Meanwhile Dick, all unconscious of the plot being woven about him, continued to sell his papers. When he was out he went to the delivery wagon and got more, and he remained in the financial district until three o'clock, when, as that marks the close of the day's business, there was not much chance to sell any more papers.
Then he went up to report to Jimmy and help him dispose of his stock by circulating around City Hall Park and the streets leading to the ferries.
"Well, dis ain't so bad," remarked Jimmy as they went to supper that evening, calculating on the way how much they had taken in.
"No, indeed," said his partner. "If this keeps on we can soon start a regular stand."
"Crimps! Dat would be fine! But I guess we'll have t' have more money saved up. All de good places is taken, and we'd have t' buy somebody out."
"Oh, yes, we'll have to have more money," agreed Dick. "But if all goes well we can put another dollar in the bank this week."
"Dat's de stuff. Crimps! but I'm hungry! Guess I'll have a——" Jimmy stopped suddenly as he put his hand in his pocket.
"What's the matter? Lost your money?" asked Dick 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 Dick also began to instruct his pupil in the mysteries of writing. It was not easy work, but Dick 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 Dick to be able to read and call out intelligently the items of news. In this way Dick could sell as many papers as could Jimmy, and with half the effort, for Jimmy made himself hoarse 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 Dick. 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 pronounce them correctly. He saw that "the" spelled a different word from "de," as he was accustomed to pronounce 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 Dick. "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 Dick 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.
"Dick, 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, Dick, for you've been so good to me an' have done so much for me."
For a few seconds Dick 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 Dick 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 brass-buttoned sergeant sitting behind the brass railing looked very stern, but the newsboy mustered up courage to enter. As for Dick, he was filled with a nervous excitement.
The story was soon told, and the sergeant at once took an interest in Dick's queer plight. He questioned the youth carefully, but, as we know, Dick 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 Dick, 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 Dick. "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 Dick 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 Dick, "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 Dick eagerly.
"Some time to-morrow, or maybe late to-night. Better call in to-morrow."
"I will," promised Dick, 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.
Dick did not sleep well that night, for he was thinking that perhaps the next day would find his identity established and the mystery solved.
But Dick was doomed to disappointment. Early the next morning he and Jimmy called at police headquarters.
"There's no news for you," said the sergeant. "I wired to Boston, but the police there haven't any calls for any missing boys answering your description. If you were a man now you might answer."
"Why, are there any men missing?" asked Dick, interested to know there were other persons in a similar plight to his own.
"Yes, several. However, don't be discouraged. I'll keep on the lookout, and if I hear anything I'll let you know. Better leave me your address."
Dick gave it to the sergeant and then, rather discouraged, he left with Jimmy to begin the day's work of selling papers.
"I guess nobody wants me back," said Dick a little sadly as, with his bundle under his arm, he started for Wall Street.
"Sure they does," declared Jimmy. "It'll come out all right, you see. Anyhow, I want you. I don't know what I'd a' done if it hadn't been fer youse—I mean for you."
"Oh, I guess you'd have gotten along," replied Dick, smiling to see his partner's efforts to talk more correctly. "However, I'm glad I'm of some use to some one. I hope we have a good day to-day so we can put some more money in the bank."
"Ain't we got quite a lot?"
"Yes, but I want to get enough ahead for a special purpose."
"What is it?"
"I'll tell you later. It's going to be a surprise."
Then, fearing Jimmy would ask more questions, Dick hurried off.
Business was fair the rest of the week, and Saturday night Jimmy and Dick were able to put away three dollars between them.
"Come on," said Dick that night after supper.
"Where you going?"
"To the bank."
"You don't need me to put that money in."
"No, but I'm going to draw some out."
"Draw some out? What fer—I mean what for?"
"You're going to have a new suit of clothes," declared Dick. "You need one, and we can afford it. That is not exactly a new one, but I saw some good second-handed clothes in a store to-day, cheap, and you need a suit."
"I guess I do," admitted Jimmy, looking at his rather ragged one. "But it ain't fair to take the money for that. We may need it."
"If we do we'll earn more. You have a right to look as good as possible, now that we're in business. It will make a better impression on the customers."
