and blacked boots for a livin'. I'm afraid I shan't know how to behave."
"I shall feel a little bashful," said Fosdick; "but I suppose we've got to begin some time."
"Of course," said Dick. "The important position we hold in society makes it necessary. How'll I be able to hold levees when I'm mayor, if I don't go into society now?"
"Very true," said Fosdick; "I don't expect to occupy any such position; but we ought to go in acknowledgment of Mr. Greyson's kindness."
Mr. Greyson was the teacher of the Sunday-school class of which both Dick and Fosdick were members. His recommendation had procured Fosdick his present place, and he had manifested his kindness in various ways. Those who have read "Ragged Dick" will remember that he had a very sprightly and engaging daughter of ten years of age, who seemed to have taken an especial fancy to Dick. Being wealthy, his kindness had been of great service to both boys, inspiring them with self-respect, and encouraging them to persevere in their efforts to raise themselves to a higher position.
The dinner-bell rang just as the boys had finished their discussion, and they went down and took places at the table.
Soon Miss Peyton came sailing in, shaking her ringlets coquettishly. She was proud of these ringlets, and was never tired of trying their fascinations upon gentlemen. But somehow they had not succeeded in winning a husband.
"Good-evening, Mr. Hunter," said she. "You look as if you had had good news."
"Do I?" said Dick. "Perhaps you can tell what it is."
"I know how it came," said Miss Peyton, significantly.
"Then I hope you won't keep me in suspense any longer than you can help."
"Perhaps you'd rather I wouldn't mention before company."
"Never mind," said Dick. "Don't have any regard to my feelin's. They're tough, and can stand a good deal."
"How do you like the letter G?" asked Miss Peyton, slyly.
"Very much," said Dick, "as long as it behaves itself. What is your favorite letter?"
"Don't think I'm going to tell you, Mr. Hunter. That was a pretty little note, and in a young lady's hand too."
"Yes," said Dick. "Perhaps you'd like to see it."
"You wouldn't show it to me on any account, I know."
"You may see it if you like," said Dick.
"May I, really? I should like to very much; but would the young lady like it?"
"I don't think she'd mind. She's written one to my friend Fosdick just like it."
Dick passed the invitation across the table.
"It's very pretty indeed," said Miss Peyton. "And is Miss Ida Greyson very handsome?"
"I'm no judge of beauty," said Dick.
"So she lives in West Twenty-Fourth Street. Is her father rich?"
"I don't know how rich," said Dick; "but my impression is that his taxes last year were more than mine."
"I know now what your favorite letters are," said Miss Peyton. "They are I. G."
"I. G. are very well as long as you don't put P. before them," said Dick. "Thank you for another cup of tea, Mrs. Browning."
"I should think you'd need some tea after such a brilliant effort, Hunter," said Mr. Clifton, from across the table.
"Yes," said Dick. "I find my brain gets exhausted every now and then by my intellectual efforts. Aint you troubled that way?"
"Can't say I am. Don't you want to go out and try a game of billiards this evening?"
"No, thank you. I've got to study."
"I expect to see you a college professor some of these days."
"I haven't made up my mind yet," said Dick. "I'm open to an offer, as the oyster remarked when he was placed on the table. If I can serve my fellow-men best by bein' a college professor, and gettin' a big salary, I'm willin' to sacrifice my private feelin's for the public good."
"Do you agree with your friend, Mr. Fosdick?" said Miss Peyton. "Won't you favor us with your views?"
"I have none worth mentioning," said Fosdick. "I leave my friend to do the talking, while I attend to the eating."
"Mr. Hunter's remarks are very entertaining," said Miss Peyton.
"Thank you," said Dick; "but my friend prefers a different kind of entertainment."
The boys rose from the table, and went up to their room to look over the evening's lessons. They were quite pleased with their new teacher, whom they found not only competent for his task, but interested in promoting their progress. He was able to help them readily out of their difficulties, and encouraged them to persevere. So they came to look forward to their evening lessons not as tasks, but as pleasant exercises.
"It's strange," said Dick, one evening after the teacher had left them; "I used to enjoy goin' to the Old Bowery so much. I went two or three times a week sometimes. Now I would a good deal rather stay at home and study."
