Transcriber’s Notes:

“Black yer boots and make ’em shine; only cost ye half a dime!” cried a cheery voice at the speaker’s elbow, and, looking down, the tall man was surprised to see a specimen of boyhood quite unknown to him. The features were regular enough, and would have been quite handsome had it not been for big patches of shoe blacking smeared over cheek and brow. Blue eyes peered out from the dark stains around them with a roguish twinkle, and there was a certain fearless independence in his looks and attitude which could not fail to show the most casual observer the fearlessness and self-reliance of his nature. It was his clothes, his general deportment, the air of cool contempt for everything and everybody around him which caused the stranger fresh from the country to stare upon the bootblack of the great city with speechless wonder.

“When yer eyes git done working and blinking, mister, p’raps ye will give yer tongue a chance,” said the young knight of the blacking brush, beginning to remove from his shoulder the ever-handy kit of his trade. “Better hev yer brogans shined up, mister; they need it bad.”

The reply of the man showed that something of greater moment to him at that time than his personal appearance was uppermost in his mind.

“Say, bub, can you tell me where there is a good tavern that a chap could stop at till to-morrer?”

“Sold ag’in, Ragged Rob!” cried one of half a dozen companions of his ilk, who had appeared upon the scene from all quarters. “When ye git through wi’ th’ ol’ hayseed, ye mought as well git out o’ bizness, for ye won’t hev blackin’ ’nough ter tip a gent’s boot. So long!” and the crowd beat a hasty retreat, to look for work in a more favorable direction.

“Get a move on you, old mossback, or the cops will haul you in for obstructing the sidewalks!” muttered a beetle-browed passer-by, who followed his words with a push which nearly threw the countryman off his feet.

“Geewhillikins, how the folks do crowd! Beats all natur’. What’s that you say, bub?”

“I say ye might find sich a stable as ye want by lookin’ in the right-hand corner. Luck to ye, ennyway,” and the bootblack was speedily lost in the crowd.

“Drat the leetle feller’s pictur! If I had my thumb and finger on him I’d pinch his throat for answering a civil question in that oncivil way.”

“What was that you said, friend?” asked a man, who had come hurrying toward him. “Why, can this be possible?” continued the newcomer, slapping him on the shoulder. “By Jove, but this is the pleasantest surprise of my life. Have you just come to New York, Mr. Reyburnbrook?”

By this time the man from the country was able to get a good view of the speaker, who was a tall, genteel, well-dressed person of middle life, and he said:

“Guess ye air mistook in your man this time, mister. I ain’t no sich name as Bumbrook at all. I’m just plain Elihu Cornhill, deacon o’ the church at Basinburg, where I wish I was this blessed minute. Things and folks air so tarnal thick round here one can’t draw a long breath, and——”

“Excuse me,” interrupted the other, “I can see my mistake now, Deacon Cornhill, and I offer a thousand apologies for troubling you. Do you know you look as like a friend of mine as a pea in the same pod? Good-day.”

“It’s funny queer!” exclaimed the bewildered Deacon Cornhill, “folks air in sich a pesky hurry they can’t stop to put one on his right track. I s’pose I must keep jogging, as if I was over in our lot looking for the cows.”

Meanwhile, the man who had left so abruptly after accosting him, sought another a short distance away, and who had evidently been waiting for him. Together the couple hastily examined a condensed New England directory, which the former produced from his pocket. After a short consultation they separated, one going at right angles to the street, followed by the unsuspecting countryman, while the other gave him pursuit.

Finding that the crowd of passers-by jostled him as he hastened on his way, Deacon Cornhill gathered his huge gripsack close under his right arm, pulled his hat down upon his large head, and kept stubbornly on his way, regardless of the elbowing and pushing of others, saying under his breath:

“Puts me in mind o’ goin’ through Squire Danvers’ brush lot, but I reckon I can stand it if they can.”

He soon reached a corner where, if the pedestrians were less numerous, he was more than ever perplexed over the course for him to follow. On every hand the tumult of street traffic and the noise and confusion of city life bewildered him. As he stood there for a moment, looking anxiously about him, the sound of loud, angry voices arrested his attention, when he saw a small party of boys disputing and wrangling over some question. Then one of the group broke suddenly away from the others and fled, with two in furious pursuit.