"Dat's so—I mean that's so," agreed Jimmy. "Well, I'll leave it to you."
They went to the bank, which kept open Saturday night for the benefit of depositors who got their wages on that day, and Dick drew out enough, with what they had accumulated that week, to buy Jimmy a good second-hand suit. The boy's appearance was much improved by it, and he surveyed himself proudly.
The purchase of the suit made quite a little hole in their savings, but Dick did not regret it. For the first time since he and Jimmy had been partners they went walking the following Sunday in the better part of the city. Heretofore Jimmy, with his ragged garments, had refused to stir away from the vicinity of the lodging-house, but now he felt that even Fifth Avenue was not too stylish for him. Certainly clothes make a great difference to almost any one.
Dick, who had a dim recollection of having been in the habit of going to church on Sunday, wanted to propose it to Jimmy, but he reasoned that the newsboy might object to having too many reforms instituted at once. So Dick decided to wait a while.
Several weeks passed, and Jimmy continued to improve in his lessons. He could write short sentences now, and was beginning to be able to read simple stories in an old school book Dick had purchased. The young teacher also began to impart to his pupil a knowledge of arithmetic, and this he found was comparatively easy, as Jimmy had a good head for figures and was quick in making change.
Prosperity seemed to smile on the two newsboy partners. They continued to save a little every week, and in this they were encouraged by Mr. Snowden, manager of the lodging-house. Frank Merton, whose room was not far from where the two boys had theirs, used frequently to come in evenings and help Jimmy with his lessons. As Dick had a good education, he was also of service to Frank, who had had to leave school when very young.
"Why don't you get ready to go to night school when the term opens, Jimmy?" proposed Frank one night.
"Maybe I will."
"That would be a good thing," agreed Dick. "I think I'll go myself."
"You? You don't want to learn any more, do you?" asked Jimmy, whose language had improved very much.
"Indeed I do. Why, I don't know much more than you do. I must have been going to school—in my—before the accident happened, you know," for that was the way Dick referred to the past.
"If we all three could go it would be fine," said Frank. "They have good teachers at the school where I go. The term will open again in September. That's about two months off."
The boys discussed this plan, and Dick, though he did not mention it, had it in mind to propose to Jimmy soon that they take Frank into partnership with them. Dick's trade in papers in the financial district was growing to such an extent that he could scarcely take care of all his customers, with the limited number of papers he could carry. He was thinking of opening a stand in Wall Street if he saw a chance for a good location. But he decided to wait a while.
In the meanwhile the police sergeant had received no word concerning Dick, and the boy was much disappointed. However, he kept up his courage as best he could, hoping something would occur to disclose his identity and put him in communication with his relatives, if he had any. He and Frank kept close watch of the reward and personal columns of the papers, and Jimmy, whose reading had rapidly improved, also did as much as he was able to in this respect.
Dick was beginning to feel proud of his success with Jimmy, and the teacher, young as he was, began to perceive that the newsboy had a sterling character. It is true that once or twice Jimmy had forgotten his promise about smoking, and when out with other boys of his acquaintance had indulged in a cigarette or two. But he was always sorry for these lapses, and after telling Dick of them would make a new resolve. He had not smoked now in over three weeks. He was using less and less slang, too, and his manners were much improved.
These changes and the wearing of neater clothes could not but have their effect. Though his former companions laughed at the changes in Jimmy, he knew they were doing him good. He began to assume a more business-like air.
"Well, well!" exclaimed Mr. Crosscrab one day as he stopped to buy a paper of Jimmy. "Matters seem to be going pretty well with you. You look prosperous."
"We're doing fine!" declared Jimmy. "It's all due to me—I mean my—partner, though. He's all to de merry—I mean he's a fine lad."
"I must call and see him," said the young man. "I should like to meet such a sensible business boy, as you tell me he is. Perhaps I could help him, as I am thinking of going into business myself here in New York."
"Say, don't bust up—I mean break up our partnership," pleaded Jimmy. "I wouldn't know what to do now without Dick."
"Yes, I guess it would be a pity to separate you. Well, I'll not do it."
