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

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      It was not long before Jacob received ten cents.

      "What's the matter with you?" asked another passer-by, five minutes later.

      "I'm sick and poor," whined Jacob.

      "Well, there's something for you," and the old man, to his joy, found his hoard increased twenty-five cents. This he put into his pocket, thinking that he would be more likely to inspire compassion, and obtain fresh contributions, if only the ten cents were visible.

      He did not get another contribution as large. Still, more than one passer-by, attracted by his wretched look, dropped something into his hat, till the sum he desired was made up. He had secured the seventy-five cents necessary to make up the hundred dollars; but his craving was not satisfied. He thought he would stay half an hour longer, and secure a little more. He was tired, but it would not take long, and he could rest long enough afterward. An unlucky impulse led him to cross the street to the opposite side, which he fancied would be more favorable to his purpose. I say unlucky, for he was struck down, when half way across, by some stage horses, and trampled under foot.

      There was a rush to his rescue, and he was lifted up and carried into a neighboring shop.

      "Does anybody know who he is, or where he lives?" asked a policeman.

      "I know him," said little Mike, who had witnessed the accident, and followed the crowd in. "His name is old Jacob, and he lives in Carter's alley."

      "Is there anybody to take care of him – any wife or daughter?" asked the physician.

      Mike explained that he had only a grandson, and the physician thereupon directed that he be carried to Bellevue Hospital, while Mike ran home to bear the important news to his mother.

      CHAPTER III.

      A STREET FIGHT

      Tom, of course, knew nothing of Jacob's accident. He fancied him safe at home, and was only concerned to make enough money to pay the necessary expenses of both. He felt little anxiety on this score, as he was of an enterprising disposition, and usually got his fair share of business. He stationed himself near the Astor House, and kept an eye on the boots of all who passed, promptly offering his services where they appeared needed. Of course, there were long intervals between his customers, 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 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.

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