Fame and Fortune

Chapter 12

Poor d**k! If Trinity Church spire had suddenly fallen to the ground, it could scarcely have surprised and startled him more than his own arrest for theft.

During the hard apprenticeship which he had served as a street boy, he had not been without his share of faults and errors; but he had never, even under the severest pressure, taken what did not belong to him.

Of religious and moral instruction he had then received none; but something told him that it was mean to steal, and he was true to this instinctive feeling. Yet, if he had been arrested a year before, it would have brought him less shame and humiliation than now. Now he was beginning to enjoy the feeling of respectability, which he had compassed by his own earnest efforts. He felt he was regarded with favor by those whose good opinion was worth having, and his heart swelled within him as he thought that they might be led to believe him guilty. He had never felt so down-hearted as when he walked in company with the policeman to the station-house, to be locked up for examination the next morning.

"You wasn't sharp enough this time, young fellow," said the policeman.

"Do you think I stole the pocket-book?" asked d**k, looking up in the officer's face.

"Oh, no, of course not! You wouldn't do anything of that kind," said the policeman, ironically.

"No, I wouldn't," said d**k, emphatically. "I've been poor enough and hungry enough sometimes, but I never stole. It's mean."

"What is your name?" said the officer. "I think I have seen you before."

"I used to black boots. Then my name was Ragged d**k. I know you. Your name is Jones."

"Ragged d**k! Yes, yes, I remember. You used to be pretty well out at elbows, if I remember rightly."

"My clothes used to be pretty well ventilated," said d**k, smiling faintly. "That was what made me so healthy, I expect. But did you ever know me to steal?"

"No," said the officer, "I can't say I have."

"I lived about the streets for more then eight years," said d**k, "and this is the first time I was ever arrested."

"What do you do now?"

"I'm in a*****e on Pearl Street."

"What wages do you get?"

"Ten dollars a week."

"Do you expect me to believe that story?"

"It's true."

"I don't believe there's a boy of your age in the city that gets such wages. You can't earn that amount."

"I jumped into the water, and saved the life of Mr. Rockwell's little boy. That's why he pays me so much."

"Where did you get that watch and chain? Are they gold?"

"Yes, Mrs. Rockwell gave them to me."

"It seems to me you're in luck."

"I wasn't very lucky to fall in with you," said d**k. "Don't you see what a fool I should be to begin to pick pockets now when I am so well off?"

"That's true," said the officer, who began to be shaken in his previous conviction of d**k's guilt.

"If I'd been going into that business, I would have tried it when I was poor and ragged. I should not have waited till now."

"If you didn't take the pocket-book, then how came it in your pocket?"

"I was looking in at a shop window, when I felt it thrust into my pocket. I suppose it was the thief who did it, to get out of the scrape himself."

"That might be. At any rate, I've known of such cases. If so, you are unlucky, and I am sorry for you. I can't let you go, because appearances are against you, but if there is anything I can do to help you I will."

"Thank you, Mr. Jones," said d**k, gratefully. "I did not want you to think me guilty. Where is the man that lost the pocket-book?"

"Just behind us."

"I should like to speak to him a moment."

The red-faced man, who was a little behind, came up, and d**k asked, quietly, "What makes you think I took your pocket-book, sir?"

"Wasn't it found in your pocket, you young rascal?" said the other, irritably.

"Yes," said d**k.

"And isn't that enough?"

"Not if somebody else put it there," said d**k.

"That's a likely story."

"It's a true story."

"Can you identify this as the boy who robbed you, and whom you saw running?"

"No," said the red-faced man, rather unwillingly. "My eyesight is not very good, but I've no doubt this is the young rascal."

"Well, that must be decided. You must appear to-morrow morning to prefer your complaint."

"Mind you don't let the rascal escape," said the other.

"I shall carry him to the station-house, where he will be safe."

"That's right, I'll make an example of him. He won't pick my pocket again in a hurry."

"I hope the judge won't be so sure that I am guilty," said d**k. "If he is, it'll go hard with me."

"Why don't you call your employer to testify to your good character?"

"That's a good idea. Can I write a note to him, and to another friend?"

"Yes; but perhaps the mail wouldn't carry them in time."

"I will send a messenger. Can I do so?"

"When we get to the station-house I will see that you have a chance to send. Here we are."

Escorted by the officer, and followed by his accuser, d**k entered. There was a railing at the upper end of the room, and behind it a desk at which sat a captain of the squad.

The officer made his report, which, though fair and impartial, still was sufficient to cause our hero's commitment for trial.

"What is your name?" questioned the captain.

Dick thought it best to be straightforward, and, though he winced at the idea of his name appearing in the daily papers, answered in a manly tone, "Richard Hunter."

"Of what nation?"

"American."

"Where were you born?"

"In this city."

"What is your age?"

"Sixteen years."

These answers were recorded, and, as d**k expressed a desire to communicate with his friends before trial, permission was given him to write to them, and the trial was appointed for the next morning at the Tombs. The red-faced man certified that his wallet contained nine dollars and sixty-two cents, which was found to be correct. He agreed to be present the next morning to prefer his charge, and with such manifest pleasure that he was not retained, as it sometimes happens, to insure his appearance.

"I will find a messenger to carry your notes," said the friendly officer.

"Thank you," said d**k. "I will take care that you are paid for your trouble."

"I require no pay except what I have to pay the messenger."

Dick was escorted to a cell for safe-keeping. He quickly dashed off a letter to Mr. Murdock, fearing that Mr. Rockwell might not be in the store. It was as follows:-