Looking back over his shoulder as he ran, the youth did not seem to pay any heed to the course he took, and in spite of the deacon’s warning he struck him with such force that the startled man was hurled upon the sidewalk.

The boy fell on top of him, and the next moment the foremost of his pursuers cried:

“I’ve got ye, Slimmy! Say yer lied, or I’ll knock th’ teeth right out yer jaw!”

“Not for Joe!” retorted the fugitive, regaining his feet, but pulled down by the other.

“Won’t, won’t ye, ye sneak-eyed sinner! Oh, I’ll wallop——”

He had begun to pommel his victim unmercifully, while his companions urged him on with words of encouragement. This was more than the kind-hearted Deacon Cornhill, who had regained his feet, could witness without interfering, and, dropping his gripsack on the sidewalk, in order to have his hands free, he went to the rescue of the smaller boy, exclaiming:

“Let him alone, you ragamuffin!” at the same time trying to catch the aggressive youngster by the collar. But the boy easily slipped from his grasp, and ran down the cross street, followed by his friends, the party giving utterance to peals of laughter.

Deacon Cornhill, in his great indignation, started to give them chase, but after going a few steps thought better of his foolishness, and turned back.

He was just in season to see the boy he had been defending dodging around the corner with his gripsack.

“Here, stop, you thief! Catch him, somebody, he’s makin’ off with my satchel,” giving pursuit as he uttered his frantic cries.

The swift-footed boy quickly disappeared around a street corner, and when the irate deacon reached the place he was nowhere to be seen. He had now left the main street, and but a few people were in sight, no one paying any heed to his distracted cries.

“Oh, shucks! What shall I do? All my spare clothes, my shirt and a big hunk o’ the church money. What will the folks say? What shall I do?”

Bewildered and disheartened, the strong man stood trembling from head to foot, while he wept like a child, as a stranger stopped in front of him, saying in a free and easy manner, while he laid his hand on his shoulder:

“Hello, deacon! You are the last man I should have expected to meet, and here I find you in the heart of the big city. What can you be doing here? I don’t see that you have aged a bit since I saw you at your home in Basinburg four years ago. Four years, did I say? Bless me if it hasn’t been seven, or will be the coming summer. How is your good wife, and how are all the folks about town?”

Then, seeing the look of bland astonishment on the other’s florid countenance, he rattled on in a different strain:

“Is it possible you do not remember me, Deacon Cornhill? It would be perfectly natural if you didn’t, seeing I have changed considerable since we last met. Knocking about the world, my good deacon, does put age-lines on one’s face, let them differ who will. Let me refresh a memory which is seldom at fault. Remember Harry Sawyer, a nephew of your town clerk, John Sawyer, who has held the office so many years? Recall the scapegrace? I am glad to say he has improved with age. Recollect the race we had one afternoon running after the steers that tore down the fence and plundered a neighbor’s cornfield? I finally caught one of the ramping creatures, after the rest of you had cornered him. He ripped my coat from hem to collar, and I barely escaped being gored to death. That catches your memory? It does me good to grasp the horny hand of an honest man. Don’t be afraid of mine suffering; if it is soft, it is tough.”

CHAPTER II.
A BOY TO THE RESCUE.

While the voluble stranger, who had introduced himself as Harry Sawyer, kept up his innocent flow of language, Deacon Cornhill was speechless. He saw that the speaker was a well-dressed young man, and his professed friendship instantly won his confidence.

“I have been robbed!” he exclaimed. “I had my money in my satchel, and a parcel of boys came along and one o’ ’em stole my money, my clothes, satchel and——”

“Stole your money?” fairly gasped the stranger, in genuine concern. “Tell me about it, quick—before it is too late to act.”

In a somewhat disjointed way the other told how he had found the boys in the midst of a quarrel, and the part he had acted, to be robbed by the very one he had tried to succor.

“It was a sham fight—a dodge of those contemptible youngsters to throw you off your guard. And you were fool enough to let them get away with your money!” turning to leave the unfortunate man in apparent disgust.