"Then you didn't have a home, and the lighted theatre must have been much pleasanter than the cold and cheerless streets."
"Yes, that was it. I used to get so tired sometimes of having no home to go to, and nobody to speak to that I cared about."
"You'd hardly like to go back to the old life, Dick?"
"No, it would come pretty hard to me now. I didn't seem to mind it so much then."
"Because you had never known anything better."
"No. It was a lucky day when I met you, Fosdick. I'd never have had the patience to learn. Readin', or tryin' to read, always gave me the headache."
"You always leave off the last letter in such words as 'reading,' Dick. You should be more careful, now that you associate with educated persons."
"I know it, Fosdick, but I'm so used to droppin'—I mean dropping—the g that it comes natural. I will try to remember it. But about this party,—shall we have to get new clothes?"
"No, we have each a nice suit, and we shan't be expected to dress in the height of the fashion."
"I wish it was over. I dread it."
"So do I a little; but I think we shall enjoy it. Ida is a nice girl."
"That's so. If I had a sister I'd like her to be like Ida."
"Perhaps she'd like a brother like you. I notice she seems to fancy your company."
"I hope you're not jealous, Fosdick. You can be a brother to Miss Peyton, you know."
Fosdick 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 Dick; "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 Fosdick and Dick were particularly pleased with her.
A day or two afterwards Dick 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 Dick. "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 Dick'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 Dick. "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 Dick, 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 Dick, "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 Dick, 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.
DICK IN THE STATION-HOUSE
Poor Dick! 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 apprenticeship 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 compassed 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 Dick, 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 Dick, 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 Dick. I know you. Your name is Jones."
"Ragged Dick! 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 Dick, 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 Dick, "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 Dick. "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 Dick's guilt.
"If I'd been going into that business, I would have tried it when I was poor and ragged. I should not have waited till now."
"If you didn't take the pocket-book, then how came it in your pocket?"
"I was looking in at a shop window, when I felt it thrust into my pocket. I suppose it was the thief who did it, to get out of the scrape himself."
"That might be. At any rate, I've known of such cases. If so, you are unlucky, and I am sorry for you. I can't let you go, because appearances are against you, but if there is anything I can do to help you I will."
"Thank you, Mr. Jones," said Dick, gratefully. "I did not want you to think me guilty. Where is the man that lost the pocket-book?"
"Just behind us."
"I should like to speak to him a moment."
The red-faced man, who was a little behind, came up, and Dick asked, quietly, "What makes you think I took your pocket-book, sir?"
"Wasn't it found in your pocket, you young rascal?" said the other, irritably.
"Yes," said Dick.
"And isn't that enough?"
"Not if somebody else put it there," said Dick.
"That's a likely story."
"It's a true story."
"Can you identify this as the boy who robbed you, and whom you saw running?"
"No," said the red-faced man, rather unwillingly. "My eyesight is not very good, but I've no doubt this is the young rascal."
"Well, that must be decided. You must appear to-morrow morning to prefer your complaint."
"Mind you don't let the rascal escape," said the other.
"I shall carry him to the station-house, where he will be safe."
"That's right, I'll make an example of him. He won't pick my pocket again in a hurry."
"I hope the judge won't be so sure that I am guilty," said Dick. "If he is, it'll go hard with me."
"Why don't you call your employer to testify to your good character?"
"That's a good idea. Can I write a note to him, and to another friend?"
"Yes; but perhaps the mail wouldn't carry them in time."
"I will send a messenger. Can I do so?"
"When we get to the station-house I will see that you have a chance to send. Here we are."
Escorted by the officer, and followed by his accuser, Dick entered. There was a railing at the upper end of the room, and behind it a desk at which sat a captain of the squad.
The officer made his report, which, though fair and impartial, still was sufficient to cause our hero's commitment for trial.
"What is your name?" questioned the captain.
Dick thought it best to be straightforward, and, though he winced at the idea of his name appearing in the daily papers, answered in a manly tone, "Richard Hunter."
"Of what nation?"
"American."
"Where were you born?"
"In this city."
