CHAPTER XVI
THE DOCTOR'S VERDICT
Dick did not have to ask any directions to find Jimmy when he reached the Battery, which, as most of my readers may know, is a small park at the lower end of the metropolis. He saw a crowd of lads gathered in a secluded corner, and he at once knew them to be newsboys and bootblacks, for he recognized a number of them.
"That's where they are probably pitching pennies," he thought. "I must get Jimmy away from there."
His approach was unnoticed, so intent were the lads on the game, and not until Dick called Jimmy's name was the latter aware that his partner was present. Even then, beyond a first start of surprise, he showed no astonishment.
"Hello, Dick," he called. "How'd you find me?"
"Sam Schmidt told me."
"Sam Schmidt! I'll punch his head fer squealin' on us!" exclaimed a red-haired lad. "What right's he got t' butt in?"
"That's all right," responded Jimmy with an air of superior knowledge. "He's a partner of mine. Dick's all right. Did you want me, Dick?"
"Yes, you'd better come with me."
"Aw, an' break up de game!" expostulated several. "Why, Jimmy is winners, an' he can't go until we gits our stakes out."
"Sure I'm winnin'!" said Jimmy proudly. "I'm forty-two cents to the good now."
"I'd like to talk to you," went on Dick to his chum.
"All right, I'll come."
"Naw; stay!" called Pete Lanson. "Here, have a cigarette, Bricks."
Jimmy stretched out his hand to take one of the paper and tobacco rolls. For an instant he forgot his promise to Dick. Then he remembered it and shook his head.
"Gee! Youse must 'a' turned inter a Sunday-school kid," sneered Pete.
"I cut out smokin'," declared Jimmy, with a slight blush. "Me an' me partner can't afford it," he went on. "We're savin'—I mean saving—up for to buy a regular stand."
"Git on t' his sassiry language!" remarked another, with a mean laugh. "Fust we know Bricks'll be shakin' us all togedder."
"Dat's right," chimed in one or two.
"Go on, Bricks; it's your shot," advised Pete. "I t'ink I kin win from youse now."
"Are you coming with me?" asked Dick in a low tone.
"Say, kid, be youse his guardian?" inquired a big lad. "Why didn't youse tie a string t' Bricks if yer so careful of him as all dat."
"Guess I'll have to go, fellers," spoke up Jimmy, rather regretfully, it must be admitted.
"What? An' not give us a chance t' git some of our money back?" came from three or four.
"Some other day I will."
"Naw, I want t' pitch some more now," declared Pete.
There were angry murmurs at Dick's interference, and several scowled at Jimmy. It looked as if there might be trouble, but just then a policeman opportunely came in sight. Some one spied him, and there was a cry:
"Cheese it, de cop!"
Instantly the penny-pitching crowd dispersed as if by magic. Most of the boys jumped through the railings, cut across the grass plots and were lost to sight among the trees. The bigger lads walked more slowly, with an assumed air of innocence. As for Jimmy, he joined Dick, and the two strolled over to the edge of the Battery wall, looking down into the swirling waters of the bay.
"Did you want anything special?" asked Jimmy.
"Yes, I did."
"What is it? Is there a big extra out?"
"No. I heard you were gambling, and I came down to stop you."
"Gambling? You don't call pitchin' pennies gambling, do you, Dick?"
"What else is it?"
"Well, I s'pose it is, in a way. But that's no harm. All the fellows does it."
"I'm afraid that doesn't make it good, Jimmy. I don't want to be finding fault all the while, and I'm sure I don't set up to be any better than you are, but I know gambling is bad. You'll never win in the long run, and it will do you harm. Besides, you can't afford to lose, even if it is not wrong."
"But I won to-day."
"Do you often win?"
"Naw, this is the first time I ever made much. Most times I lose."
"I thought so. I hope you don't do it much."
"Not very often. De cops—I mean the policemen—are too strict. I do it once in a while."