“Don’t leave me here alone, mister! They didn’t get all my money, but my shirt, and——”

“Then you have some of your money left?” catching him by the arm with a grip which made the strong man wince. “How much did the rapscallions get?”

“Over thirty dollars.”

“How much have you left?”

“Ninety. But you are hurting my arm like time, mister, the way you hold on.”

“Excuse me, deacon; I was so excited over your loss that I forgot myself. But go on. You have ninety dollars left?”

“Jess that, as Mandy and I counted it jess afore I started. You see, I have come down here to buy our Sunday school library some new books, and I was to get some new things for Mandy, and she and me ’lowed it would be better to keep the money in separate places, though I was shallow enough to put in ten of the church money in my satchel. You see, my wallet was that crowded I couldn’t do much different. Now that has gone, with Mandy’s new things and my shirt and——”

“Let me tell you, deacon, you were lucky to have that much safe and snug in your wallet. Always carry your money in your pocket.”

“We must find the boys afore they can spend it.”

“As well to look for a needle in a haystack, deacon, as to look for a boy in New York. But come with me, and to-morrow I will see what can be done.”

“Do you think you can get my money and shirt, and——”

“Quite sure of it, deacon. I’ll put a couple of detectives on their tracks, who will run them to earth as a hound would a fox. I don’t like to mention such personal trifles, but it was providential for you that I came along as I did.”

“I know it, I know it,” replied the deacon, who was in better spirits now that he felt there was a prospect of getting back his money. “To think them boys should have played such a trick.”

“Learned their trade young, deacon. But come with me to-night. Nothing can be gained by following, or rather trying to follow, those slippery young thieves. The police will know where to look for them.”

Keeping up a continual flow of words, he who called himself Harry Sawyer led the way along street after street, each one as they advanced seeming to grow more narrow and crooked. Bewildered as he was, Deacon Cornhill finally became aware of this. There was an unfavorable aspect about everything he saw, and he began to feel there was something wrong.

“Hold on, mister, I have forgot your name, but are you sure you are on the right road? This looks pesky crooked, and——”

In the midst of his speech he saw another man come swiftly out of a dark alley on the left, and caught sight of an object coming swiftly toward him. Then the missile struck him on the side of the head, and he fell to the pavement with a low moan of pain.

“Well done, Bill,” declared Sawyer. “Now, I will pull the old sheep’s wool in a trice, after which we must run down the precocious youngsters who have cheated us of a goodly share of our goods.”

The process of “pulling the old sheep’s wool” was evidently the stealing of the unconscious man’s pocketbook, for the speaker began to rifle him of whatever he carried of value. But he was interrupted in a most unexpected manner.

At the very moment his fingers closed on the well-filled wallet, an agile figure bounded out of the shadows of the alley, striking the stooping form of the robber with such force as to send him headlong into the gutter, the newcomer crying at the same time:

“The cop! The cop!”

This so startled the second ruffian that he turned and fled, while robber No. 1 scrambled to his feet just in season to see the boy who had given him such a blow seize the plethoric pocketbook and disappear around a corner.

“Stop thief!” cried the would-be robber. “Bill, where are you? Stop the youngster!”

The twain then gave furious pursuit.

While this chase was taking place, a passer-by was attracted by the prostrate figure of Deacon Cornhill, and thinking murder had been committed, he was about to give an alarm, when a voice at his elbow said:

“Don’t stir a noise, Jim.”

Looking abruptly around, the man was surprised to find the young bootblack beside him whom Deacon Cornhill had met at the outset of his troubles, and who was none other than the boy who had snatched his pocketbook away from the thief. He had found little difficulty in eluding his pursuers.

“’Twon’t do any good to get a mob here. I’ll look arter the old gent, if you’ll help me get him to Brattle’s.”

“This you, Little Hickory?”

“I reckon, Jim. Does the old gent show any signs of picking up the leetle sense he had?” and depositing his kit of tools, with the other’s gripsack, on the sidewalk, he looked closely into his face.

“’Twas a hard clip the sandbagger give him! I could not have got here—— Hello! He’s starting his breathing machine. He’s soon going to be on his feet. So’ll the mob soon begin to corner here. Lend a hand, Jim, and we’ll see if he can stand alone.”

