"What's the matter? Lost your money?" asked d.i.c.k anxiously.

"Nope. I was jest goin'--jest goin' t' smoke a cigarette, but I forgot----"

"I'm glad you remembered in time. Do you find it hard to give them up?"

"It's kinder hard--jest now."

"Then come on, let's hurry up and have supper and you'll not think of smoking."

"All right," Jimmy agreed, but it was quite a struggle for the lad.

The cigarette habit had taken more of a hold on him than he supposed, and he felt that he must smoke. But he determined to keep his word, and as he was a boy of some strength of character, in spite of his surroundings, he did not readily give in to the temptation.

After supper the reading lesson was resumed, and d.i.c.k also began to instruct his pupil in the mysteries of writing. It was not easy work, but d.i.c.k was not discouraged.

Jimmy had one merit, he really wanted to learn; for he was sharp and shrewd, and he saw what an advantage it was to d.i.c.k to be able to read and call out intelligently the items of news. In this way d.i.c.k could sell as many papers as could Jimmy, and with half the effort, for Jimmy made himself hoa.r.s.e with his frequent cries of "Wuxtry!" Then, too, Jimmy was aware of how much better off he was since he had formed a partnership with d.i.c.k. He actually had money in the bank, a thing he never dreamed of before, and he had a good room, which formerly was such a rare occurrence for him that he could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times it had happened since he had had to shift for himself. So Jimmy determined to do his best to learn to read and write.

In a week the newsboy knew the alphabet, and could spell a few simple words. The writing came slower, but he was making progress.

Then another improvement took place. As he learned to spell the words he also learned how to p.r.o.nounce them correctly. He saw that "the"

spelled a different word from "de," as he was accustomed to p.r.o.nounce it, and he began to practise using "this" and "then" in place of "dis"

and "den."

"There!" exclaimed Jimmy triumphantly one night as he looked at a piece of paper. "There's me name!" and he looked at it proudly, for it was written after a severe effort on his part. "Did I speak right den--I mean then?" he asked.

"Very nearly, except that you said 'me name' instead of 'my name', Jimmy."

"Dat's so--I mean that's so. Well, what do youse think of me--I mean my writin'?"

"It's very good; but if you want to speak correctly, don't say 'youse'

for you, and put a final 'g' on your words that need it."

"Crimps! but dat's--I mean that's a lot to remember," he answered with a sigh.

"You're not sorry you're learning, though, are you?"

"Betcher life I ain't."

He gave a sudden start.

"I s'pose I shouldn't say that," he added.

"Well, I don't know that it's any particular harm," answered d.i.c.k.

"It's slang, and when you grow up to be a man I don't suppose you'll like to use slang. The trouble is, as I've read, it's hard to break off the habit. So I suppose it's best to start young."

"Dat's--I mean that's what it is. I'm goin'--there, I dropped another 'g'--I'm going to try," and Jimmy spoke very slowly.

"You're doing very well," complimented his young teacher. "I wish I was making some progress myself."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I'd like to find out who I am. Sometimes in the night I get to thinking about it, and I feel quite badly. I think I must have some--some folks somewhere, and maybe they're anxious about me."

"Don't any of it come back to youse--I mean you?" asked Jimmy sympathetically.

"Not the least. I've tried and tried again, but all I can remember is a big house somewhere with lots of ground around it and a man and a lady who were good to me. I seem to remember driving a horse once."

"Maybe you worked as a driver," suggested Jimmy, "and a horse kicked you. That's how your head was hurt, maybe."

"I don't believe so. I don't remember working anywhere. I wish there was some way of finding out about myself."

Jimmy felt a sudden twinge of his conscience. Perhaps it was his fault that d.i.c.k had not been able to discover the secret of the mystery that surrounded him. Jimmy had said nothing to the police about the boy, and Sam Schmidt had not read of any reward being offered for information of a missing lad. Jimmy determined to make amends.

"d.i.c.k, I've got somethin' to tell you," he said, speaking slowly and more correctly than he ever talked before. "Maybe it's my fault that you don't know who you are."

"Your fault? How do you mean?"

And then Jimmy, feeling very much ashamed of himself, told of how he had kept silent, hoping that a reward would be offered.

"I'm--I'm awful sorry," he concluded. "I feel real mean about it, d.i.c.k, for you've been so good to me an' have done so much for me."

For a few seconds d.i.c.k said nothing. The disclosure was quite a shock to him. But he did not blame Jimmy, for he realized that the boy did not know any better.

"Do you think the police would know anything about me, Jimmy?" asked d.i.c.k at length.

"Maybe they would. Come on, we'll go to headquarters," replied Jimmy, anxious to make up for lost time.

It did not take the two boys long to reach police headquarters in Mulberry Street. Jimmy felt a little diffident about going into that dreaded place, of which he had heard so much, and the bra.s.s-b.u.t.toned sergeant sitting behind the bra.s.s railing looked very stern, but the newsboy mustered up courage to enter. As for d.i.c.k, he was filled with a nervous excitement.

The story was soon told, and the sergeant at once took an interest in d.i.c.k's queer plight. He questioned the youth carefully, but, as we know, d.i.c.k could tell little about himself. The sergeant went over the books from the time Jimmy had found his partner in the box, but there was no report of any missing boys answering the description of d.i.c.k, though there were many youngsters missing.

"Didn't you say you had a hat with you in the box?" asked the sergeant.

"Yes, sir," replied d.i.c.k. "That is it," and he handed it over.

The officer looked at the band inside. This was a bit of detective work that had not occurred to either d.i.c.k or Jimmy.

"Hum!" remarked the sergeant with a shake of his head. "All it says is 'Boston Store.' I thought it might give the name of the place where it was bought."

"Perhaps it was purchased in Boston," suggested d.i.c.k, "though I don't remember ever living near there."

"No," replied the officer, "nearly every city has either a 'New York'

or a 'Boston' or a 'Philadelphia' store, and they are scattered from here to San Francisco. It's a queer custom. If that hat had the maker's name in it it might be a clue. However, I'll telegraph to Boston and make some inquiries."

"When will you have an answer?" asked d.i.c.k eagerly.

"Some time to-morrow, or maybe late to-night. Better call in to-morrow."

"I will," promised d.i.c.k, and feeling for the first time since he found himself in this queer plight that there was a ray of hope, he and Jimmy went back to the lodging-house.