But if Dick expected Jimmy was going to improve all at once, and drop all his manners and customs learned of a long association with street urchins, he was disappointed. One day, when Dick came up from Wall Street a little earlier than usual, he went to Barclay Street and Broadway to look for Jimmy. He did not find him there as he expected.
"Seen Jimmy?" he asked of Sam Schmidt, who was standing there selling papers.
"Yah. He und Ted Snook, dey iss gone off."
"Gone off? Where?"
"Hush! Don't say nottings, but Jimmy he ask me t' take his place und sell vot babers he had left."
"What did he do that for?"
"Hush! He und Ted, dey is goin' t' pitch pennies."
"Pitch pennies?"
"Yah! Down by der Battery, vere dere ain't no cobs. Der cobs 'ud arrest 'em if dey ketched 'em, so dey vent down dere. Ted he sait as how he could beat Jimmy, und Jimmy says as how he can vin all Ted's pennies. So dey are at it, und I is sellin' Jimmy's babers."
"Pitching pennies!" exclaimed Dick to himself, with a little sinking of his heart. "I hope Jimmy doesn't do much of that gambling. If he gets in with that crowd he'll begin smoking again. I must go after him." And he started toward the Battery to look for his erring partner.
Dick did not have to ask any directions to find Jimmy when he reached the Battery, which, as most of my readers may know, is a small park at the lower end of the metropolis. He saw a crowd of lads gathered in a secluded corner, and he at once knew them to be newsboys and bootblacks, for he recognized a number of them.
"That's where they are probably pitching pennies," he thought. "I must get Jimmy away from there."
His approach was unnoticed, so intent were the lads on the game, and not until Dick called Jimmy's name was the latter aware that his partner was present. Even then, beyond a first start of surprise, he showed no astonishment.
"Hello, Dick," he called. "How'd you find me?"
"Sam Schmidt told me."
"Sam Schmidt! I'll punch his head fer squealin' on us!" exclaimed a red-haired lad. "What right's he got t' butt in?"
"That's all right," responded Jimmy with an air of superior knowledge. "He's a partner of mine. Dick's all right. Did you want me, Dick?"
"Yes, you'd better come with me."
"Aw, an' break up de game!" expostulated several. "Why, Jimmy is winners, an' he can't go until we gits our stakes out."
"Sure I'm winnin'!" said Jimmy proudly. "I'm forty-two cents to the good now."
"I'd like to talk to you," went on Dick to his chum.
"All right, I'll come."
"Naw; stay!" called Pete Lanson. "Here, have a cigarette, Bricks."
Jimmy stretched out his hand to take one of the paper and tobacco rolls. For an instant he forgot his promise to Dick. Then he remembered it and shook his head.
"Gee! Youse must 'a' turned inter a Sunday-school kid," sneered Pete.
"I cut out smokin'," declared Jimmy, with a slight blush. "Me an' me partner can't afford it," he went on. "We're savin'—I mean saving—up for to buy a regular stand."
"Git on t' his sassiry language!" remarked another, with a mean laugh. "Fust we know Bricks'll be shakin' us all togedder."
"Dat's right," chimed in one or two.
"Go on, Bricks; it's your shot," advised Pete. "I t'ink I kin win from youse now."
"Are you coming with me?" asked Dick in a low tone.
"Say, kid, be youse his guardian?" inquired a big lad. "Why didn't youse tie a string t' Bricks if yer so careful of him as all dat."
"Guess I'll have to go, fellers," spoke up Jimmy, rather regretfully, it must be admitted.
"What? An' not give us a chance t' git some of our money back?" came from three or four.
"Some other day I will."
"Naw, I want t' pitch some more now," declared Pete.
There were angry murmurs at Dick's interference, and several scowled at Jimmy. It looked as if there might be trouble, but just then a policeman opportunely came in sight. Some one spied him, and there was a cry:
"Cheese it, de cop!"
Instantly the penny-pitching crowd dispersed as if by magic. Most of the boys jumped through the railings, cut across the grass plots and were lost to sight among the trees. The bigger lads walked more slowly, with an assumed air of innocence. As for Jimmy, he joined Dick, and the two strolled over to the edge of the Battery wall, looking down into the swirling waters of the bay.
"Did you want anything special?" asked Jimmy.
"Yes, I did."
"What is it? Is there a big extra out?"