Curious spectators were beginning to gather near at hand, and the unfortunate man beginning to open his eyes, his friends raised him to an upright position, where, by their aid, he was able to remain.

“Mandy, where are you?” he asked, putting out his hands. “I vum, I b’lieve I’m lost!”

“Lean on me, old gent,” said the boy, “and you’ll soon be where you can ask as many questions as ye like. Just now, the least said the sooner forgot. I wouldn’t ’vise you to call all New York together. Ef I’d got sich a biff on my head in sich a silly way, I’d hold my tongue, if I had to tie a knot in it. Easy on his collar, Jim. Lean on me, old gent, as much as you wanter.”

“My money!” exclaimed the bewildered man, now recalling his loss with a vivid memory.

“Ef it’s in your wallet, it’s safe; fer I’ve got that and yer handbag safe and sound.”

Deacon Cornhill uttered a low thanksgiving, and assisted by the two he moved slowly down the street, until they came to a cheap lodging house, with the single word over the weather-beaten door: “Brattle.”

The entrance was about half its size below the sidewalk, and they descended the old steps, which trembled beneath the weight of Deacon Cornhill. At the foot Little Hickory opened a door in keeping with its rusty surroundings, and the three entered a dingy, low-walled apartment, with a desk at the farther end and a row of seats around the walls.

“You can go now, Jim,” said the young bootblack.

“That you, Rob?” asked a man behind the desk, leaving his high stool and coming out into the middle of the floor.

“I leave it with you, Brattle, to say. A body, as far as I know, is not expected to carry an introduce card pasted in his collar. I can take care of the old gent, thank you.”

“Been drinking, eh?” asked Brattle.

“Now you insult a good man, Brattle. He got a clip on the side of the head from some sandbaggers, that’s all. He’s coming ’round slick as a button. You can tip over on the seat, old gent, if you wanter,” when Deacon Cornhill sank upon the bench, saying:

“You said you had my money?”

“What I said you can bank on, as the big boodlers say, I reckon you don’t remember me, so I must introduce myself. I’m the chap who asked to black your boots a bit ago, and in return you asked me for a place to hang your hat for the night. Mebbe I didn’t answer you as I oughter, for your boots did need trimming and shining the wuss kind, and I set you down as a stingy old duffer from Wayback, who didn’t know what made a gempleman. Then, when you had gone, and I took ’count of stock and balanced up what a lamb you would be for the wolves, and seeing one of the critters follering you, I tuk your tracks, too. I got along in season to see the kids make off with your grip, when I took arter ’em tooth and nail. With some lively sprintin’, and a bit of scrimmage I fetched your old gripsack out’n Sodom, and then I pegged it on your track ag’in. I didn’t get along in season to save you that clip on the head, but I did get there in time to play the thief myself. I led them chaps a wild-goose chase, and here I am with the hull establishment connected, wired and running in tiptop shape!”

As the youth, who could not have been over seventeen, despite his daring feats, finished his rather lengthy explanation, he handed Deacon Cornhill his pocketbook and pushed his gripsack over by his side.

CHAPTER III.
AN ASTOUNDING PROPOSITION.

Deacon Cornhill listened with open-mouthed wonder to the rapid account of his youthful friend, unable to speak until he had concluded, when he managed to say:

“I don’t know what is proper to say to you, boy. You have done me a sarvice I shall never forget, if I live to be as old as Methusaleh; I shan’t, I vum I shan’t. I want to pay for it. Who’d thought them slick-seeming men were sich cutthroats?”

“Black your boots and make ’em shine? I ain’t no time to waste in perlaver. They need it. Time’s money, and bizness must be ’tended to afore pleasure.”

“Go ahead,” consented the deacon, putting out his right foot for the bootblack to begin work. Then, as the boy went about his task in a manner which showed that he had thoroughly mastered it, he asked:

“What’s your name, youngster?”

“I’m called Little Hickory,” spitting on the blacking and beginning to rub vigorously.

“You don’t say? Can’t be your regular Scripture name?”

