Alger Horatio Jr.
Tom, The Bootblack: or, The Road to Success

CHAPTER X.
TOM ARRIVES IN CINCINNATI

"You haven't told me your name yet," said Bessie, after a while.

"Gilbert Grey," said Tom.

The name sounded strange to himself, for he had always been called Tom; but his street-life was over. He had entered upon a new career, and it was fitting that he should resume the name to which he had a rightful claim.

"That's a good name," said Bessie, approvingly. "Would you like to know mine?"

"I know it already – it's Bessie Benton."

"Oh, you heard me use it. Do you like it?"

"Tip-top."

"That's another of your boy-words."

"Isn't it good?"

"I like it well enough. I'm not Miss Wiggins."

I am not going to inflict on the reader a full account of all that was said on the journey by Bessie and her young protector. They chatted upon a variety of topics, Tom taking care not to be too communicative touching his street experiences. He wanted to stand well with Bessie, and was afraid that she would not be quite so pleased and social with him if she should learn that he had been a knight of the blacking-brush.

It was early evening when the train reached Cincinnati.

"I think papa will be here to meet me," said Bessie, looking out of the car window, as they entered the depot. "Uncle telegraphed him from Buffalo that I would arrive by this train."

Our hero was sorry they were already at their journey's end. He had enjoyed Bessie's company, and he knew that he might never meet her again. Though he knew nothing of etiquette, he did what was proper on the occasion, and assisted Bessie to ascend the steps upon the platform.

Bessie looked around to find a familiar face.

"Oh, there's Cousin Maurice!" she said. "Here, Maurice, here I am."

A boy, somewhat taller than our hero, who no doubt considered himself a young man, came forward, and was about to kiss Bessie, but the latter drew back slightly and frustrated his design by giving him her hand instead.

Maurice colored a little, and looked vexed.

"Where is papa? Didn't he come?" she asked, quickly.

"He was busy, and sent me. Won't I do as well?"

"Of course I am glad to see you, but I hoped papa would be here."

"The carriage is outside; let us hurry," said Maurice, taking her arm.

"Wait a minute," said Bessie, releasing her arm. She walked up to Tom, and, taking his hand cordially, said: "Good-by, Gilbert. I'm ever so much obliged to you for taking care of me. We live at 116 B – street. I hope you will call in a day or two. Papa will be glad to see you, and he will thank you, too."

Tom's face flushed with pleasure.

"Thank you, Miss Bessie," he said. "I'd like to do it all over again."

"You'll be sure to come?"

"Yes, I'll come."

Maurice listened to this conversation with impatient annoyance. He liked his pretty cousin enough to be jealous of any one to whom she seemed attentive, and he thought her altogether too cordial with this strange boy.

"Who's that fellow?" he asked, as they were passing out of the depot.

"I don't know whom you mean."

"The boy you spoke to."

"The young gentleman I spoke to," remarked Bessie, with emphasis, "was Gilbert Grey."

"And who is Gilbert Grey, and how did you become acquainted with him?"

"Uncle Henry put me in his charge," said Bessie. "I've traveled with him all the way from Buffalo."

"A great protector he is!" sneered Maurice. "He isn't old enough to take charge of a kitten."

"A kitten would be more trouble than I was," said Bessie. "She might scratch. I never do that, you know, Cousin Maurice."

"I should think Uncle Henry might have found some older person to put you in charge of."

"I am glad he didn't. Gilbert was real nice."

"You shouldn't call him by his first name; it isn't proper."

"Pray don't talk about what's proper. I heard enough of that from Miss Wiggins. Besides, he's only a boy, you know, though, to be sure, he looks almost as old as you."

"Don't be so provoking, Bessie. I am much larger than he."

"Are you? I didn't see it."

"I am sorry you invited him to the house, Bessie. He only traveled with you a few hours. There is no need of becoming intimate with him on that account."

"I want to become intimate with him," said Bessie, with provoking frankness. "He's very nice."

"He seemed to me rather a low, common fellow," said Maurice, irritated.

"You needn't like him, if you don't want to," said Bessie. "Let us talk about something else," and she began to make inquiries about home affairs.

We return to Tom, whom we left standing on the platform in the depot.

"Have a carriage, sir?" asked a hackman.

"Where to?"

"Anywhere you like – Burnett House."

"If you know of any nice hotel where they'll board me for the pleasure of my company, you can take me right along."

