CHAPTER III.
A STREET FIGHT.
Tom, of course, knew nothing of Jacob's accident. He fancied him safeat home, and was only concerned to make enough money to pay thenecessary expenses of both. He felt little anxiety on this score, as hewas of an enterprising disposition, and usually got his fair share ofbusiness. He stationed himself near the Astor House, and kept an eye onthe boots of all who passed, promptly offering his services where theyappeared needed. Of course, there were long intervals between hiscustomers, but in the course of two hours he had made fifty cents,which he regarded as doing fairly.
Finally a gentleman, rather tall and portly, descended the steps of theAstor House, and bent his steps in Tom's direction.
"Shine yer boots?" asked Tom.
The gentleman looked down upon the face of the boy, and a suddenexpression swept over his own, as if he were surprised or startled. Hisboots were tolerably clean; but, after a moment's hesitation, he said:
"Yes."
Tom was instantly on his knees, first spreading a piece of carpet,about a foot square, to kneel upon, and set to work with energy.
"How long have you been in this line of business, boy?" asked hiscustomer.
"Four or five years," answered Tom.
"Do you like it?"
"I have to like it," said Tom. "I've got to do somethin' for a livin'.Bread and meat don't grow on trees."
"What's your name?" asked the stranger, abruptly.
"Tom."
"Haven't you got but one name?"
"Tom Grey's my whole name; but everybody calls me Tom."
"Grey? Did you say your name was Grey?" asked the stranger, in a toneof some excitement.
"Yes," said Tom, surprised at the gentleman's tone.
In his surprise he looked up into his customer's face, and for thefirst time took notice of it. This was what he saw: a square face, witha heavy lower jaw, grizzled whiskers, and cold, gray eyes. But therewas something besides that served to distinguish it from other faces--ascar, of an inch in length, on his right cheek, which, though yearsold, always looked red under excitement.
"Grey," repeated the stranger. "Is your father living?"
"I don't know," said Tom. "If he is, he's too busy to call round andsee me."
"You mean that you don't know anything about your father?"
"That's about so," said Tom. "I'm ready to adopt a rich gentleman as afather, if it's agreeable."
And he looked up with a smile in the face of his customer.
But the latter did not respond to the joke, but looked more and moreserious.
"That smile," he said to himself. "He is wonderfully like. Is itpossible that this boy can be----"
But here he stopped, and left the sentence unfinished.
"Are you sure your name is Tom?" asked the stranger.
"Why shouldn't it be?" demanded the boy, in natural surprise.
"To be sure," returned the gentleman. "Only I have a theory that thereis a connection between faces and names, and you don't look like myidea of Tom."
This was rather philosophical to be addressed to a New York bootblack;but Tom was smart enough to comprehend it.
"If I don't look like Tom, what do I look like?" he asked.
"John, or Henry, or--or Gilbert," said the gentleman, bringing out thelast name after a slight pause.
"I like Tom best," said the boy; "it's short and easy."
"Do you live alone, or have you any friends?" asked the stranger.
"I live with an old man, but he ain't any relation to me."
"What's his name?"
"Jacob."
"What other name?" asked the customer, quickly.
Tom had by this time completed his task, and was standing erect, facingthe speaker.
"He's got an inquirin' mind," thought Tom; but, though rather surprisedat the questions, he had no objection to answer them.
"I don't know," he said.
"Don't know?"
"He never told me. Maybe it's Grey, like mine. Some call him mygrandfather, but he isn't."
"It is he," thought the stranger; "but things are well as they are. Heknows nothing, and need know nothing. I am safe enough, since betweenus there is a great gulf of ignorance, and more than a thousand milesof space."
"Well, my boy," he said, aloud, "I suppose you want to be paid?"
"That's what's the matter," answered Tom.
The stranger put in his hand a half dollar, and Tom, plunging his handin his pocket, prepared to give change.
"Never mind," said his late customer, with a wave of his hand.
"Thanks," said Tom, and he mentally wished he might be as well paidevery day for answering questions.