“’Bout as near Scripter as an old man like me has ever got, mister. Excuse me, Deacon Cornhill.”

“Bless me, how did you know my name?”

“Overheard you give it to the sharper. But, oh, my! Ain’t your underpinners in bad shape! Can’t get a Broadway shine on ’em to save my reputation!”

“You ain’t told me your name yet,” persisted Deacon Cornhill, who had taken a strong liking for the strange youth. “And why do you mock at fate by calling yourself old? It’s a sin and a shame, of which you must repent some time in sackcloth and ashes.”

“I know as leetle of your sackcloth and ashes as you know of me, mister—I mean, Deacon Cornhill. Reckon I was older when I was born ’n many are when they die. I thought it proper for me to give you the name that b’longs to me where you found me. Mother calls me Rob.”

“That sounds more Christian-like. Robert is a good old family name. What name did your father have?”

“I couldn’t begin to ’numerate ’em, mis—I mean, deacon. I reckon he’s had a good round dozen, first and last.”

“Sho! but you don’t mean it! Where is he?”

“Dunno.”

“What! Don’t know where your father is? How long have you lived this harum-scarum life?”

“As long as I can remember. Push that foot out a leetle furder.”

“And you like it?”

“Don’t know any other, deacon.”

The good man from Basinburg groaned, saying after a minute:

“It’s too bad—too bad! You seem like a proper sort of a boy, with the right kind of management.”

“I shouldn’t want to bank on your judgment, squire—I mean deacon—seeing the way you let them sharpers pull the wool over your eyes.”

Deacon Cornhill relapsed into silence, while he watched the swift, dexterous movements of the cheerful bootblack, who began to sing a snatch of song. He was one of those broad-minded, whole-souled men who never see another in lowly circumstances without wanting to lift him up. The frank honesty of Little Hickory, as the boy persisted in being known, had won his confidence, and to have done that was to insure a friendship not to be swerved from its purpose. A new light came over his florid countenance, as he pondered, and forgetting him at work on his boot, he sprang suddenly to his feet, exclaiming:

“I’ll do it!”

Though taken completely by surprise at this frantic action, Little Hickory caught him by the wrist, and with the strength one would not have looked for in the youthful arm, he flung him back upon the bench, crying sharply:

“No, you don’t, till I get that other schooner in proper trim. You’d look well, wouldn’t you, with ’em in such shape?”

“Forgive me, my son.”

“‘My son!’ Forsooth, as the play-actor says: None of your soft solder on me. All I ask is for you to keep still till I can put the polish on this other brogan.”

It is needless to say that Deacon Cornhill obeyed, and not until the young workman was done did he say:

“I don’t exactly get the hang of you, my dear boy——”

“Hold right on there, deacon. If you have got anything to say, leave off the finery, and cut the garment plain. I ain’t much on soap, but I’m honest clear through. Go ahead with your tongue notions.”

“Rob,” resumed the other, recalling the fact that the boy had given at least so much of a name, “I ain’t going to perlaver. I want you to go hum with me.”

Little Hickory showed his surprise without speaking.

“I’m in dead ’arnest. Mandy and I have talked this all over time and again. We ain’t got chick nor child, and she was saying only yesterday how cheering it would be to have a boy in the house. I ain’t rich as some, but I’m comfortably fixed, and what I’ve got shall be yours, as soon as I’m through with it. You shall have my name, too, and be Elihu Cornhill, Jr.”

Rob still was too much surprised to speak, which allowed Deacon Cornhill to continue:

“It would be the making of you, Rob. It would get you away from the wickedness of this sinful city, and——”

“And away from my bizness.”

“Luddy me, you don’t call this blackin’ folks’ shoes and boots bizness!”

“By it I get my living, sir,” said the youthful speaker, with a pride one in better circumstances might have failed to display.

“But you would have a better and more honorable——”

“Hold right on, Deacon Cornhill! I reckon honesty is honorable anywhere. I should be like a fish out of water up there in the wilderness.”

“But out of this wilderness of wickedness. There you could go to Sunday school, and be up in society. You have got the making of a smart boy in you. You have done me a great help, and I have taken a fancy to you. I’ll get you a new suit of clothes, and you’ll look slick as a mouse. Then, as soon as I can finish my bizness, we’ll go hum and s’prise Mandy. Hum! How does that sound to you, Rob?”