"They don't do business that way, here."

"Never mind, then. I guess my private carriage is outside."

Tom, of course, knew nothing of Cincinnati; but, picking out a man with a carpet-bag, whose dress indicated limited means, he followed him.

"He won't stop at any of the tip-top hotels," thought our hero. "I can't afford to go first-class any more; my pocket-book ain't so full as it was."

He followed his unconscious guide nearly a mile. The latter finally stopped before a small, third-class hotel, which bore the name Ohio House. After a slight pause he entered, and Tom followed him. After the man had registered his name, Tom went up to the desk.

"What do you charge?" he asked.

"Two dollars a day."

"Is that the lowest price?"

"Where a party stays a week, it's ten dollars," was the reply.

"All right," said our hero.

"Will you register your name?"

Tom took the pen, and would have put down "Gilbert Grey," but, as we know, his education had been neglected, and he was not at all sure as to the proper way of spelling Gilbert. After a little reflection, he put down:

G. Grey, New York

The clerk wrote the number of a room opposite, and asked our hero if he would go to his room before supper.

Tom decided that he would, and was shown into a stuffy little bedroom, which would never have been mistaken, even by the most inexperienced, for a room in a first-class hotel. However, our hero was not very particular – he had never been accustomed to luxurious accommodations, and he was perfectly satisfied with No. 12.

"You can go," said he to the servant, "I'll be down in a jiffy."

He washed his face and hands – for even in the days of his street-life he had paid more regard to neatness than most of his class – opened his carpet-bag and took out a clean paper collar, which he substituted for the one he wore, and, after brushing his hair, went down stairs. He did not have long to wait for his supper, nor was he wanting in appetite. Though the establishment could boast of no French cook, the table was spread with substantial dishes, which Tom attacked vigorously.

"There's nothing like a good square meal, when a fellow's hungry," he said to himself. "It's more than old Jacob and I often got. I wonder what the old man would say if he knew I was payin' two dollars a day out of his money? I can't foller it up long, that's one sure thing. But it's no use worrying before it's time. I guess I'll find something to do in a big place like this."

Our hero knew little or nothing about geography, or the comparative size of places. He fancied that Cincinnati was nearly as large as New York. At any rate, it was large enough to afford a living for a young man of pluck and industry. He was no doubt correct in this. Pluck and industry are pretty sure to make their way in any place, whatever its size, and these qualities Tom certainly possessed.

He took up a copy of a Cincinnati daily, and looked over its columns to see if there was any vacant position which he could fill.

WANTED – A gentleman of experience and ability, as Principal of the – Grammar School. Salary, $2,500 the first year.

"The pay would suit me pretty well," said Tom, "and I guess I could lick some of the bad boys; but I could teach 'em all I know in half a day. Here's a coachman wanted. That won't do, either. 'Wanted. – A man with a small capital, to enter upon a light, genteel business.' I've got the small capital, and it's gettin' smaller every day. Perhaps I wouldn't be genteel enough."

After awhile Tom, having exhausted the advertisements, and found nothing to suit him, felt himself growing sleepy, and went up to bed.

CHAPTER XI.
BESSIE BENTON AT HOME

Tom came down to breakfast rather late the next day, but he felt fresh and hopeful, having slept off all his fatigue. He had money enough left to pay his board for a week and a half, and was not under the immediate necessity of obtaining work. He felt curious to see the city he was in, and devoted the day to wandering about the streets. He took pains to find out where B – street, the residence of Bessie Benton, was. He had made up his mind to call there that evening. It was a quiet, substantial house, in a nice street, indicating, in its appearance, the social position of the family.

About four o'clock in the afternoon, Tom ascended the steps and rang the bell.

"Is Miss Bessie Benton at home?" he inquired of the servant who answered his summons.

"Yes. Who shall I say wishes to see her?"

"Tom – I mean Gilbert Grey," said our hero, who came near forgetting his new name.

"Walk in, sir."

Tom was ushered into a handsome parlor, and took his seat on a sofa.

"This is rather ahead of the room old Jacob and I used to live in," he thought. "I didn't make many fashionable calls then."

He was interrupted by the entrance of Bessie herself, who advanced frankly, and welcomed him with evident pleasure.

"I'm glad you didn't forget to call, Gilbert," she said.

"I wanted to see you again," said Tom, with unconventional frankness.

