He was fifteen, and had never given a thought to what he would do when he was older. But after meeting Rodney, and especially after taking a room with him, he looked at life with different eyes. He began to understand that his business, though honorable because honest, was not a desirable one. He felt, too, that he ought to change it out of regard for Rodney, who was now his close companion.
“If I had ten dollars ahead,” he said one day, “I’d give up blackin’ boots.”
“What else would you do?”
“I’d be a telegraph boy. That’s more respectable than blackin’ boots, and it ‘ould be cleaner.”
“That is true. Do you need money to join?”
“I would get paid once in two weeks, and I’d have to live till I got my first salary.”
“I guess I can see you through, Mike.”
“No; you need all your money, Rodney. I’ll wait and see if I can’t save it myself.”
This, however, would have taken a long time, if Mike had not been favored by circumstances. He was standing near the ladies’ entrance to the Astor House one day, when casting his eyes downward he espied a neat pocketbook of Russia leather. He picked it up, and from the feeling judged that it must be well filled.
Now I must admit that it did occur to Mike that he could divert to his own use the contents without detection, as no one had seen him pick it up. But Mike was by instinct an honest boy, and he decided that this would not be right. He thrust it into his pocket, however, as he had no objection to receiving a reward if one was offered.