“I saw you git off the cars,” said the bootblack, not caring to offend a possible customer by commenting on his verdant appearance.
“Yes,” said Joshua, satisfied; “I came from the country this morning. I don’t know much about the city. I’ve got a friend here. He is in a store in Eighth avenue. His name is Sam Crawford. Do you know him?”
“Know Sam Crawford? In course I do,” said the bootblack, who had never heard the name before. “I black his boots every mornin’.”
“Do you?” asked Joshua, brightening up.
“Yes. He always gives me twenty cents. He wouldn’t go round with no such lookin’ boots as yours. They ain’t respectable here in the city.”
Joshua believed all this. He was not yet accustomed to the “ways that are dark and tricks that are vain” of city street Arabs, and he decided to have his boots blacked notwithstanding the price, which he could not help regarding as very steep. He was anxious to conform, as speedily as possible, to city fashions, and, if it was not respectable to walk about in unpolished boots, he decided to have them blacked, so that his friend Sam might not feel ashamed of him when he came into his store.
“I guess I’ll have my boots blacked,” he said. “Can’t you take less than twenty cents?”
“That’s the regular price, fixed by the city gov’ment,” protested the bootblack. “If I was to take less, I’d have my license took away.”
“Do you have a license?” asked Joshua, with curiosity.
“In course I do.”