"My name isn't Johnny," replied Ben, rather indignant at the familiarity. He had not learned that, in New York, Johnny is the generic name for boy, where the specific name is unknown. "Aint it though?" returned the boot-black "What's the price of turnips out where you live?" "I'll make your nose turn up if you aint careful," retorted Ben, wrathfully. "You'll do," said the boot-black, favorably impressed by Ben's pluck. "Just go straight ahead, and you'll come to Broadway. I'm going that way, and you can come along with me if you want to." "Thank you," said Ben, appeased by the boy's changed manner. "Are you going to stay here?" inquired his new acquaintance. "Yes," said Ben; "I'm going to live here." "Where do your friends live?" "I haven't got any friends in New York," said Ben, with a little hesitation. "Over in Brooklyn, or Jersey, maybe?" "No, I don't know anybody this way." "Whew!" whistled the other. "How you goin' to live?" "I expect to earn my living," said Ben, in a tone of importance. "Father and mother dead?" "No, they're alive." "I s'pose they're poor?" "No, they're not; they're well off." The boot-black looked puzzled. "Why didn't you stay at home then? Wouldn't they let you?" "Of course they would. The fact is, I've run away." "Maybe they'd adopt me instead of you." "I don't think they would," said Ben, laughing. "I wish somebody with lots of cash would adopt me, and make a gentleman of me. It would be a good sight better'n blackin' boots." "Do you make much money that way?" inquired Ben. "Pleasant days like this, sometimes I make a dollar, but when it rains there aint much doin'." "How much have you made this morning?" asked Ben, with interest. "Sixty cents." "Sixty cents, and it isn't more than ten o'clock. That's doing pretty well." "'Taint so good in the afternoon. Most every body gets their boots blacked in the mornin'. What are you goin' to do?" "I don't know," said Ben. "Goin' to black boots? I'll show you how," said the other, generously overlooking all considerations of possible rivalry. "I don't think I should like that very well," said Ben, slowly. Having been brought up in a comfortable home, he had a prejudice in favor of clean hands and unsoiled clothes,--a prejudice of which his street life speedily cured him. "I think I should rather sell papers, or go into a store," said Ben. "You can't make so much money sellin' papers," said his new acquaintance. "Then you might get 'stuck'". "What's that?" inquired Ben, innocently. "Don't you know?" asked the boot-black, wonderingly. "Why, it's when you've got more papers than you can sell. That's what takes off the profits. I was a newsboy once; but it's too hard work for the money. There aint no chance of gettin' stuck on my business." "It's rather a dirty business," said Ben, venturing to state his main objection, at the risk of offending. But Jerry Collins, for that was his name, was not very sensitive on this score.