Ragged Dick - Street Life in New York with the Boot-Blacks

MICKY MAGUIRE

About nine o’clock Dick sought his new lodgings.  In his hands he carried his professional wardrobe, namely, the clothes which he had worn at the commencement of the day, and the implements of his business.  These he stowed away in the bureau drawers, and by the light of a flickering candle took off his clothes and went to bed.  Dick had a good digestion and a reasonably good conscience; consequently he was a good sleeper.  Perhaps, too, the soft feather bed conduced to slumber.  At any rate his eyes were soon closed, and he did not awake until half-past six the next morning.

He lifted himself on his elbow, and stared around him in transient bewilderment.

“Blest if I hadn’t forgot where I was,” he said to himself.  “So this is my room, is it?  Well, it seems kind of ’spectable to have a room and a bed to sleep in.  I’d orter be able to afford seventy-five cents a week.  I’ve throwed away more money than that in one evenin’.  There aint no reason why I shouldn’t live ’spectable.  I wish I knowed as much as Frank.  He’s a tip-top feller.  Nobody ever cared enough for me before to give me good advice.  It was kicks, and cuffs, and swearin’ at me all the time.  I’d like to show him I can do something.”

While Dick was indulging in these reflections, he had risen from bed, and, finding an accession to the furniture of his room, in the shape of an ancient wash-stand bearing a cracked bowl and broken pitcher, indulged himself in the rather unusual ceremony of a good wash.  On the whole, Dick preferred to be clean, but it was not always easy to gratify his desire.  Lodging in the street as he had been accustomed to do, he had had no opportunity to perform his toilet in the customary manner.  Even now he found himself unable to arrange his dishevelled locks, having neither comb nor brush.  He determined to purchase a comb, at least, as soon as possible, and a brush too, if he could get one cheap.  Meanwhile he combed his hair with his fingers as well as he could, though the result was not quite so satisfactory as it might have been.

A question now came up for consideration.  For the first time in his life Dick possessed two suits of clothes.  Should he put on the clothes Frank had given him, or resume his old rags?

Now, twenty-four hours before, at the time Dick was introduced to the reader’s notice, no one could have been less fastidious as to his clothing than he.  Indeed, he had rather a contempt for good clothes, or at least he thought so.  But now, as he surveyed the ragged and dirty coat and the patched pants, Dick felt ashamed of them.  He was unwilling to appear in the streets with them.  Yet, if he went to work in his new suit, he was in danger of spoiling it, and he might not have it in his power to purchase a new one.  Economy dictated a return to the old garments.  Dick tried them on, and surveyed himself in the cracked glass; but the reflection did not please him.

“They don’t look ’spectable,” he decided; and, forthwith taking them off again, he put on the new suit of the day before.

“I must try to earn a little more,” he thought, “to pay for my room, and to buy some new clo’es when these is wore out.”

He opened the door of his chamber, and went downstairs and into the street, carrying his blacking-box with him.

It was Dick’s custom to commence his business before breakfast; generally it must be owned, because he began the day penniless, and must earn his meal before he ate it.  To-day it was different.  He had four dollars left in his pocket-book; but this he had previously determined not to touch.  In fact he had formed the ambitious design of starting an account at a savings’ bank, in order to have something to fall back upon in case of sickness or any other emergency, or at any rate as a reserve fund to expend in clothing or other necessary articles when he required them.  Hitherto he had been content to live on from day to day without a penny ahead; but the new vision of respectability which now floated before Dick’s mind, owing to his recent acquaintance with Frank, was beginning to exercise a powerful effect upon him.