"No. I heard you were gambling, and I came down to stop you."
"Gambling? You don't call pitchin' pennies gambling, do you, Dick?"
"What else is it?"
"Well, I s'pose it is, in a way. But that's no harm. All the fellows does it."
"I'm afraid that doesn't make it good, Jimmy. I don't want to be finding fault all the while, and I'm sure I don't set up to be any better than you are, but I know gambling is bad. You'll never win in the long run, and it will do you harm. Besides, you can't afford to lose, even if it is not wrong."
"But I won to-day."
"Do you often win?"
"Naw, this is the first time I ever made much. Most times I lose."
"I thought so. I hope you don't do it much."
"Not very often. De cops—I mean the policemen—are too strict. I do it once in a while."
"I wish you'd give it up," went on Dick. "I know I'm asking a lot of you. First you gave up smoking for me, then the use of slang and rough expressions, and now I ask you this. But I do it for your own good and because I like you, Jimmy."
"I know youse does—I mean you do, Dick, an'—say—I'll—I'll stop pitching pennies if you don't like it."
"Will you, really?"
"Honest! Here's my hand!"
Jimmy was thoroughly in earnest, and Dick knew his partner would keep his word. It might be well to say right here that from then on Jimmy never gambled, though often he was sorely tempted by his associates.
"What'd I better do with this money?" asked Jimmy after a pause. "I s'pose if it ain't right t' pitch pennies, it ain't right t' keep the money."
"No, it is not. Do you know who you won it from?"
"Sure."
"Then I'd give it back."
"Well, I guess I will, but it comes hard. I was goin' to a good show to-night with it."
"I'll stand treat for the show," said Dick, for he felt that something was coming to Jimmy for giving in about the gambling.
"Bully fer youse—I mean that's fine! But I've got t' pay Sam Schmidt for selling papers for me."
"Yes, you will be a little out of pocket on account of taking the time off, but better that than to get in the habit of gambling."
"Well, I didn't do so much, and I never thought it was wrong. All the fellers does it."
"I suppose so, but if we're going to make a success of this business we can't afford to gamble."
"No, I s'pose not," replied Jimmy a little dubiously.
Dick took his partner to a better class of theatrical performance that night, for the lad who had forgotten his identity did not care much for the moving picture shows.
"How do you like this?" he asked Jimmy.
"Well," was the slow answer, "I s'pose it's swell, an' all that, an' I'll get used to it in time, but I like a prize-fight best."
Dick laughed heartily, but he did not tell his partner the cause of his mirth.
During the days that followed the two newsboys did a good business. They sold many papers, and Dick was now on an equal footing with Jimmy, though the latter had had much more experience. There was more talk of taking Frank Merton into partnership with them, but as the latter had built up a good trade for himself in another part of the city, he did not know whether it would be a wise thing or not to make a new venture.
Meanwhile Dick was no nearer a solution of the mystery than enshrouded him. Night after night he would try and try again to remember who he was and where he came from, but without result. The past was like a sealed book to him, and he had absolutely no recollection of who he was or where he had lived.
"Do you know what I would do?" said Frank one night when, in the room of the partners, the three were talking over the strange case.
"Well, what would you do, Frank?" asked Jimmy.
"I'd take Dick to a doctor."
"A doctor? Why, I'm not sick!" exclaimed Dick.
"No, I suppose not. But I read of a case the other day of a man who was hit on the head and he forgot everything he ever knew. They took him to a hospital, operated on him, and his memory came back to him."
"I wonder if mine would?" asked Dick, with a new look of hope on his face.
"There's nothing like trying," said Frank. "Suppose we ask the superintendent, Mr. Snowden?"
"That's a good idea," came from Jimmy, who was sitting in a corner of the room.
This they did, and Mr. Snowden agreed to have a physician who was a friend of his look at Dick. The superintendent of the lodging-house agreed, in a measure, with Frank that perhaps there might be some injury to Dick's head because of the blow, which, when the resulting depression on the skull was removed, would bring back his memory.
A few days later the doctor examined Dick. The boy waited anxiously for the verdict.
