“About a thousand miles,” said Johnny, whose conceptions of distance were equally vague.
“Go ahead. What did you do then?”
“I hid on top of a freight car, and came all the way without their seeing me.* That man in the brown coat was the man that got me the place, and I’m afraid he’d want to send me back.”
* A fact.
“Well,” said Dick, reflectively, “I dunno as I’d like to live in the country. I couldn’t go to Tony Pastor’s or the Old Bowery. There wouldn’t be no place to spend my evenings. But I say, it’s tough in winter, Johnny, ’specially when your overcoat’s at the tailor’s, an’ likely to stay there.”
“That’s so, Dick. But I must be goin’, or Mr. Taylor’ll get somebody else to shine his boots.”
Johnny walked back to Nassau Street, while Dick kept on his way to Broadway.
“That boy,” soliloquized Dick, as Johnny took his departure, “aint got no ambition. I’ll bet he won’t get five shines to-day. I’m glad I aint like him. I couldn’t go to the theatre, nor buy no cigars, nor get half as much as I wanted to eat.—Shine yer boots, sir?”
Dick always had an eye to business, and this remark was addressed to a young man, dressed in a stylish manner, who was swinging a jaunty cane.
“I’ve had my boots blacked once already this morning, but this confounded mud has spoiled the shine.”