Larry Deane was a boy of about Hector’s age. He was a healthy-looking country lad, looking like many another farmer’s son, fresh from the country. He had not yet acquired that sharp, keen look which characterizes, in most cases, the New York boy who has spent all his life in the streets.
“I can answer both your questions with the same word, Master Hector,” said Larry, as a sober look swept over his broad, honest face.
“Don’t call me master, Larry. We are equals here. But what is that word?”
“That word is trouble,’” answered the bootblack.
“Come with me into this side street,” said Hector, leading the way into Howard Street. “You have a story to tell, and I want to hear it.”
“Yes, I have a story to tell.”
“I hope your father and mother are well,” said Hector, interrupting him.
“Yes, they are well in health, but they are in trouble, as I told you.”
“What is the trouble?”
“It all comes of Mr. Allan Roscoe,” answered Larry, “and his son, Guy.”