"I am sorry," said the doctor, "but I can do nothing for you. There is no special injury to the head. The skull was not broken by whatever, or whoever, it was that hit you. You suffered some shock, and that took away your memory. Your mind now is as good as it was before the accident, except that everything in the past is blotted out."
"And will I never remember it again?" asked Dick.
"I would not say that. The chances are that some day it will all come back to you with a rush. Some forgotten incident will recall it all to you. It may be a slight thing—the hearing of some forgotten name—the seeing of some forgotten face—and then you may remember who you are and where you lived."
"Oh, I hope it comes soon," said poor Dick. "I am tired of all this uncertainty."
"Never mind," consoled Jimmy. "I'll stick by you to the last."
The disappointment following the doctor's verdict was keen for Dick. He had hoped that something might be done to aid him, but he found the only thing he could do was to wait, and this was very tedious.
"And maybe it will never happen," he said to Jimmy, that night in their room.
"Yes, it will," declared his partner, with more conviction that he felt. "You'll remember who you are some day, I'm certain."
"Perhaps—when it's too late."
"Well, don't think any more about it," advised Jimmy. "I heard some news to-day I forgot to tell you."
"What was it?"
"Well, a fellow that has a fine news-stand on Sixth Avenue near the elevated road wants to sell out. He's sick, an' he's got to go out West. I thought maybe you and me could buy him out."
"That's so, we might. How much does he want?"
"I don't know. Sam Schmidt was telling me about it. I didn't see the man who owns it."
"Suppose we go and see him," suggested Dick.
It had, for some time, been the ambition of the newsboy partners to own a regular stand, where not only papers but magazines and weeklies could be sold. Jimmy, in his wildest ambition, had sometimes dreamed of such a rise in life, but, until he had met Dick and learned new habits, including the one of saving his money, such a thing had not been possible for him, even to consider. Now he hoped he was in a position to realize his fondest expectation.
They went to see the owner of the stand the next day. The location, they knew from their past experience, was a good one, as it was near several ferries and street-car lines, as well as right under an elevated station. Thus the owner of the stand could always be assured of a large number of customers.
"I wonder how much he'll want for it?" spoke Dick, as they approached.
"Oh, maybe about forty or fifty dollars. How much have we got saved up now?"
"Nearly twenty-five."
"Maybe he'll trust us for what we haven't got, Dick."
"Perhaps, if we give him a mortgage."
"What's a mortgage?"
"Why, it's a paper showing that you owe a man so much money, and you give him a claim on your property as security. You'll soon learn about them in your arithmetic, especially when we get going to night-school."
"I don't care whether I learn or not, if I can be a part-owner in that stand," declared Jimmy, his eyes shining as he noted the pile of papers and magazines and saw the little enclosure where the proprietor of the place sat.
"Oh, but you must," insisted Dick. "Now shall I do the talking, or will you?"
"You'd better. But if he tries to come any 'con' game on us I'll have something to say. I know lots about selling papers, but not much about buying stands."
"I hear this stand is for sale," began Dick, speaking to a young man in charge.
"Who told you?" was the somewhat suspicious answer.
"My partner here, James Small, heard it from another newsboy, Sam Schmidt. Isn't it correct?"
"I suppose it is. I want to sell out. I've got to go West for my lungs."
"That's too bad. How much do you want for the stand?"
"Well, you know this is a good place to do business."
"I'll have to take your word for it," replied Dick. "Still it seems quite a lively place and ought to be good."
"Good? I guess it is!"
"How much do youse—I mean you—take in every week?" asked Jimmy suddenly, for he felt he could safely ask this question.
"What's that got to do with it?" inquired the stand-owner sharply.
"Lots. If me and me partner buys this stand, we want to know how much we're going to make."
"Well, I do a good business. Of course some days it's better than others."
"What does it average?" asked Dick.
"Well," replied the proprietor, after some figuring, "it averages fifty-five dollars a week."
Jimmy uttered a low whistle of surprise. That was higher than he had thought.
"And what are the expenses?" asked Dick quietly.
"I have to pay the elevated railroad company ten dollars a week for having my stand here, and I have to hire a boy to bring me papers and other supplies, for I sell cigars and tobacco. But there aren't many weeks when I don't clear twenty dollars."