"I'm glad you did. I want to introduce you to papa."

"Is he at home?"

"No, he won't be home till supper time. But, of course, you'll stay to supper?"

"I don't know," said Tom, awkwardly.

"Papa told me to invite you. He expects you."

"Then I'll stay," said Tom, promptly.

"How do you like the city? Have you been about much?"

"Yes, I've been goin' round all day. It isn't as big as New York, but I like it."

Just then Maurice Walton entered the parlor. He stopped short on seeing Tom, not over-pleased at the sight of a possible rival.

"This is Gilbert. Mr. Grey, Maurice," said Bessie.

"How d'ye do?" returned Maurice, ungraciously.

"Pretty well," said Tom. "I hope you're the same."

"You found the way up here pretty quick," said Maurice, rather rudely.

"Yes," said Tom. "I wanted to see your cousin – and you," he added, slyly, perceiving the feelings of Maurice.

"Where are you stopping?"

"At a hotel."

"So I supposed. There are several hotels in the city," he remarked, with a sneer.

"Are there?" asked Tom, innocently.

"Are you stopping at Burnett's?"

"No."

"That is the most fashionable hotel."

"That is the reason I didn't go there. I ain't fashionable myself."

"You don't say so?" sneered Maurice.

"Are you?"

"I hope so."

Here Bessie Benton burst into a laugh.

"What a vain, self-conceited boy you are, Maurice," she said.

"I don't call myself a boy at all," said Maurice, with lofty indignation.

"You're a young gentleman, then?"

"Of course I am."

"At what hotel did you say you stopped?" he asked, a minute later.

"I didn't say," said Tom.

Bessie laughed again, and Maurice colored with anger.

"If you'd rather not tell," he returned, "it's of no consequence."

"It's the Ohio Hotel."

"I never heard of it."

"Didn't you?"

"It can't be much of a hotel."

"I've seen better myself," said Tom. "It don't compare with the Fifth Avenue, in New York."

"Did you ever stop there?"

"I've been there often."

Tom did not explain that he once blacked boots in front of the hotel for several weeks. He did not feel disposed to take Maurice too much in his confidence. The fact is, that Maurice was considerably mystified as to Tom's position and claims to consideration.

There was, of course, a certain want of polish about our hero, the result of his early associations, which led Maurice to doubt if Tom was not socially his inferior. On the other hand, Tom's free and easy allusions to the Fifth Avenue Hotel, for instance, tended to combat this view. He became silent, and listened to the conversation between his cousin and Tom, which was altogether too free and animated to suit his taste.

"I wonder how long he's going to stay?" he thought.

"Isn't it most supper time, Bessie?" he asked, at length.

"Why? Are you hungry?"

"Rather," said Maurice, looking significantly at Tom, hoping that he would take the hint and go. He was ignorant of the invitation which had been given and accepted.

"Mr. Grey will stop to supper, Maurice," said Bessie.

"Oh! will he?" said Maurice; but his manner was far from showing pleasure.

He left the room soon after, and, at six, Mr. Benton came in. He was a stout, pleasant-looking man, with a look of Bessie about the eyes, and he very cordially welcomed our hero.

"My daughter tells me you took good care of her on the way from Buffalo, Mr. Grey," he said.

"I tried to," said Tom.

"Accept my thanks for your attentions. You are not very old for a protector," he added, with a smile, "but, from her account, you answered the purpose."

"There wasn't much to do," said Tom, modestly. "I'd like to do it again."

Bessie blushed a little, and laughed.

"It seems the arrangement was mutually agreeable," said the old gentleman. "Are you going to stay long in Cincinnati, Mr. Grey?"

"Yes, sir – I expect to."

"Then you must come and see us often."

"I should like to." Tom was on the point of adding, "tip-top," but stopped just in time.

Here the bell rang for supper, and the party adjourned to the dining-room. There were seats for four. Bessie sat opposite her father, having on one side Maurice, on the other Tom. The latter, I am bound to say, felt a little embarrassed. He knew that the usages of the family he was visiting must be different from those to which he was accustomed, and he was afraid he might make some blunder. He resolved, therefore, to watch Maurice carefully, and do whatever he did. Eating with a fork, he thought odd, and not nearly as convenient as a knife. Still, he did it to avoid mistakes. Maurice watched him, hoping to detect him in blunders, but to no purpose. He was, perhaps, slightly awkward, but committed no breaches of etiquette.