Tom shouldered his box, and walked a few steps down Broadway. It wassome time before another customer appeared, and meanwhile anotherbootblack came up. The name of the newcomer was Pat Walsh. He enjoyed abad reputation among his comrades--as one who would take a meanadvantage, if he dared, and was at all times ready to bully a smallerboy. He had long cherished an ill feeling toward Tom, because thelatter had interfered, on one occasion, to protect a smaller boy whomPat tried to cheat out of a job. As Tom's prowess was well known, Pathad contented himself hitherto with uttering threats which he hesitatedto carry into execution. It was shrewdly suspected by his companionsthat he was afraid to contend with Tom, and they had taunted him withit. Finding his authority diminishing, Pat decided to force a quarrelupon Tom at the first opportunity. He had no great appetite for thefight, but felt it to be a disagreeable necessity.
Just as he came up a gentleman approached with a valise in his hand.His boots were decidedly dirty, and he was hailed as a prize by thebootblacks.
"Shine yer boots?" exclaimed Tom and Pat, simultaneously.
"I don't know but they need brushing," said the traveler.
Instantly both bootblacks were on their knees before him, ready toproceed to business.
"I don't need both of you," he said, smiling.
"Take me," said Pat; "I'll give you a bully shine."
"I'll give you the bulliest," said Tom, good humoredly. "I spokefirst."
"Lave wid yer, or I'll mash yer!" said Pat.
"Better not try it," said Tom, not in the least intimidated. "Thegentleman will choose between us."
"I'll choose you," said the traveler, decidedly more prepossessed byTom's appearance than by that of his competitor.
There was no appeal from this decision, and Pat rose to his feet, hisface wearing a very ugly scowl. He remained standing near, while Tomwas engaged with his job, watching him with an aspect which betokenedmischief.
"Thank you, sir," said Tom, as he received pay for his services.
The customer had no sooner left the spot than Pat strode up to Tom.
"I want that money," he said, menacingly.
"Do you?" returned Tom, coolly, as he thrust it into his vest pocket,for, unlike the majority of his companions, he indulged in the luxuryof a vest.
"Yes, I do. It was my job."
"I don't see it."
"I spoke first."
"The gentleman chose me."
"You stuck yourself in where you wasn't wanted. Give me the money."
"Come and take it," said Tom, unconsciously making the same answer thatwas once returned by a heroic general to an insolent demand forsurrender.
"I'll do it, then," said Pat, who had been nursing his rage till he wasgrown reckless of consequences.
He threw down his box and sprang at Tom. The latter also quickly ridhimself of the incumbrance, and the two were soon wrestling at closequarters. Pat, by his impetuous onset, came near upsetting hisadversary; but, by an effort, Tom saved himself.
Then commenced a determined contest. Both boys were unusually strongfor their ages, and were, in fact, very evenly matched. But at lengthTom, by an adroit movement of the foot, tripped his opponent, and camedown on top of him. He did not hold him down, for he was fond of fairplay, but rose immediately.
"You didn't do i
t; I slipped," said Pat, in anger and mortification,and he instantly threw himself upon Tom again. But our hero kept cool,while Pat was excited, and this placed him at an advantage. So thesecond contest terminated like the first.
Cheers from a crowd of boys greeted this second victory--cheers towhich Pat listened with mortification and rage. He was half tempted torenew the battle, but a cry from the boys, "A cop! a cop!" warned himof the approach of his natural enemy, the policeman, and he walkedsullenly away, breathing threats of future vengeance, to which Tom paidvery little attention.
Five minutes later little Mike Flanagan came up, and pulled Tom by thearm.
"What's the matter, Mike?" asked Tom, seeing that the little boy lookedexcited.
"Your grandfather's been run over wid a horse," said the little boy,not very intelligibly.
"Run over!" exclaimed Tom. "How can that be, when he was at home on thebed?"
"He went out soon after you, and was beggin' on Broadway."
"Where is he now?" asked Tom, quickly.
"He was took to the hospital," said Mike.