"What is your age?"
"Sixteen years."
These answers were recorded, and, as Dick expressed a desire to communicate with his friends before trial, permission was given him to write to them, and the trial was appointed for the next morning at the Tombs. The red-faced man certified that his wallet contained nine dollars and sixty-two cents, which was found to be correct. He agreed to be present the next morning to prefer his charge, and with such manifest pleasure that he was not retained, as it sometimes happens, to insure his appearance.
"I will find a messenger to carry your notes," said the friendly officer.
"Thank you," said Dick. "I will take care that you are paid for your trouble."
"I require no pay except what I have to pay the messenger."
Dick was escorted to a cell for safe-keeping. He quickly dashed off a letter to Mr. Murdock, fearing that Mr. Rockwell might not be in the store. It was as follows:—
"Mr. Murdock,—What will you think when I tell you that I have been unlucky enough to be arrested on suspicion of picking a man's pocket? The real thief slipped the wallet into my pocket as I was looking into a shop window, and it was found on me. I couldn't prove my innocence, so here I am at the station-house. They will think strange at the store because I am absent. Will you tell Mr. Rockwell privately what has detained me; but don't tell Mr. Gilbert. He don't like me any too well, and would believe me guilty at once, or pretend he did. I am sure you won't believe I would do such a thing, or Mr. Rockwell either. Will you come and see me to-night? I am to be tried to-morrow morning. I aint very proud of the hotel where I am stopping, but they didn't give me much choice in the matter.
"Richard Hunter."
"Station-House, Franklin Street."
The other letter was to Fosdick; here it is:—
"Dear Fosdick,—I didn't much think when I left you this morning that I should be writing to you from the station-house before night. I'll tell you how it happened." [Here follows a detailed account, which is omitted, as the reader is already acquainted with all the circumstances.] "Of course they will wonder at the boarding-house where I am. If Miss Peyton or Mr. Clifton inquires after me to-night, you can say that I am detained by business of importance. That's true enough. I wish it wasn't. As soon as dinner is over, I wish you'd come and see me. I don't know if you can, not being acquainted with the rules of this hotel. I shan't stop here again very soon, if I can help it. There's a woman in the next cell, who was arrested for fighting. She is swearing frightfully. It almost makes me sick to be in such a place. It's pretty hard to have this happen to me just when I was getting along so well. But I hope it'll all come out right. Your true friend,
"Dick.
"P.S.—I've given my watch and chain to the officer to keep for me. Gold watches aint fashionable here, and I didn't want them to think me putting on airs.
"Station-House, Franklin Street."
After Dick had written these letters he was left to himself. His reflections, as may readily be supposed, were not the most pleasant. What would they think at the boarding-house, if they should find what kind of business it was that had detained him! Even if he was acquitted, some might suppose that he was really guilty. But there was a worse contingency. He might be unable to prove his innocence, and might be found guilty. In that case he would be sent to the Island. Dick shuddered at the thought. Just when he began to feel himself respectable, it was certainly bad to meet with such hard luck. What, too, would Mr. Greyson and Ida think? He had been so constant at the Sunday school that his absence would be sure to be noticed, and he knew that his former mode of life would make his guilt more readily believed in the present instance.
"If Ida should think me a pick-pocket!" thought poor Dick, and the thought made him miserable enough. The fact was, that Ida, by her vivacity and lively manners, and her evident partiality for his society, had quite won upon Dick, who considered her by all odds the nicest girl he had ever seen. I don't mean to say that Dick was in love,—at least not yet. Both he and Ida were too young for that; but he was certainly quite an admirer of the young lady. Again, if he were convicted, he would have to give up the party to which he had been invited, and he could never hope to get another invitation.
All these reflections helped to increase Dick's unhappiness. I doubt if he had ever felt so unhappy in all his life. But it never once occurred to him that his arrest was brought about by the machinations of his enemies. He hadn't chanced to see Micky Maguire, and had no suspicion that it was he who dropped the wallet into his pocket. Still less did he suspect that Gilbert's hostility had led him so far as to conspire with such a boy as Micky against him. It was lucky that he did not know this, or he would have felt still more unhappy.
