Hector's Inheritance, Or, the Boys of Smith Institute

“There, boy,” he said, placing them in the hand of the disgusted knight of the brush.

“What’s that for?” he asked.

“It’s your pay.”

“Look here, mister, you’ve made a mistake; here’s only two cents.”

“I know it.”

“Do you think I work for any such price as that?”

“Perhaps you expect a dollar!” sneered Jim.

“No, I don’t; but a nickel’s my lowest price. Plenty of gentlemen give me a dime.”

“That’s too much; I’ve paid you all I’m going to.”

“Wait a minute. That boot don’t look as well as the other.”

Jim unsuspiciously allowed the boy to complete his work, but he had occasion to regret it. The bootblack hastily rubbed his brush in the mud on the sidewalk and daubed it on one of Jim’s boots, quite effacing the shine.

“There, that’ll do,” he said, and, scrambling to his feet, ran round the corner.

Then, for the first time, Jim looked down, and saw what the boy had done. He uttered an exclamation of disgust and looked round hastily to see where the offender had betaken himself. His glance fell upon Hector, who was quietly looking on, and not without a sense of enjoyment.

It often happens that we greet cordially those for whom we have even a feeling of aversion when we meet them unexpectedly away from our usual haunts. Jim, who was beginning to regret that circumstances had forced him to leave the serene sanctuary of Smith Institute, since now he would be under the necessity of making his own living, was glad to see our hero.

“Is it you, Roscoe?” he said, eagerly.

“Yes,” answered Hector, coolly.

“What are you doing?”

“Walking about the city, just at present.”

“Suppose we go together.”

Hector hardly knew how to refuse, and the two boys kept down Broadway in company.

“You’re surprised to see me, ain’t you?” asked Jim.

“Rather so.”

“You see, I got tired of the school. I’ve been there three years, so I told my uncle I would come to New York and see if I couldn’t get work.”

“I hope you may succeed,” said Hector, for he would not allow his dislikes to carry him too far. He felt that there was room in the world for Jim and himself, too.

“Are you going to work?” asked Jim.

“I hope so.”

“Got anything in view?”

“Not exactly.’”

“It would be a good thing if we could get into the same place.”

“Do you say that because we have always agreed so well?” asked Hector, amused.

“We may be better friends in future,” said Jim, with a grin.

Hector was judiciously silent.

“Where are you staying?”

“Up on Forty-second Street.”

“That’s a good way uptown, isn’t it?”

“Yes, pretty far up.”

“Are you boarding?”

“No; I am visiting some friends.”

“Couldn’t you get me in there as one of your school friends?”

This question indicated such an amount of assurance on the part of his old enemy that at first Hector did not know how to reply in fitting terms.

“I couldn’t take such a liberty with my friends,” he said. “Besides, it doesn’t strike me that we were on very intimate terms.”

But Jim was not sensitive to a rebuff.

“The fact is,” he continued, “I haven’t got much money, and it would be very convenient to visit somebody. Perhaps you could lend me five dollars?”

“I don’t think I could. I think I shall have to say good-morning.”

“I can’t make anything out of him,” said Jim to himself, philosophically. “I wonder if he’s got any money. Uncle Socrates told me his uncle had cast him off.”

Going up Broadway instead of down, it was not long before Jim met Allan Roscoe and Guy, whom he immediately recognized. Not being troubled with immodesty, he at once walked up to Mr. Roscoe and held out his hand.

“Good-morning, Mr. Roscoe!” he said, in an ingratiating voice.

“Good-morning, young man. Where have I met you?” asked Allan Roscoe, puzzled.

“At Smith Institute. I am the nephew of Mr. Smith.”

“What! Not the nephew who—”