Dick thought this was a fine business, but, of course, if he and Jimmy took it there would not be so much profit for each of them as the man got, unless they could increase the business. That was another matter to consider.
"How much do you want for the stand?" asked Dick, while he and Jimmy waited anxiously for the answer.
"Well, I'll take two hundred and fifty dollars cash, and not a cent less."
The figure was so high, and the announcement of it caused the partners such a surprise, that, for a moment, they did not know what to say.
Dick was the first to recover his composure. He had to admit that he had no idea of what a news-stand in New York might be worth. His previous notions, as well as those of Jimmy, had evidently been wrong.
"I'm afraid that figure is too high for us," spoke Dick slowly.
"High? That's dirt cheap," declared the young man. "Why you can make the stand pay for itself in six months. I'd never give it up if it wasn't that my health has failed."
"But we haven't got that much money," said Dick frankly.
"Can't you get it somewhere?"
"I'm afraid not. You see we are in partnership. We haven't been at it very long, but we've managed to save up twenty-five dollars."
"Oh, I couldn't think of taking that and waiting for the rest," declared the stand-owner.
"No, I wouldn't expect you to."
"Maybe you could borrow the rest somewhere. I'd be willing to take two hundred in cash and a mortgage for the balance."
"That would mean we'd have to borrow one hundred and seventy-five dollars somewhere," said Dick. "No, we can't think of it. We'll have to look for a cheaper stand or wait until we have more money saved up."
"You'll never get a cheaper stand. I know something about them, for I tried to buy one when I first went in the business."
"I haven't any doubt but what this stand is worth all you ask for it," went on Dick, "but it's beyond our means. I'm sorry."
"So am I," frankly admitted the young man. "I'd like to sell out to a couple of young fellows, but, of course, if you haven't the money you can't do business. And I need cash to go away with."
"Well, we'll have to look somewhere else," remarked Jimmy, much disappointed. They bade the young man good-bye and started back to resume the selling of papers, which they had interrupted in order to make their inquiries.
"Did you think he'd want so much as that?" asked Jimmy, as they walked up Barclay Street.
"No, I hadn't any idea stands were worth so much."
"Me either. I guess we'll never get one now."
"Yes, we will," declared Dick firmly. "I'm going to have one. If we can't find a cheaper one, we'll save up more money. A stand is the only way to make a good living in this business."
"Oh, we've done pretty well," observed Jimmy. "I've made more money since I've been with you than I ever made before."
"Yes, but it's not enough for a firm like ours," and Dick laughed. "We want to do three times as much."
During the days that followed the two partners devoted themselves harder than ever to the business of selling papers. They did well, too, for Jimmy had much improved in his methods and had attracted a number of new customers, who regularly bought their papers from him. Dick, also, had increased his trade and was becoming well known in the financial district as "the polite newsboy."
While at first there had been, on the part of other lads selling papers, a disposition to annoy Dick, they now let him alone. One reason for this was a quiet word spoken to the policeman in that district by one or two brokers, who had taken a liking to Dick, and who understood the opposition to him. After that the officer kept his eyes open and, having threatened to arrest several lads who annoyed the newcomer, there was no more trouble.
Meanwhile Dick was no nearer than ever a solution of the mystery that surrounded him. He hoped nothing now from the police, and, as for seeing some notice in the papers describing a missing boy like himself, he had long ago given that up. The two partners continued to live in their room at the lodging-house, and they were slowly accumulating a nice little balance in the bank.
But it grew slowly, too slowly to give them hope that they would reach the figure demanded by the news-stand owner in time to buy him out.
They heard, incidentally, that several of the bigger newsboys were thinking of consolidating and purchasing the place, and Jimmy suggested that he and Dick take Frank into partnership, but when the matter was explained to him, Frank, while grateful for the offer, said he could not afford to go into the scheme. He had some money saved up, but he said he had to help support a widowed aunt, a sister of his dead mother, and, as she would soon have to undergo an operation in the institution where she was, he was saving his money to help pay for it, as the old lady was destitute.
So that practically shattered the hopes of the two partners of owning the stand. Nor could they find one any cheaper that would suit their purpose.
"Never mind," said Dick. "We'll be ready to buy one next year."
