"But he was proved innocent," said Mr. Rockwell, "so, if you have anything to say against him, your time is thrown away."

"I know he was innocent," said Micky; "another boy took it."

"Who was he?"

"I did it."

"Then you did a wicked thing in stealing the money, and a mean thing in trying to get an innocent boy into trouble."

"I wouldn't have done it," said Micky, "if I hadn't been paid for it."

"Paid for stealing!" said Mr. Rockwell, astonished.

"Paid for tryin' to get d.i.c.k into trouble."

"That does not seem to be a very likely story," said Mr. Rockwell. "Who would pay you money for doing such a thing?"

"Mr. Gilbert."

"My book-keeper?"

"Yes," said Micky, vindictively.

"I can hardly believe this," said Mr. Rockwell.

"He paid me only a dollar for what I did," said Micky, in an injured tone. "He'd ought to have given me five dollars. He's a reg'lar mean feller."

"And is this why you betray him now?"

"No," said Micky; "it isn't the money, though it's mean to expect a feller to run the risk of bein' nabbed for a dollar; but when the 'copp'

had got hold of me I met him, and he said I was a young scamp, and he didn't know anything about me."

"Is this true?" asked Mr. Rockwell, looking keenly at Micky.

Micky confirmed his statement by an oath.

"I don't want you to swear. I shall not believe you the sooner for that.

Can you explain why Mr. Gilbert should engage in such a base conspiracy?"

"He told me that he hated d.i.c.k," said Micky.

"Do you like him?"

"No, I don't," said Micky, honestly; "but I hate Mr. Gilbert worse."

"Why do you hate Richard?"

"Because he puts on airs."

"I suppose," said Mr. Rockwell, smiling, "that means that he wears good clothes, and keeps his face and hands clean."

"He wasn't nothin' but a boot-black," said Micky, in an injured tone.

"What are you?"

"I'm a boot-black too; but I don't put on airs."

"Do you mean to be a boot-black all your life?"

"I dunna," said Micky; "there aint anything else to do."

"Tell me truly, wouldn't you rather wear good clothes than poor ones, and keep yourself clean and neat?"

"Yes, I should," said Micky, after a slight hesitation.

"Then why do you blame d.i.c.k for preferring to do the same?"

"He licked me once," said Micky, rather reluctantly, shifting his ground.

"What for?"

"I fired a stone at him."

"You can't blame him much for that, can you?"

"No," said Micky, slowly, "I dunno as I can."

"For my own part I have a very good opinion of Richard," said Mr.

Rockwell. "He wants to raise himself in the world, and I am glad to help him. If that is putting on airs, I should be glad to see you doing the same."

"There aint no chance for me," said Micky.

"Why not?"

"I aint lucky as d.i.c.k is."

"d.i.c.k may have been lucky," said Mr. Rockwell, "but I generally find that luck comes oftenest to those who deserve it. If you will try to raise yourself I will help you."

"Will you?" asked Micky, in surprise.

The fact was, he had been an Ishmaelite from his earliest years, and while he had been surrounded by fellows like Limpy Jim, who were ready to encourage and abet him in schemes of mischief, he had never had any friends who deserved the name. That a gentleman like Mr. Rockwell should voluntarily offer to a.s.sist him was indeed surprising.

"How old are you?" asked Mr. Rockwell.

"Seventeen," said Micky.

"How long have you blacked boots?"

"Ever since I was eight or nine."