If at first Little Hickory had thought that Deacon Cornhill was not in earnest, he could see now that he was intensely determined in what he said. But he had no idea of accepting an offer made with so much abruptness, so he said:

“If I could leave my bizness, which I ain’t owned up to yet, I couldn’t leave my mother.”

Deacon Cornhill showed by his looks that this was a contingency he had not taken into account.

“So your mother is living, Rob?”

“She was when I left home this morning.”

“She can come along, too. She will be help for Mandy. I vow, it’ll be all the better for you to have her with us.”

“And my friends?” asked Rob, showing by his manner that he was becoming interested.

Before Deacon Cornhill could reply, the sound of many feet was heard entering the place, and a body of men quickly appeared on the scene. The foremost was a burly, bewhiskered fellow, who at sight of our couple cried exultantly:

“Here he is, boys! Nab him!”

CHAPTER IV.
A BOLD STAND.

At sight of the mob crowding into the place, Deacon Cornhill gave a cry of fear and turned pale, as he looked hurriedly about for some way of escape.

The room seemed to have but one door opening on the street, and that was now blocked with the incoming men, the leader of whom showed a bright button on his coat, while he flourished a club in his right hand as he uttered the words given in my last chapter.

The owner behind the counter uttered a cry of terror, and ducked his head out of sight, while the clinking of breaking glass followed his disappearance, a big pitcher having been upset and rolled off onto the floor.

So, all in all, it was a pretty exciting scene for a while.

Ragged Rob spoke next, at the same time stepping forward to meet the officer fearlessly:

“Who are you looking for, Whalen?”

“That chap behind ye.”

“Name him and you may have him. But not till you do,” replied Little Hickory, defiantly.

“I reckon names don’t matter when we run down sich covies.”

“They do in this case. This ain’t the man you are after, Whalen!”

“W’at d’ye know erbout it, Little Hickory?”

“All there is to be known, Whalen. Can’t ye see this is a hayseed from the country? Your man is a thorough-bred. Oh, I know who you are after.”

“I reckon a man’s a man,” muttered the officer, who appeared as if he had seen that he had made a mistake, but disliked to own up to it.

“Half an hour ago your man was steering toward the point, Whalen. ’Pears to me, with sich a reward at stake, I wouldn’t lose any more time with sich an old duffer as this covey, who won’t be worth a cent to ye after all yer trouble.”

Whalen could see the truth of this statement, and he cleared his way to get out by asking:

“You ain’t giving me misleader, Little Hickory?”

“No, Whalen. I advise ye to get on to the trail while the scent is fresh.”

Without another word the officer turned about, and, still followed by his crowd, left the saloon.

Deacon Cornhill stood staring after the departed officer and his men for some time in silence, while Ragged Rob resumed work upon his shoes.

Brattle’s head reappeared above the top of the counter, coming into sight slowly and with evident caution on the part of the owner, as if he was in doubt about the wisdom of the move.

“You haven’t answered my question,” said the bootblack, bringing Deacon Cornhill back to his situation. “Can my friends come with me?”

“Sart’in; every one of them. How many are there?”

Rob shook his head, though evidently not in reply to the other’s question, but relative to some thought in his mind. Presently he said:

“You are very kind, sir, but it cannot be. This is my life, and I could not fit into another. Good-day, sir; but, stay! I’ll not leave you in the gutter this time. If you want to find a stopping place for the night I will show you the way.”

Feeling that it would be useless to press his wishes further then, Deacon Cornhill followed him in silence, though resolved in his mind to renew the subject at his first opportunity. In the midst of their rapid advance he suddenly became aware of the presence of another boy who was five or six years younger than Rob. He was more ragged than the other; in fact, he was little but rags, though there was a saucy defiance in his pinched, unwashed features which showed that he had little care for his personal appearance, or what another might think.

Rob evidently knew him, for he asked, familiarly:

“What luck to-day, old man?”

“Made eleven cents and blowed in three. Say,” he added, in an undertone, though loud enough to be heard by Deacon Cornhill, “got a big duck? Looks awful green.”

