“Would you lend me fifteen cents?”
The man was a “dead beat.” I resolved never to place much reliance on appearances again.
Having made up my mind to go to the theater and see John E. Owens play “Solon Shingle,” I walked out. At the door I met a solitary boot-black, who greeted me with, “black ’em?”
“You may black it,” I replied, “for you see I have only one to black.”
“All right,” said he; whereupon I seated myself on a low railing that guarded a cellar-way, and placed my foot on his box.
He had soon “shined” it sufficiently, but was still brushing away at it, when I said:
“There, that will do; what do you charge?”
The dirty, ragged little fellow looked thoughtfully and earnestly up into my face, and replied:
“O, I won’t charge you any thing; you’re only got one.”
I compelled him to accept a ten-cent note, of course, assuring him that I had “bushels of ’em;” but the intention was no less kind in him; and such a noble thought, though the poor little heart from which it sprung be clothed in rags and filth, will shine in heaven when the rust has long covered and hidden the millions of gold which men of wealth have contributed to “charitable institutions!”