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

      "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:

      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.