“Hush!” warned Rob, adding in a louder key: “I’ve got to see the gent here gets to Bradford’s O. K. Then I’ll hev you go home with me.”

“What’s your name, bub?” asked the deacon, who felt it a duty to say something.

“Chick.”

“I mean the name your parents gave you.”

“Golly; what an idee. Never had any, mister.”

“Where do you live?”

“Nowhere.”

“Onpossible. Where’d you stop last night?”

“Corner A and Tenth Street.”

“Whose house, I mean. I hope it was a good man’s.”

“Dunno ’bout that, sir. I didn’t see him, nor I didn’t go in.”

“But you said you stopped there?”

“So I did.”

“How could that be if you did not go in?”

“My cracky! ain’t you green? S’pose I’d gone in, how long d’ye s’pose I’d been guv to git out?”

“I don’t understand you, bub.”

“Any more’n I do sich a cabbage as you. I reckon there’s a way o’ stopping at a gentleman’s house without bothering him wid your comp’ny.”

“How can that be?” asked the wondering deacon, believing the boy was guying him. “How could you stop at a man’s house without seeing any one or they seeing you?”

“Slept under th’ covin’, mister.”

“Marcy me! out in the night? S’posin’ it’d rained?”

“I’d got wet, I s’pose, seein’ I’m not canvas-backed,” with a grin.

“And got your death of cold?”

“Ain’t so sure on that, mister. Th’ sun has alwus dried a feller out slick, and I ain’t heerd as he’s goin’ out’n bizness jis yit.”

“What do you do, Chick?—I think you said that was your name?”

“Pick up odd jobs, by which I can turn a penny, sir. My family is small, so I don’t hev to hev much.”

“Ain’t you got any folks?”

“Nope.”

“Don’t you get tired of living like this?”

“Don’t know any other way, mister.”

“What a pity! In this Christian land, too!”

“Got any more questions to ax, mister?” as the other hesitated; “’cos if ye hev I shall hev to begin to ax ye a fee, same’s the big chucks do up in the recorder’s office.”

Before Deacon Cornhill could reply he became aware of the confusion arising from a crowd of people standing about the entrance to a gloomy structure near at hand.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, in surprise.

“Only a girl up for vagrancy,” replied a bystander. “It don’t take much to draw a crowd. But she is a pert one, and with a boy’s name.”

“What is it?” asked Rob, beginning to show interest.

“Joe Willet, or some such a name, she gave the recorder.”

Without waiting for him to finish his speech, Rob began to elbow his way through the jostling crowd, and a moment later passed the high portals of the wide door.

“Here, here, my son!” cried Deacon Cornhill, excitedly, “hold on for me!” And, regardless of the jeers and outbursts of the spectators, he made a furious dash after his young guide.

“Hi, mister!” cried Chick, trying to keep beside the other, “keep with me an’ we’ll find Little Hickory.” Then he added to the amused onlookers; “Of all the dratted old fools I ever see he’s the lunkinest!”

Meanwhile Rob had got inside of the building, and, regardless of the curious spectators gathered on either hand, he pushed his way forward until he had reached a small court or opening before a high desk, above which the gray head of the stern recorder could be seen, as he looked calmly down at a frail girl, trembling from head to foot, as she stood beside the iron railing in grief and terror.

She was clad in a ragged dress, without any covering for her head. Though her features were bathed in tears, her brown hair had been cut short, and there was a general appearance of despair in her looks and actions, she was an attractive girl.

At sight of her Rob stopped suddenly in his impetuous advance, crying, in a voice heard in every part of the old building:

“Joey! I have found you at last. Have courage! Ragged Rob is still your friend, if every one else in the world turns against you.”

CHAPTER V.
SURPRISE UPON SURPRISE.

At sound of Ragged Rob’s ringing words every gaze in the spacious room, even to that of the grim recorder, was turned upon the fearless young bootblack, who, despite his grimy features and soiled, ragged clothes, looked every inch a hero. One countenance lightened at sight of him, and she at the prisoner’s bar cried, in a joyful voice:

“Oh, Rob!” and then she seemed about to fall, as if the glad appearance of her friend had overcome her. But she quickly mastered her weakness, saying, in a supplicating tone:

“Save me from the workshop, Rob! Mother does so need me.”

