  The name of Micky Maguire is already familiar to the readers of "Ragged Dick." He had acquired a prominent position among the down-town boot-blacks by his strength, which he used oftentimes to impose upon boys weaker than himself. He was a young ruffian, indeed, with few redeeming qualities. When Dick was in the same business, he tried on two or three occasions to make him acknowledge his superiority; but it was not in Dick's nature to be subservient to any one whom he did not respect. Moreover, Dick had two good stout arms of his own, and knew how to use them in self-defence. The consequence was that Micky Maguire signally failed in the attempts which he made on different occasions to humble our hero, and was obliged to slink off in discomfiture with his satellite, Limpy Jim. The last glimpse we had of Micky was in Dick's cast-off clothes, of which by some means, probably not honest, he had become possessed. He did not wear them long, however. The famous Washington coat and Napoleon pants were only mortal, and, being already of venerable antiquity, became at length too fragmentary even for Micky's not very fastidious taste. One morning, accordingly, having levied an unwilling contribution from a weaker but more industrious boot-black, Micky went to Baxter Street, and invested it in a blue coat with brass buttons, which, by some strange chain of circumstances, had found its way thither from some country town, where it may at one time have figured at trainings and on town-meeting days. A pair of overalls completed Micky's costume. He dispensed with a vest, his money not having been sufficient to buy that also. Certainly Micky presented a noticeable figure as he stood in the City Hall Park, clad in the above-mentioned garments. He was rather proud of the brass buttons, and may even have fancied, in his uncultivated taste, that his new costume became him. While he was swaggering about he espied part of a cigar, which some one had thrown aside. Micky, who was fond of smoking, picked it up, and looked about him for a light, not being provided with a match. A young man was slowly crossing the park with a cigar in his mouth. But he was evidently plunged in thought, and hardly conscious of the scene about him. Micky observed this, and a cunning scheme suggested itself. He walked up to the young man, and said, cavalierly, "Give us a light, mister, will yer?" The young man mechanically took the cigar from his mouth, and passed it to the questioner without observing who he was. Had he done so, it is doubtful whether the request would have been complied with. Rapidly calculating that he would not notice the substitution, Micky, after lighting the "stub," handed it to the young man, retaining the good cigar himself, and placing it straightway in his mouth. This trick would probably have passed off undetected, if it had not been observed by some of Micky's fellow-professionals. A jeering laugh from these called the young man's attention to the substitution, and, with a look of indignation, he said, "You young rascal, you shall pay for this!" But Micky evaded his grasp, and scudded rapidly through the park, pursued by the victim of misplaced confidence. "Run, Micky; I'll bet on you!" cried Pat Nevins, encouragingly. "Go it, long legs!" said another, who backed the opposite party. "Give him a good lickin' when you catch him." "Maybe you'd have to wait too long for that," said Pat. "Leave yer cigar wid us, mister," said another boy. James Gilbert, for he was the young man in question, began to find that he was becoming rather ridiculous, and felt that he would rather let Micky go free than furnish a spectacle to the crowd of boot-blacks who were surveying the chase with eager interest. He accordingly stopped short, and, throwing down the "stub," prepared to leave the park. "Don't give it up, mister! You'll catch him," said his first backer. "Micky can't run far. Ragged Dick give him a stretcher once." "Ragged Dick!" said Gilbert, turning abruptly at the sound of this name. "Maybe you know him?" "Does he black boots?" "He used to, but he don't now." "What does he do?" "Oh, he's a swell now, and wears good clothes." "How is that?" "He's in a store, and gets good pay." "What's the name of the boy that ran away with my cigar?" "Micky Maguire." "Was he a friend of Ragged Dick, as you call him?" "Not much. They had two or three fights." "Which beat?" "Dick. He can fight bully." Gilbert felt disappointed. He was in hopes our hero had met with a defeat. Somehow he seemed born for success. "Then I suppose Maguire hates him?" "I'll bet he does." "Humph!" thought Gilbert; "I may turn his enmity to some account. Let me consider a little." At length a plan suggested itself, and his countenance cleared up, and assumed an expression of