But if Dick had ceased, save at odd times, to make some effort at discovering his identity, this was not true of two other persons. These were Bulldog Smouder and Mike Conroy. The two plotters had not forgotten their plan.
"Say, Bulldog," said Mike, one night not long after Dick's and Jimmy's attempt to buy the stand, "ain't dere nuttin' doin' in gittin' de reward fer dat kid?"
"Sure dere is."
"What?"
"Well, I've got me plans all made."
"'Bout time youse said somethin'. Did de detective know anyt'ing?"
"Not a t'ing. Dere ain't been no reward offered."
"Den what's de good of bodderin' wid it?"
"Dis good. I'm satisfied dat kid run away from home somewhere a good ways off. Dat's why nuttin' ain't been heard of it here in N'York. But I'll bet his folks, whoever dey are, wants him back. He's one of dem nice kids. He ain't fit fer dis business."
"He seems t' sell a lot of papers," remarked Mike.
"Yep. Too many. I'd like t' git him outer de way an' I could make more money down Wall Street way. So if we kin find out where he belongs we'll git de reward an' business'll be better fer us."
"Dat's so. How youse goin' t' do it?"
"Listen, an' I'll tell ye."
Then the two cronies whispered together for come time.
"Dat's a good plan," said Mike at length. "I'll do me share. When youse goin' t' try it?"
"T'-night. Once youse gits Jimmy outer de way de rest'll be plain sailin' fer me."
"Oh, I'll do it."
Soon after this the two plotters separated. Meanwhile Dick and Jimmy, all unconscious of what was being planned against them, were doing business as usual.
When Dick got back to the room, late that afternoon, having been out selling extras after their regular work in the financial district, he was surprised not to find Jimmy. He had seen the latter, not an hour before, and his partner had said he was, even then, on his way to the lodging-house to get ready for supper. Jimmy had promised to wait for Dick.
"I hope he hasn't gone off with some of those boys, pitching pennies," thought Dick. For he never could be quite sure of Jimmy, who was easily tempted, though, of late, he had been very good indeed.
But Dick's wonderment over his chum's absence was cut short by the entrance of Bulldog into the room, when, in answer to a knock on the door, Dick had called an invitation to enter.
"Evenin'," said Bulldog shortly. "Jimmy sent me fer youse, Dick. He want's youse t' come."
"Jimmy wants me? Where is he? What has happened?"
Dick felt a sudden fear.
"He's hurted a little bit—not much," went on Bulldog, "and he was took inter a house. He wants youse t' come. Will yer?"
"Of course. Do you know where he is?"
"Sure. I seen him a while ago. He ain't hurt bad. If youse'll come wit' me I'll show youse."
"Wait until I get my coat on and I'll come with you."
Dick followed his former enemy out of the lodging-house. He had no reason to suspect anything, for, of late, Bulldog had been rather friendly than otherwise.
Dick followed his guide into one of the worst parts of New York, but had little fear, as he had, more or less, become used to traveling about the slums with Jimmy. Bulldog led the way down through a dirty alley and into a ramschackle tenement.
"He's right upstairs," he said. "Come on."
Dick followed in the semi-darkness, illuminated by only a flaring kerosene lamp. Bulldog went into a room, and Dick, expecting to see his partner lying hurt on a bed or lounge, was surprised to see no one in the place.
"Why—why—where's Jimmy?" he asked.
"Jimmy is over in Brooklyn," said Bulldog, with a laugh.
"In Brooklyn? I thought you said he was hurt."
"Well, I guess he is, fer he's bound t' fight wid Mike when he finds out he's been fooled, an' Mike's liable t' hurt him."
"But what for? Why should he be in Brooklyn? And why have you brought me here?"
"Jimmy's in Brooklyn t' git him outer de way," explained Bulldog, with an ugly leer, "an' youse is here t' answer me some questions. Now, den, kid, I wants t' know where youse run away from home, who youse be, an' where youse lives. I'm goin' t' take youse back an' git de reward. Now youse can't fool me, an' if youse tries, it'll be bad fer yer. Come now, own up. Didn't youse run away from home? Answer me or I'll punch ye till yer does!" and Bulldog threateningly shook his fist in Dick's face.