"This is Mr. Grey, Maurice," introduced Mr. Benton, at the commencement of the meal.

"I have the honor of knowing Mr. Grey," said Maurice, stiffly.

There was a slight emphasis on the word honor, which Mr. Benton did not notice.

After supper Mr. Benton said:

"I am obliged to go out on a little business, but you young people can amuse yourselves without me. Perhaps Mr. Grey would like to hear you play, Bessie."

"Perhaps he plays himself?" suggested Maurice, with a sneer.

"Do you?" asked Bessie.

"I can play on a hand-organ," answered Tom.

"Professionally?" inquired Maurice.

"I never was in the business," said our hero. "Is it profitable?"

"How should I know?" said Maurice, angrily.

They adjourned to a pleasant sitting-room, where there was a piano, and Bessie took her place at the piano.

"I am not much of a player," she said, "but will do my best."

After a while she began to sing. Her voice was pleasant, but not remarkable.

"I don't like singing alone," she said, at last.

"Mr. Grey will sing with you," said Maurice, maliciously.

"Will you?" pleaded Bessie, turning to our hero.

"If you'll play that," said Tom, pointing to one of the popular songs of the day, which he had caught in the street.

"Of course I will."

I don't claim that Tom was a remarkable singer; but his voice was of good quality, and harmonized well with Bessie's. He sang correctly, also, and she was much pleased.

"How well you sing, Gilbert," she said. "Can't you sing something else?"

They sang two other popular songs, to the great dissatisfaction of Maurice, who saw himself quite eclipsed by the new arrival.

"Isn't he splendid, Maurice?" asked Bessie, after Tom had taken leave.

"He's a low fellow!" said Maurice.

"I wish you were half as handsome and agreeable," said Bessie, warmly.

Maurice went to bed in a very unhappy frame of mind. Tom, on the other hand, felt, as he returned to his unfashionable lodgings, that he had never before had so pleasant an evening.

CHAPTER XII.
TOM GAINS A LITTLE INFORMATION

Though our hero was occupied considerably with thoughts of Bessie Benton, he did not lose sight of the two principal objects he had in visiting Cincinnati. One was, to ascertain the whereabouts of his uncle, the other, to obtain something to do. His cash was low, and he must find some employment.

He consulted a copy of the city directory, which he found in the office of the hotel; but, though he found plenty of Greys, he found but one bearing the name of James Grey. This one was a carpenter, and, of course, could not be his uncle.

"He must have left the city," thought Tom. "I wonder where his place of business was? I might find out something there."

"Have you any old directories?" he asked, at the office.

"How far back?"

"Five or six years."

"We have one of six years back."

"Will you let me look at that?"

The volume was found, after some difficulty, and put in Tom's hands. He turned at once to the g's, and, to his great joy, found the name of James Grey, merchant. His place of business was also given.

"That's something," thought our hero. "I'll go there at once."

There was no difficulty in finding the street and number, but there was a new name on the sign:

William Ferguson

Tom entered, and asked the first clerk he met if he could see Mr. Ferguson.

"What's your business?" inquired the subordinate.

"With Mr. Ferguson," answered Tom, promptly.

"Wouldn't I do as well?"

"How long have you been here?"

"What do you want to know that for?"

"If you've been here five years, I'll tell you."

"I haven't."

"Then I want to see Mr. Ferguson."

"It strikes me you are a young man of some importance."

"I am glad you have found it out," said our hero, coolly. "If you're not too much pressed by important business," (the clerk was leaning back, picking his teeth), "perhaps you wouldn't mind asking Mr. Ferguson if he will see a merchant from New York."

The clerk laughed.

"You're a hard nut to crack, young man," he said.

"Don't try to crack me, then."

The clerk went into the counting-room, and, returning quickly, told Tom he might go in.

Entering, Tom found himself in the presence of a man of about forty.

"Do you wish to see me?" he asked.

"Yes, sir. I should like to ask if you know anything of Mr. Grey, who used to be in business in this place?"

"I know a good deal of them – there were two."

"I know that, sir, but one died."

"Yes – it was John Grey."

"My father."

"Your father!" exclaimed the merchant, in astonishment.

"Yes, sir."

"But I thought John Grey's son died?"

"No, sir; that was a mistake. Can you tell me where my Uncle James lives? I don't find his name in the directory."

