“Are you in earnest?” said Fosdick, his face lighting up hopefully.
“In course I am,” said Dick. “It’s fashionable for young gentlemen to have private tootors to introduct ’em into the flower-beds of literatoor and science, and why shouldn’t I foller the fashion? You shall be my perfessor; only you must promise not to be very hard if my writin’ looks like a rail-fence on a bender.”
“I’ll try not to be too severe,” said Fosdick, laughing. “I shall be thankful for such a chance to get a place to sleep. Have you got anything to read out of?”
“No,” said Dick. “My extensive and well-selected library was lost overboard in a storm, when I was sailin’ from the Sandwich Islands to the desert of Sahara. But I’ll buy a paper. That’ll do me a long time.”
Accordingly Dick stopped at a paper-stand, and bought a copy of a weekly paper, filled with the usual variety of reading matter,—stories, sketches, poems, etc.
They soon arrived at Dick’s lodging-house. Our hero, procuring a lamp from the landlady, led the way into his apartment, which he entered with the proud air of a proprietor.
“Well, how do you like it, Fosdick?” he asked, complacently.
The time was when Fosdick would have thought it untidy and not particularly attractive. But he had served a severe apprenticeship in the streets, and it was pleasant to feel himself under shelter, and he was not disposed to be critical.
“It looks very comfortable, Dick,” he said.
“The bed aint very large,” said Dick; “but I guess we can get along.”