In Dick’s profession as in others there are lucky days, when everything seems to flow prosperously.  As if to encourage him in his new-born resolution, our hero obtained no less than six jobs in the course of an hour and a half.  This gave him sixty cents, quite abundant to purchase his breakfast, and a comb besides.  His exertions made him hungry, and, entering a small eating-house he ordered a cup of coffee and a beefsteak.  To this he added a couple of rolls.  This was quite a luxurious breakfast for Dick, and more expensive than he was accustomed to indulge himself with.  To gratify the curiosity of my young readers, I will put down the items with their cost,—­

Coffee, . . . . . . . . . . . . .  5 cts. 
Beefsteak, . . . . . . . . . . .  15
A couple of rolls,  . . . . . . .  5
—­25 cts.

It will thus be seen that our hero had expended nearly one-half of his morning’s earnings.  Some days he had been compelled to breakfast on five cents, and then he was forced to content himself with a couple of apples, or cakes.  But a good breakfast is a good preparation for a busy day, and Dick sallied forth from the restaurant lively and alert, ready to do a good stroke of business.

Dick’s change of costume was liable to lead to one result of which he had not thought.  His brother boot-blacks might think he had grown aristocratic, and was putting on airs,—­that, in fact, he was getting above his business, and desirous to outshine his associates.  Dick had not dreamed of this, because in fact, in spite of his new-born ambition, he entertained no such feeling.  There was nothing of what boys call “big-feeling” about him.  He was a borough democrat, using the word not politically, but in its proper sense, and was disposed to fraternize with all whom he styled “good fellows,” without regard to their position.  It may seem a little unnecessary to some of my readers to make this explanation; but they must remember that pride and “big-feeling” are confined to no age or class, but may be found in boys as well as men, and in boot-blacks as well as those of a higher rank.

The morning being a busy time with the boot-blacks, Dick’s changed appearance had not as yet attracted much attention.  But when business slackened a little, our hero was destined to be reminded of it.

Among the down-town boot-blacks was one hailing from the Five Points,—­a stout, red-haired, freckled-faced boy of fourteen, bearing the name of Micky Maguire.  This boy, by his boldness and recklessness, as well as by his personal strength, which was considerable, had acquired an ascendancy among his fellow professionals, and had a gang of subservient followers, whom he led on to acts of ruffianism, not unfrequently terminating in a month or two at Blackwell’s Island.  Micky himself had served two terms there; but the confinement appeared to have had very little effect in amending his conduct, except, perhaps, in making him a little more cautious about an encounter with the “copps,” as the members of the city police are, for some unknown reason, styled among the Five-Point boys.

Now Micky was proud of his strength, and of the position of leader which it had secured him.  Moreover he was democratic in his tastes, and had a jealous hatred of those who wore good clothes and kept their faces clean.  He called it putting on airs, and resented the implied superiority.  If he had been fifteen years older, and had a trifle more education, he would have interested himself in politics, and been prominent at ward meetings, and a terror to respectable voters on election day.  As it was, he contented himself with being the leader of a gang of young ruffians, over whom he wielded a despotic power.

Now it is only justice to Dick to say that, so far as wearing good clothes was concerned, he had never hitherto offended the eyes of Micky Maguire.  Indeed, they generally looked as if they patronized the same clothing establishment.  On this particular morning it chanced that Micky had not been very fortunate in a business way, and, as a natural consequence, his temper, never very amiable, was somewhat ruffled by the fact.  He had had a very frugal breakfast,—­not because he felt abstemious, but owing to the low state of his finances.  He was walking along with one of his particular friends, a boy nicknamed Limpy Jim, so called from a slight peculiarity in his walk, when all at once he espied our friend Dick in his new suit.

“My eyes!” he exclaimed, in astonishment; “Jim, just look at Ragged Dick.  He’s come into a fortun’, and turned gentleman.  See his new clothes.”

“So he has,” said Jim.  “Where’d he get ’em, I wonder?”

“Hooked ’em, p’raps.  Let’s go and stir him up a little.  We don’t want no gentlemen on our beat.  So he’s puttin’ on airs,—­is he?  I’ll give him a lesson.”

So saying the two boys walked up to our hero, who had not observed them, his back being turned, and Micky Maguire gave him a smart slap on the shoulder.

Dick turned round quickly.