laced 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," s