“I will, Joey; never fear. What is the charge, Mister Recorder?”

“Vagrancy, coupled with trying to pass bad money and being generally a suspicious character,” replied the recorder, recovering his usual stern exterior.

“There’s not a word of truth in it!” exclaimed Rob, impetuously.

“Order!” commanded the recorder, and a burly officer moved toward the excited youth, ready to seize him at the word from his superior. A murmur of excitement ran over the throng of spectators.

“Has she been sentenced?” asked Rob, recovering his self-possession, and speaking with a calmness he was far from feeling.

“Blackwell’s—thirty days,” was the stern reply.

“It must not be!” declared Rob, boldly. “She cannot be guilty, Mister Recorder. Is there no way to save her from the workhouse?”

“As this seems to be her first offense, if there was some one to answer for her, she might be let off this time,” and though it may have been his imagination, Rob thought the recorder said this gladly. At any rate, it gave him hope, and he said, promptly:

“I will answer for her, Mister Recorder.”

“That could hardly be, as you are but a minor, as well as unknown to us.”

Rob’s countenance fell; but at that moment a loud voice from the rear of the courtroom exclaimed:

“I’ll answer for her, judge! That gal must never go to the workhouse. It would be a burning shame, in this Christian age.”

A buzz of surprise ran over the scene, while Deacon Cornhill, who had made the bold declaration, pushed his way forward to the side of the young bootblack.

“It’s too bad to send such an innercent to the workhouse, judge. How much is there to pay?”

“Who are you, sir?” demanded the recorder, looking askance at the countrified speaker.

“Deacon Elihu Cornhill, of Basinburg, your honor.”

“And you promise that she shall be provided for, Mr. Cornhill?”

“I do, judge.”

“Very well. In that case sentence is suspended during good behavior. She is too young and apparently too innocent to be sent to the workhouse. But, remember, miss, if you are brought back here a double sentence will be imposed.”

“Shameful, judge. Send such a bright girl to the workhouse——”

“Silence!” ordered the recorder, at the same time pushing a ponderous book toward the discomfited deacon. “Please put your name down there.”

As soon as Deacon Cornhill signed the necessary document, and finding that she was at liberty to do so, the young prisoner took Rob’s hand. Then, without further delay, while a generous murmur of applause ran over the crowd, the three left the courtroom, to be joined at the door by Chick.

“Where have you been, Joe, since that dreadful night when the old rookery was torn down over our heads, and we lost each other?”

“Everywhere, Rob. I am so thankful now that you saved me from the workhouse that I cannot say anything.”

“It was not I, Joey, but this kind gentleman, Deacon Cornhill.”

“I wish to thank you, sir. If you will only come home I am sure mother will do it much better than I can. Poor mother! how she must have been worrying about me.”

“How is she, Joe?”

“No better, Rob. And I have been away all day. You will go home with me?”

“Yes; that is, as soon as I have showed this gentleman to Bradford’s.”

“Don’t stop to do that, my son. Go home with the leetle one first. If she don’t object, I’ll go along with you.”

“Of course I don’t object, and mother will be glad to see you. How you have grown since I saw you last.”

“No more than you, Joe. Why, you are almost as tall as mother now. But, as we walk along, you must tell us how you were brought up before the recorder. Chick, you will go with us.”

Transcriber’s Notes:

LITTLE HICKORY;

CHAPTER I.THE BOOTBLACK AND THE DEACON.

CHAPTER II.A BOY TO THE RESCUE.

CHAPTER III.AN ASTOUNDING PROPOSITION.

CHAPTER IV.A BOLD STAND.

CHAPTER V.SURPRISE UPON SURPRISE.

CHAPTER I.
THE BOOTBLACK AND THE DEACON.

CHAPTER II.
A BOY TO THE RESCUE.

CHAPTER III.
AN ASTOUNDING PROPOSITION.

CHAPTER IV.
A BOLD STAND.

CHAPTER V.
SURPRISE UPON SURPRISE.