“What tailor do you patronize?” asked the gentleman, surveying Dick’s attire.

“Would you like to go to the same one?” asked Dick, shrewdly.

“Well, no; it strikes me that he didn’t give you a very good fit.”

“This coat once belonged to General Washington,” said Dick, comically.  “He wore it all through the Revolution, and it got torn some, ’cause he fit so hard.  When he died he told his widder to give it to some smart young feller that hadn’t got none of his own; so she gave it to me.  But if you’d like it, sir, to remember General Washington by, I’ll let you have it reasonable.”

“Thank you, but I wouldn’t want to deprive you of it.  And did your pants come from General Washington too?”

“No, they was a gift from Lewis Napoleon.  Lewis had outgrown ’em and sent ’em to me,—­he’s bigger than me, and that’s why they don’t fit.”

“It seems you have distinguished friends.  Now, my lad, I suppose you would like your money.”

“I shouldn’t have any objection,” said Dick.

“I believe,” said the gentleman, examining his pocket-book, “I haven’t got anything short of twenty-five cents.  Have you got any change?”

“Not a cent,” said Dick.  “All my money’s invested in the Erie Railroad.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

“Shall I get the money changed, sir?”

“I can’t wait; I’ve got to meet an appointment immediately.  I’ll hand you twenty-five cents, and you can leave the change at my office any time during the day.”

“All right, sir.  Where is it?”

“No. 125 Fulton Street.  Shall you remember?”

“Yes, sir.  What name?”

“Greyson,—­office on second floor.”

“All right, sir; I’ll bring it.”

“I wonder whether the little scamp will prove honest,” said Mr. Greyson to himself, as he walked away.  “If he does, I’ll give him my custom regularly.  If he don’t as is most likely, I shan’t mind the loss of fifteen cents.”

Mr. Greyson didn’t understand Dick.  Our ragged hero wasn’t a model boy in all respects.  I am afraid he swore sometimes, and now and then he played tricks upon unsophisticated boys from the country, or gave a wrong direction to honest old gentlemen unused to the city.  A clergyman in search of the Cooper Institute he once directed to the Tombs Prison, and, following him unobserved, was highly delighted when the unsuspicious stranger walked up the front steps of the great stone building on Centre Street, and tried to obtain admission.

“I guess he wouldn’t want to stay long if he did get in,” thought Ragged Dick, hitching up his pants.  “Leastways I shouldn’t.  They’re so precious glad to see you that they won’t let you go, but board you gratooitous, and never send in no bills.”