"What is your name?"
"Micky Maguire."
"Good-night, Michael."
"Good-night, sir," said Micky, respectfully.
He walked away with a crowd of new thoughts and new aspirations kindling in his breast. A gentleman had actually offered to help him on in the world. Nobody had ever taken any interest in him before. Life to him had been a struggle and a conflict, with very little hope of better things. He had supposed he should leave off blacking boots some time, but no prospect seemed open before him.
"Why shouldn't I get up in the world?" he thought, with new ambition.
He half confessed to himself that he had led a bad life, and vague thoughts of amendment came to him. Somebody was going to take an interest in him. That was the secret of his better thoughts and purposes.
On the whole, I begin to think there is hope for Micky.