Bernard Brooks' Adventures: The Experience of a Plucky Boy

“Thank you. I will take your advice.”

During the afternoon Bernard walked through the Strand and Fleet Street. He found plenty to attract his attention. Though the signs were English he found a great difference between English and American shops. Near the Bank of England he met Nelson Sturgis.

“Glad to meet you, Bernard,” said the Boston drummer. “I have some news for you.”

“What is it, Mr. Sturgis?”

“Your friend, the professor, has called upon me at the Charing Cross.”

Bernard was startled.

“How do you think he guessed we were there?”

“In the easiest way in the world. He found the cabby who had driven us to the hotel.”

“Was he looking for me?”

“Yes. When he saw me his face brightened. He demanded you, thinking that you were somewhere in the hotel.”

“It is lucky I didn’t stay there. Is he there now?”

“No; finding that he was mistaken, he went away disappointed.”

“Suppose we meet him in the street?”

“Bluff him. Refuse to go with him. He would have to prove a right to control you, and that would be difficult. How do you like your hotel?”

“Very much. It is comfortable and cheap.”

“Have you made any acquaintances?”

“Yes; a schoolma’am from Massachusetts.”

“Is she young and pretty?” asked Mr. Sturgis with a smile.

“No; she is plain, and, as to age, I think she must be near forty. She might do for you,” suggested Bernard with a roguish look.

“Thank you. Your description doesn’t seem attractive.”

“She is a very nice lady, however, and has given me some good advice about getting a position.”

“I am glad of that. I wish I could do something for you, but my stay in London is very limited.”

“I am sorry for that. I shall feel very lonely when you are gone.”

“And unfortunately I go to-morrow.”

“Where?”

“To some of the manufacturing districts. You know my trip is a business one. How are you off for money?”

“I can get along for the present, and I hope before long to get a place.”

“I hope so, but I fear your being an American will interfere with you. The English have an idea that American boys have too much license, and they would hesitate to take one into their employment.”

“It seems queer to see boys even younger than I am with silk hats on.”

“Yes; but it is the English style. You can’t pass for an English boy – of the better class – without following their example.”

“I wouldn’t do that. They look like guys. Just let one of them appear in New York rigged out in that way. Why, the other boys would mob him.”

“That is true. Still I don’t know, but it is well when you are in Rome to do as the Romans do.”

“Does that mean that you recommend me to put on one of those tiles?”

“Well, not at present,” said Mr. Sturgis. “If it would procure you a position I should advise you to do so.”

Presently the two separated, and Bernard strolled on alone, his companion having a business call to make near the bank.

“Have a shine?”

The boy who asked the question was a typical London street urchin, with ragged clothes, and face and hands bearing evidence of his occupation.

Bernard looked at his shoes. They certainly stood in need of polishing, but he knew that his means were small and daily diminishing, and was cautious enough to ask the price.

“A penny,” answered the street boy.

Bernard signed to the boy to begin.

The boy understood his business, and went to work like an expert.

“Do you earn much?” asked Bernard.

“That’s as it happens. When I’m lucky I make one and eight pence or two shillin’s. Yesterday a gent – he was an American – give me sixpence for a shine. Americans are rich.”

“Not all of them. I am an American.”

“Have you got a bowie knife?”

“No,” answered Bernard, with a laugh. “What makes you ask?”

“I was readin’ a story in a paper that said all the American boys carried bowie knives.”

“That’s a mistake.”

Bernard was feeling for a penny to pay the young bootblack when he heard a snort of triumph, and looking up, he saw Professor Puffer bearing down upon him.

CHAPTER XXII. DICK THE BOOTBLACK