While she was thinking, a boot-black had been surveying her curiously. It was Mike Murphy, an old acquaintance of Tom’s. He thought he recognized her face, but her dress puzzled him. Where could Tattered Tom have procured such a stunning outfit? That was the mystery, and it made him uncertain of her identity. However, the face looked so familiar that he determined to speak.
“Is that you, Tom?” he asked.
Tom looked up, and recognised Mike at once. It seemed good to speak to an old acquaintance.
“Yes, Mike, it’s me,” said Tom, whose grammar was not yet quite faultless.
“Where’d you get them clo’es? You aint going to be married, be you?”
“Not that I know of,” said Tom.
“Where’ve you been this long time? I haven’t seen you round anywhere.”
“I’ve been livin’ up in Sixteenth Street,” said Tom. “A sailor-man took me to his sister’s, and got her to keep me.”
“Did you like it?”
“Yes,” said Tom. “I had three square meals every day. I went to school too.”