It was evening, and, when the two men were comfortably seated in Mr. Adams’ library, the following was told.
Mr. Adams prefaced the recital with the words: “I will photograph Orrin as he first appeared in my home, and then, as nearly as my memory can recall our conversation, I will give it. Twelve years ago, about seven o’clock in the evening, a maid told me that a small poorly-clad lad, with a box under his arm, was asking to see me. He had entered by the lower door. I directed her to bring him to me, and, strangely enough, in my comfortable lounging-chair, with the evening paper for companion, I had entirely forgotten the engagement I had made, but the girl’s words instantly recalled all, and, a few moments later, I was addressing him. His manner was neither shy nor bold. He appeared neither surprised nor bewildered. I did not note the confused air, which I could reasonably expect. He met my gaze with the honest, frank look that I first noticed, but he seemed sad, even painfully. He was such a small boy. He evidently was what is so rarely found—a gentleman. I almost exclaimed as he stood in the doorway, for I noticed the way he held his cap; Beau Brummell in his most happy days could not have done better, and the bow with which he answered my ‘good evening,’ as well as the response to my asking him to take a chair, made me say to myself, ‘Adams, you must look out, or this little bootblack will leave you leagues rearward in the manner question!’ His hair was dark, very glossy, and slightly curly. His face and hands almost shone with cleanliness. I especially noticed his nails, and, knowing his business, was surprised to find that they, also, were quite clean. His height was decidedly small for his age (he did not really seem to grow much until he was about seventeen years old, and then how he shot up! he is just six feet tall now); his clothes were not patched, but threadbare and ragged. The material was fine. His trousers only came to his knees, and both shoes and stockings were visibly the worse for wear. He was not a pretty boy, but a manly-looking little fellow. His complexion was fair, but pallid; indeed, the boy wore a starved, pinched look. His jacket, which was buttoned with brass buttons to the neck, hung on him, as if he had grown thinner since it was made. So much for my photograph. Now for our conversation, which will give you a better idea of the boy, than if only using my own words.
“‘Good evening, my little man.’
“‘Good evening, sir.’
“‘You blackened my boots so well this morning, I thought I would like to talk with you about your business to-night.’
“‘Thank you, sir.’
“‘How long have you been a bootblack?’
“‘Seven weeks.’
“‘Have you made much money?’
“‘I make more now than at first, sir.’