“What I said you can bank on, as the big boodlers say, I reckon you don’t remember me, so I must introduce myself. I’m the chap who asked to black your boots a bit ago, and in return you asked me for a place to hang your hat for the night. Mebbe I didn’t answer you as I oughter, for your boots did need trimming and shining the wuss kind, and I set you down as a stingy old duffer from Wayback, who didn’t know what made a gempleman. Then, when you had gone, and I took ’count of stock and balanced up what a lamb you would be for the wolves, and seeing one of the critters follering you, I tuk your tracks, too. I got along in season to see the kids make off with your grip, when I took arter ’em tooth and nail. With some lively sprintin’, and a bit of scrimmage I fetched your old gripsack out’n Sodom, and then I pegged it on your track ag’in. I didn’t get along in season to save you that clip on the head, but I did get there in time to play the thief myself. I led them chaps a wild-goose chase, and here I am with the hull establishment connected, wired and running in tiptop shape!” As the youth, who could not have been over seventeen, despite his daring feats, finished his rather lengthy explanation, he handed Deacon Cornhill his pocketbook and pushed his gripsack over by his side. CHAPTER III. AN ASTOUNDING PROPOSITION. Deacon Cornhill listened with open-mouthed wonder to the rapid account of his youthful friend, unable to speak until he had concluded, when he managed to say: “I don’t know what is proper to say to you, boy. You have done me a sarvice I shall never forget, if I live to be as old as Methusaleh; I shan’t, I vum I shan’t. I want to pay for it. Who’d thought them slick-seeming men were sich cutthroats?” “Black your boots and make ’em shine? I ain’t no time to waste in perlaver. They need it. Time’s money, and bizness must be ’tended to afore pleasure.” “Go ahead,” consented the deacon, putting out his right foot for the bootblack to begin work. Then, as the boy went about his task in a manner which showed that he had thoroughly mastered it, he asked: “What’s your name, youngster?” “I’m called Little Hickory,” spitting on the blacking and beginning to rub vigorously. “You don’t say? Can’t be your regular Scripture name?” “’Bout as near Scripter as an old man like me has ever got, mister. Excuse me, Deacon Cornhill.” “Bless me, how did you know my name?” “Overheard you give it to the sharper. But, oh, my! Ain’t your underpinners in bad shape! Can’t get a Broadway shine on ’em to save my reputation!” “You ain’t told me your name yet,” persisted Deacon Cornhill, who had taken a strong liking for the strange youth. “And why do you mock at fate by calling yourself old? It’s a sin and a shame, of which you must repent some time in sackcloth and ashes.”