she’s got a good room that she can give you for two dollars a week—I don’t know how much you’d be willing to pay, but–”
“I can pay that for a time at least. I have a little money, and I must find some work to do soon. Is this Mrs. O’Keefe a nice lady?”
“She ain’t a lady at all,” answered Dodger, bluntly. “She keeps an apple-stand near the corner of Bowery and Grand Street; but she’s a good, respectable woman, and she’s good-hearted. She’ll be kind to you, and try to make things pleasant; but if you ain’t satisfied–”
“It will do for the present. Kindness is what I need, driven as I am from the home of my childhood. But you, Dodger, where do you live?”
“I’m goin’ to take a small room in the same house, Miss Florence.”
“I shall be glad to have you near me.”
“I am proud to hear you say that. I’m a poor boy, and you’re a rich lady, but–”
“Not rich, Dodger. I am as poor as yourself.”
“You’re a reg’lar lady, anyway. You ain’t one of my kind, but I’m going to improve and raise myself. I was readin’ the other day of a rich man that was once a poor boy, and sold papers like me. But there’s one thing in the way—I ain’t got no eddication.”
“You can read and write, can’t you, Dodger?”
“Yes; I can read pretty well, but I can’t write much.”
“I will teach you in the evenings, when we are both at leisure.”
“Will you?” asked the boy, with a glad smile. “You’re very kind—I’d like a teacher like you.”
“Then it’s a bargain, Dodger,” and Florence’s face for the first time lost its sad look, as she saw an opportunity of helping one who had befriended her. “But you must promise to study faithfully.”
“That I will. If I don’t, I’ll give you leave to lick me.”
“I shan’t forget that,” said Florence, amused. “I will buy a ruler of good hard wood, and then you must look out. But, tell me, where have you lived hitherto?”
“I don’t like to tell you, Miss Florence. I’ve lived ever since I was a kid with a man named Tim Bolton. He keeps a saloon on the Bowery, near Houston Street. It’s a tough place, I tell you. I’ve got a bed in one corner—it’s tucked away in a closet in the day.”
“I suppose it is a drinking saloon?”
“Yes, that’s what it is.”
“And kept open very late?”
“Pretty much all night.”
“Is this Tim Bolton any relation of yours?”
“He says he’s my father; but I don’t believe it.”
“Have you always lived with him?”
“Ever since I was a small kid.”
“Have you always lived in New York?”
“No; I was out in Australia. Tim was out in the country part of the time, and part of the time he kept a saloon in Melbourne. There was thieves and burglars used to come into his place. I knew what they were, though they didn’t think I did.”
“How terrible for a boy to be subjected to such influences.”
“But I’ve made up my mind I won’t live with Tim no longer. I can earn my own livin’ sellin’ papers, or smashin’ baggage, and keep away from Tim. I’d have done it before if I’d had a friend like you to care for me.”
“We will stand by each other, Dodger. Heaven knows I need a friend, and if I can be a friend to you, and help you, I will.”
“We’ll get out here, Miss Florence. I told Mrs. O’Keefe I’d call at her stand, and she’ll go over and show you your room.”
They left the car at the corner of Grand Street, and Dodger led the way to an apple-stand, presided over by a lady of ample proportions, whose broad, Celtic face seemed to indicate alike shrewd good sense and a kindly spirit.
“Mrs. O’Keefe,” said Dodger, “this is the young lady I spoke to you about—Miss Florence Linden.”
“It’s welcome you are, my dear, and I’m very glad to make your acquaintance. You look like a rale leddy, and I don’t know how you’ll like the room I’ve got for you.”
“I cannot afford to be particular, Mrs. O’Keefe. I have had a—a reverse of circumstances, and I must be content with an humble home.”
“Then I’ll go over and show it to you. Here, Kitty, come and mind the stand,” she called to a girl about thirteen across the street, “and don’t let anybody steal the apples. Look out for Jimmy Mahone, he stole a couple of apples right under my nose this mornin’, the young spalpeen!”
As they were crossing the street, a boy of fourteen ran up to Dodger.
“Dodger,” said he, “you’d better go right over to Tim Bolton’s. He’s in an awful stew—says he’ll skin you alive if you don’t come to the s’loon right away.”
CHAPTER IX.
THE NEW HOME
“You can tell Tim Bolton,” said Dodger, “that I don’t intend to come back at all.”
“You don’t mean it, Dodger?” said Ben Holt, incredulously.
“Yes, I do. I’m going to set up for myself.”
“Oh, Dodger,” said Florence, “I’m afraid you will get into trouble for my sake!”
“Don’t worry about that, Miss Florence. I’m old enough to take care of myself, and I’ve got tired of livin’ with Tim.”
“But he may beat you!”
“He’ll have to get hold of me first.”
They had reached a four-story tenement of shabby brick, which was evidently well filled up by a miscellaneous crowd of tenants; shop girls, mechanics, laborers and widows, living by their daily toil.
Florence had never visited this part of the city, and her heart sank within her as she followed Mrs. O’Keefe through a dirty hallway, up a rickety staircase, to the second floor.
“One more flight of stairs, my dear,” said Mrs. O’Keefe, encouragingly. “I’ve got four rooms upstairs; one of them is for you, and one for Dodger.”
Florence did not reply. She began to understand at what cost she had secured her freedom from a distasteful marriage.
In her Madison Avenue home all the rooms were light, clean and luxuriously furnished. Here– But words were inadequate to describe the contrast.
Mrs. O’Keefe threw open the door of a back room about twelve feet square, furnished in the plainest manner, uncarpeted, except for a strip