"I wish you'd give it up," went on Dick. "I know I'm asking a lot of you. First you gave up smoking for me, then the use of slang and rough expressions, and now I ask you this. But I do it for your own good and because I like you, Jimmy."
"I know youse does—I mean you do, Dick, an'—say—I'll—I'll stop pitching pennies if you don't like it."
"Will you, really?"
"Honest! Here's my hand!"
Jimmy was thoroughly in earnest, and Dick knew his partner would keep his word. It might be well to say right here that from then on Jimmy never gambled, though often he was sorely tempted by his associates.
"What'd I better do with this money?" asked Jimmy after a pause. "I s'pose if it ain't right t' pitch pennies, it ain't right t' keep the money."
"No, it is not. Do you know who you won it from?"
"Sure."
"Then I'd give it back."
"Well, I guess I will, but it comes hard. I was goin' to a good show to-night with it."
"I'll stand treat for the show," said Dick, for he felt that something was coming to Jimmy for giving in about the gambling.
"Bully fer youse—I mean that's fine! But I've got t' pay Sam Schmidt for selling papers for me."
"Yes, you will be a little out of pocket on account of taking the time off, but better that than to get in the habit of gambling."
"Well, I didn't do so much, and I never thought it was wrong. All the fellers does it."
"I suppose so, but if we're going to make a success of this business we can't afford to gamble."
"No, I s'pose not," replied Jimmy a little dubiously.
Dick took his partner to a better class of theatrical performance that night, for the lad who had forgotten his identity did not care much for the moving picture shows.
"How do you like this?" he asked Jimmy.
"Well," was the slow answer, "I s'pose it's swell, an' all that, an' I'll get used to it in time, but I like a prize-fight best."
Dick laughed heartily, but he did not tell his partner the cause of his mirth.
During the days that followed the two newsboys did a good business. They sold many papers, and Dick was now on an equal footing with Jimmy, though the latter had had much more experience. There was more talk of taking Frank Merton into partnership with them, but as the latter had built up a good trade for himself in another part of the city, he did not know whether it would be a wise thing or not to make a new venture.
Meanwhile Dick was no nearer a solution of the mystery than enshrouded him. Night after night he would try and try again to remember who he was and where he came from, but without result. The past was like a sealed book to him, and he had absolutely no recollection of who he was or where he had lived.
"Do you know what I would do?" said Frank one night when, in the room of the partners, the three were talking over the strange case.
"Well, what would you do, Frank?" asked Jimmy.
"I'd take Dick to a doctor."
"A doctor? Why, I'm not sick!" exclaimed Dick.
"No, I suppose not. But I read of a case the other day of a man who was hit on the head and he forgot everything he ever knew. They took him to a hospital, operated on him, and his memory came back to him."
"I wonder if mine would?" asked Dick, with a new look of hope on his face.
"There's nothing like trying," said Frank. "Suppose we ask the superintendent, Mr. Snowden?"
"That's a good idea," came from Jimmy, who was sitting in a corner of the room.
This they did, and Mr. Snowden agreed to have a physician who was a friend of his look at Dick. The superintendent of the lodging-house agreed, in a measure, with Frank that perhaps there might be some injury to Dick's head because of the blow, which, when the resulting depression on the skull was removed, would bring back his memory.
A few days later the doctor examined Dick. The boy waited anxiously for the verdict.
"I am sorry," said the doctor, "but I can do nothing for you. There is no special injury to the head. The skull was not broken by whatever, or whoever, it was that hit you. You suffered some shock, and that took away your memory. Your mind now is as good as it was before the accident, except that everything in the past is blotted out."
"And will I never remember it again?" asked Dick.
"I would not say that. The chances are that some day it will all come back to you with a rush. Some forgotten incident will recall it all to you. It may be a slight thing—the hearing of some forgotten name—the seeing of some forgotten face—and then you may remember who you are and where you lived."
"Oh, I hope it comes soon," said poor Dick. "I am tired of all this uncertainty."
"Never mind," consoled Jimmy. "I'll stick by you to the last."