"No; he moved away, after selling out the business to me. I was head salesman in the establishment under the brothers Grey. Now the business is mine."

"And you don't know where my uncle went?"

"He went to Minnesota, I think; but where, I cannot tell. I don't think it was to St. Paul, or to any large place."

"How long ago was that, sir?"

"About five years since. But I always supposed John Grey's son was lost. You have a strong family look, however."

"Do I?" asked Tom. "I don't remember my father."

"Where have you been all these years?"

"I will tell you, sir," said Tom, "if you have time to hear the story. I didn't know who I was myself till a little while ago."

"Proceed. I am busy, but I have time to listen. Take a seat."

Tom told the story with which we are already familiar. Mr. Ferguson listened with strong intent. When it was finished, he said:

"Young man, have you the confession of this Jacob with you?"

Tom drew it from his inner pocket, and submitted it to inspection. He awaited the merchant's verdict.

"I recognize Jacob's handwriting," he said, at length. "He was a fellow-clerk of mine. I remember, also, that he disappeared at the same time with you. The story is a strange one, but I am inclined to think it is true. What do you intend to do?"

"I want to find my uncle."

"I am afraid you will find that difficult. He has left no clew in this city where he once lived. He sold out all his property, and has no interest here."

"You think he went to Minnesota?"

"Yes; but I cannot tell where."

"I will go to Minnesota, then," said our hero. "Is it far off?"

"It is several hundred miles away, and a large place when you get there. It costs money to travel. Are you well supplied?"

"I've got about fifteen dollars."

"Fifteen dollars!" repeated the merchant. "And you expect to undertake such a task on that sum?"

"I'd like to have more money; but what's the use of waitin'? I ain't gettin' richer."

"Have you any situation? Are you earning any money?"

"No, sir."

"Then I advise you to find something to do in the city, and postpone your plans of finding your uncle. You are just as likely to hear from him here, while at work, as if you were traveling in search of him," said Mr. Ferguson.

"I'd just as lief go to work," said Tom, "if I could find anything to do."

Mr. Ferguson reflected a moment. Then he turned to our hero, and said:

"I will think about your case. Come round to-morrow morning, about this time."

"All right, sir."

Tom left the counting-room, and was rather surprised to meet Maurice Walton on the main floor of the store.

"What brings you here?" asked Maurice.

"Business," said Tom.

"Important?" sneered Maurice.

"Very important," answered Tom, coolly.

"I wish I knew more about him," thought Maurice. "There's some mystery about him. He's impudent enough for half a dozen."

Some might have thought the impudence on the other side, but Maurice did not see it in that light.

It occurred to Tom that he would call and see the man who advertised for a person "with a small capital to enter a light, genteel business." He found the place after awhile – a small back room, scantily furnished, with a few packages lying on a solitary counter. There was a man of about thirty-five in attendance, who seemed to have nothing particular to do.

"Are you the one that advertised for a man with a small capital?" asked Tom.

"To enter a light, genteel business?" continued the other, briskly. "Yes, I am the one."

"Well, I've got a small capital, and that's just the kind of business I want."

"You're rather young. Have you ever been in business?"

"I should think I had. I've been in business for six or seven years."

"You must have begun young. What kind of business?"

"The boot and shoe business, mostly," answered our hero; "but I was in the periodical business for awhile."

"Well, if you've got experience, you can succeed in our business. How much capital have you?"

"Tell me about the business first."

"Well, it's the perfumery business. We've got up a new and superior kind of perfumery, which we sell by agents. I want to find some one to take charge of the office while I travel and solicit orders. You can take care of the office, can't you?"

"What's the wages?"

"Twenty dollars a week."

"That'll about suit me," said Tom.

"You will receive the money from the agents and take care of it."

"That suits me again."

"But, of course, we expect you to deposit money with us as security."

"How much do you want?"

"Five hundred dollars."

Our hero whistled.

"That's ahead of my pile," he said.

"How much have you got?"

"Fifteen dollars; but I owe part of it for board."

"Then get out of this office! Do you think I can afford to waste my time in talking to you?" said the young man, angrily.

"You'd rather waste my money. You'll have to hook in some other chap, mister. I've been round."

Of course it was only a trap to fleece the unsuspecting out of their money. Tom was posted, and only went in to have a little fun. He meant to wait and hear what Mr. Ferguson had to propose before forming any decisive plans for the future.