Finally a gentleman, rather tall and portly, descended the steps of the Astor 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 sudden expression swept over his own, as if he were surprised or startled. His boots 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 his customer.
"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 tone of some excitement.
"Yes," said Tom, surprised at the gentleman's tone.
In his surprise he looked up into his customer's face, and for the first time took notice of it. This was what he saw: a square face, with a heavy lower jaw, grizzled whiskers, and cold, gray eyes. But there was something besides that served to distinguish it from other faces—a scar, of an inch in length, on his right cheek, which, though years old, 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 and see 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 a father, 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 more serious.
"That smile," he said to himself. "He is wonderfully like. Is it possible 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 there is a connection between faces and names, and you don't look like my idea 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 the last 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, facing the speaker.
"He's got an inquirin' mind," thought Tom; but, though rather surprised at 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 my grandfather, but he isn't."
"It is he," thought the stranger; "but things are well as they are. He knows nothing, and need know nothing. I am safe enough, since between us there is a great gulf of ignorance, and more than a thousand miles of 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 hand in 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 paid every day for answering questions.
Tom shouldered his box, and walked a few steps down Broadway. It was some time before another customer appeared, and meanwhile another bootblack came up. The name of the newcomer was Pat Walsh. He enjoyed a bad reputation among his comrades—as one who would take a mean advantage, if he dared, and was at all times ready to bully a smaller boy. He had long cherished an ill feeling toward Tom, because the latter had interfered, on one occasion, to protect a smaller boy whom Pat tried to cheat out of a job. As Tom's prowess was well known, Pat had contented himself hitherto with uttering threats which he hesitated to carry into execution. It was shrewdly suspected by his companions that he was afraid to contend with Tom, and they had taunted him with it. Finding his authority diminishing, Pat decided to force a quarrel upon Tom at the first opportunity. He had no great appetite for the fight, 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 the bootblacks.
"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 to proceed 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 spoke first."
"Lave wid yer, or I'll mash yer!" said Pat.
"Better not try it," said Tom, not in the least intimidated. "The gentleman will choose between us."
"I'll choose you," said the traveler, decidedly more prepossessed by Tom's appearance than by that of his competitor.
There was no appeal from this decision, and Pat rose to his feet, his face wearing a very ugly scowl. He remained standing near, while Tom was engaged with his job, watching him with an aspect which betokened mischief.
"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 luxury of 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 that was once returned by a heroic general to an insolent demand for surrender.
"I'll do it, then," said Pat, who had been nursing his rage till he was grown reckless of consequences.
He threw down his box and sprang at Tom. The latter also quickly rid himself of the incumbrance, and the two were soon wrestling at close quarters. Pat, by his impetuous onset, came near upsetting his adversary; but, by an effort, Tom saved himself.
Then commenced a determined contest. Both boys were unusually strong for their ages, and were, in fact, very evenly matched. But at length Tom, by an adroit movement of the foot, tripped his opponent, and came down on top of him. He did not hold him down, for he was fond of fair play, but rose immediately.
"You didn't do it; 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 the second contest terminated like the first.
Cheers from a crowd of boys greeted this second victory—cheers to which Pat listened with mortification and rage. He was half tempted to renew the battle, but a cry from the boys, "A cop! a cop!" warned him of the approach of his natural enemy, the policeman, and he walked sullenly away, breathing threats of future vengeance, to which Tom paid very little attention.
Five minutes later little Mike Flanagan came up, and pulled Tom by the arm.
"What's the matter, Mike?" asked Tom, seeing that the little boy looked excited.
"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 the bed?"
"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.