“Well, you’re in luck. I jist wish I had half as much.”
“Do you remember Jim Driscoll, that used to sell papers on Nassau Street?”
“Yes, I knew him; where is he?”
“He went West about two years ago. He’s doin’ well. Got fifty dollars in the savings bank, and a good home besides.”
“Who told you?”
“Mr. O’Connor. He had a letter from him.”
“Jim can’t write, nor read either. When he was sellin’ papers in Nassau Street, he used to ask what was the news. Sometimes I told him wrong. Once I told him the President was dead, and he didn’t know no better than to believe it. He sold his papers fast, but the last chap got mad and booted him.”
“Well, Jim can write now. He’s been to school since he was out there.”
“He can do more’n I can. I can read easy readin’, but I can’t write no more’n a lamp-post.”
“Nor I,” said Julius, “but I mean to learn. I can’t read much, either.”