“I slid past some of the fellers. Wot a woppin’ big store dis is, and wot lots of fellers it takes to stan’ ’roun’, an’ I cheeked some an’ I tole de odders I had somethin’ most awful partiklar to say to de big boss.”
“And what have you most awful particular to say to me?” said the “big boss” in a kinder voice than that in which he had spoken at first, for there was something in the boy’s dark gray eyes that made him think of a darling little son he had buried only a year ago in the same grave where he had buried his wife the year before.
“Well, I seen in yer window a sigh wot reads, ‘Boy Wanted.’ An’ I’m a boy; an’ as nobody never wanted me yet, sez I to myself, sez I, ‘Dusty, ole feller, p’r’haps there’s your chance at last,’ sez I, an’ in I comes.”
“Sorry, but you won’t suit at all, my boy.”
“How do you know ’fore you try a feller? I know I ain’t worry pooty, nor I hain’t got no fashnoble clothes, but I’m smart, I am. I’ve been to night-school two winters, I have, an’ got a sixth ’ward of merit, I did, wunst, an’ I kin read readin’ fust rate wen it’s only two syllabubbles an’ I kin spell it out wen it’s three syllabubbles, an’ I kin speak some four syllabubbles, an’ I can read writin’ wen it’s print-letters, an’ I kin wissel you or any oder man in des ’ere tre-men-yu-ous (four syllabubbles) old hat-box outer his boots.” And he began to whistle a lively tune so loudly, clearly and sweetly that everybody in the large store turned in amazement toward the desk, and listened.
“Yes, yes, I see you whistle remarkably well, but we don’t want a boy to whistle.”
“I kin dance too. I danced for Johnny Sniffs ben’fit when he fell inter wun of dem cole-holes in de sidewalk, and broke his leg off short, I did, ’midst thunders of applause.” And cutting a double shuffle he went off into a rollicking break-down, his big shoes wobbling about, and the broad brim of his hat flopping up and down at every step.
“Stop, stop! I tell you! I don’t want a boy to dance. You won’t do, my boy; you won’t do, as I’ve told you before. Here’s a quarter for you, and now go away.”
“I don’t want de quarter; nor I don’t want to go ’way,” persisted the boy. “I didn’t come ’way from Fishhead Alley to dis swell street to go ’way so soon. I want a sit-u-wa-tion (four syllabubbles), I do. An’ de fust thing I seen, wen I comes round de corner, was dat sign, ‘Boy Wanted.’ ‘An’ dat’s good luck,’ sez I. ‘Go in, Dusty ole feller,’ sez I. An’ I ain’t tole you haff what I kin do. Jess yez hole on a minnit. I kin see a cop furder nor any our gang; an’ wen one comes in de front door arter you, I kin give you de wink, quicker’n lightenin’, an’ out de back door you pops. An’ I kin speak pieces, I kin—‘A hoss! A hoss! my kingdom fer a hoss! Dere’s sixty Richmons in de field to-day, an’ I’ve killed every wun of dem. A hoss—’”
“Silence!” commanded Mr. Blunt; and then in spite of himself he burst into a fit of laughter and laughed until he shook again, and there was a great deal of him to shake—two hundred pounds at the very least. “Tell me something about yourself, my boy, but mind, no more performances of any kind. What is your name, and where do you live, to begin with?”