This, as the reader will remember, was the establishment in which Richard Hunter, formerly Ragged Dick, was now book-keeper.
At this point a sudden faintness came over Mark, and he sank to the ground insensible.
A moment before Richard Hunter handed a couple of letters to the office boy,—known to the readers of the earlier volumes in this series as Micky Maguire,—and said, "Michael, I should like to have you carry these at once to the post-office. On the way you may stop at Trescott & Wayne's, and get this bill cashed, if possible."
"All right, Mr. Hunter," said Michael, respectfully.
Richard Hunter and Micky Maguire had been boot-blacks together, and had had more than one contest for the supremacy. They had been sworn enemies, and Micky had done his utmost to injure Richard, but the latter, by his magnanimity, had finally wholly overcome the antipathy of his former foe, and, when opportunity offered, had lifted him to a position in the office where he was himself employed. In return, Micky had become an enthusiastic admirer of Richard, and, so far from taking advantage of their former relations, had voluntarily taken up the habit of addressing him as Mr. Hunter.
Michael went out on his errand, but just outside the door came near stepping upon the prostrate form of the little match boy.
"Get up here!" he said, roughly, supposing at first that Mark had thrown himself down out of laziness and gone to sleep.
Mark didn't answer, and Micky, bending over, saw his fixed expression and waxen pallor.
"Maybe the little chap's dead," he thought, startled, and, without more ado, took him up in his strong arms and carried him into the counting-room.