Deacon Cornhill listened with open-mouthed wonder to the rapid account of his youthful friend, unable to speak until he had concluded, when he managed to say:
“I don’t know what is proper to say to you, boy. You have done me a sarvice I shall never forget, if I live to be as old as Methusaleh; I shan’t, I vum I shan’t. I want to pay for it. Who’d thought them slick-seeming men were sich cutthroats?”
“Black your boots and make ’em shine? I ain’t no time to waste in perlaver. They need it. Time’s money, and bizness must be ’tended to afore pleasure.”
“Go ahead,” consented the deacon, putting out his right foot for the bootblack to begin work. Then, as the boy went about his task in a manner which showed that he had thoroughly mastered it, he asked:
“What’s your name, youngster?”
“I’m called Little Hickory,” spitting on the blacking and beginning to rub vigorously.
“You don’t say? Can’t be your regular Scripture name?”
“’Bout as near Scripter as an old man like me has ever got, mister. Excuse me, Deacon Cornhill.”
“Bless me, how did you know my name?”
“Overheard you give it to the sharper. But, oh, my! Ain’t your underpinners in bad shape! Can’t get a Broadway shine on ’em to save my reputation!”