On Tuesday morning of the second week, Richard was hurrying to the store a little earlier than usual. The big consignment of books was soon to arrive, and they must have even more room for it than had at first been anticipated.
As he came down the Bowery at a rapid gait, a small figure crossed the street directly before him, and stopped to gaze into the well-filled window of a German bakery. It was the street Arab who had robbed Richard in Park Row!
For an instant Richard could hardly believe his eyes, but, stepping up, he took a closer view, and then grasped the urchin by the arm.
Instinctively the street Arab shrank away. Then he turned his pinched and startled face around, and, seeing who it was that held him, gave a loud cry of alarm.
"Oh, please, mister, please lemme go!" he pleaded. "I won't do it again, please, sir, no I won't! Oh, don't lock me up, mister!"
That piteous appeal went straight to Richard's heart. If he had felt any indignation, it melted away at the sight of that haggard, famished, desperate look.
"What have you done with the stuff you took from my pockets?" he asked, but his tones were not very harsh.
The boy began to whimper.
"I—I ain't got de money no more," he sobbed, "It's all gone, mister;
I spent every cent of it but two nickels fer medicine and de doctor.
Please don't lock me up, mister."
"Medicine and the doctor?" repeated Richard, rather astonished by this unexpected statement. "Who is sick?"