satisfaction. On reaching home he held the conversation with Roswell and his mother which has been recorded at the close of the last chapter. Meantime Micky went home to a miserable lodging on Worth Street, in the precincts of the Five Points, and very near where the Five Points House of Industry now stands. This admirable institution has had a salutary influence, and contributed greatly to the improvement of the neighborhood. Then, however, it was about as vile and filthy as could well be. Micky exulted not a little at the success of his cunning, and smoked the cigar—an expensive one, by the way—with not a little satisfaction. He recounted the story to a group of admiring friends who had not been fortunate enough to witness it. "It's you that's got the cheek, Micky," said Teddy Donovan. "You did it neat," said another. "Maybe I'll try that same, some day." "You'd better not. The copp might get hold of you." "Was it a good cigar, Micky?" "Wasn't it, just! I wish I'd got another. Stand treat, Teddy." "I would if I had the stamps. I'm savin' up my money to go to the Old Bowery to-night." The boys were standing in a little group, and in the interest of their discussion did not observe the approach of James Gilbert, who was now visiting the park with a special object in view. With an expression of satisfaction he recognized the boy who had served him a trick the day before. Indeed, it was not easy to mistake Micky. The blue coat with brass buttons and the faded overalls would have betrayed him, even if his superior height had not distinguished him from his comrades. Had Micky been aware of Gilbert's approach he would have thought it prudent to "change his base;" but, his back being turned, he was taken by surprise. His attention was drawn by a tap on the shoulder, and, looking round, he recognized his enemy, as he regarded him. He started to run, but was withheld by a strong grasp. "Leave me alone, will yer?" he said, ducking his head as if he expected a blow. "I believe you are fond of smoking," said Gilbert, continuing to hold him tight. Micky maintained silence. "And sometimes exchange a poor cigar for a good one?" continued his captor. "It was a mistake," said Micky. "What did you run for, then?" "What you going to do about it, mister?" asked one boy, curiously. "So it was a mistake,—was it?" said Gilbert. "Yes, sir," said Micky, glibly. "Take care you don't make the mistake again, then. Now you may black my boots." Not only the boys who were standing by, but Micky himself, were considerably surprised at this unexpected turn. They confidently expected that Micky would "get a lickin'," and instead of that, he had found a customer. Their respect for Gilbert was considerably diminished for failing to exact punishment, and, their interest in the affair being over, they withdrew. Micky laid down his box, and commenced operations. "How long have you been a boot-black?" asked Gilbert. "Five years—goin' on six," said Micky. "Can you earn much?" "No," said Micky. "Business aint very good now." "You manage to dress well," said Gilbert, with an amused look at Micky's habiliments. "Yes," said Micky, with a glance at the brass buttons; "but I had to borrer the money to buy my clo'es." "There used to be a boy around here that was called Dick. Did you know him?" "There be a good many Dicks. Which did you mean?" "This boy was nearly your size. I believe they called him 'Ragged Dick.'" "I know'd him," said Micky, shortly, with a scowl. "Was he a friend of yours?" "No, he wasn't. I give him a lickin' once." The fact happened to be the other way; but Micky was not very scrupulous as to the strict truth of his statements. "You don't like him, then? Where is he now?" "He's in a store, and swells round with good clothes." "Have you seen him lately?" "No, an' I don't want to." "He wears a gold watch now. I suppose he wouldn't have anything to say to you." "Maybe not," said Mickey. "It would be a good joke if he should lose his place and have to go back to boot-blacking again." "I wish he would," said Micky, fervently. "It 'ould cure him of puttin' on airs." "If, for example, his employer should be convinced that he was a thief, he would discharge him." "Do you know him, mister?" asked Micky, looking up suddenly. "Yes." "Is he a friend of yours?" "I like him about as well as you do," said Gilbert. "Done!" said Micky, releasing the second foot. "Suppose you brush the other boot again. I'll pay you double. I want to talk to you a little." "All right!" said Micky, and he resumed operations. The conversation that followed we do not propose to chronicle. The results will appear hereafter. Enough that Gilbert and Micky departed mutually satisfied, the latter the richer by five times his usual fee. |
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