“Will you?” asked the boy, with a glad smile. “You’re very kind—I’d like a teacher like you.”
“Then it’s a bargain, Dodger,” and Florence’s face for the first time lost its sad look, as she saw an opportunity of helping one who had befriended her. “But you must promise to study faithfully.”
“That I will. If I don’t, I’ll give you leave to lick me.”
“I shan’t forget that,” said Florence, amused. “I will buy a ruler of good hard wood, and then you must look out. But, tell me, where have you lived hitherto?”
“I don’t like to tell you, Miss Florence. I’ve lived ever since I was a kid with a man named Tim Bolton. He keeps a saloon on the Bowery, near Houston Street. It’s a tough place, I tell you. I’ve got a bed in one corner—it’s tucked away in a closet in the day.”
“I suppose it is a drinking saloon?”
“Yes, that’s what it is.”
“And kept open very late?”
“Pretty much all night.”
“Is this Tim Bolton any relation of yours?”