“Where are you going to sleep to-night, Fosdick?” asked Dick, as they stood on the sidewalk.
“I don’t know,” said Fosdick, a little sadly. “In some doorway, I expect. But I’m afraid the police will find me out, and make me move on.”
“I’ll tell you what,” said Dick, “you must go home with me. I guess my bed will hold two.”
“Have you got a room?” asked the other, in surprise.
“Yes,” said Dick, rather proudly, and with a little excusable exultation. “I’ve got a room over in Mott Street; there I can receive my friends. That’ll be better than sleepin’ in a door-way,—won’t it?”
“Yes, indeed it will,” said Fosdick. “How lucky I was to come across you! It comes hard to me living as I do. When my father was alive I had every comfort.”
“That’s more’n I ever had,” said Dick. “But I’m goin’ to try to live comfortable now. Is your father dead?”
“Yes,” said Fosdick, sadly. “He was a printer; but he was drowned one dark night from a Fulton ferry-boat, and, as I had no relations in the city, and no money, I was obliged to go to work as quick as I could. But I don’t get on very well.”
“Didn’t you have no brothers nor sisters?” asked Dick.
“No,” said Fosdick; “father and I used to live alone. He was always so much company to me that I feel very lonesome without him. There’s a man out West somewhere that owes him two thousand dollars. He used to live in the city, and father lent him all his money to help him go into business; but he failed, or pretended to, and went off. If father hadn’t lost that money he would have left me well off; but no money would have made up his loss to me.”