The gentleman looked down upon the face of the boy, and a sudden expression swept over his own, as if he were surprised or startled. His boots were tolerably clean; but, after a moment's hesitation, he said: "Yes." Tom was instantly on his knees, first spreading a piece of carpet, about a foot square, to kneel upon, and set to work with energy. "How long have you been in this line of business, boy?" asked his customer. "Four or five years," answered Tom. "Do you like it?" "I have to like it," said Tom. "I've got to do somethin' for a livin'. Bread and meat don't grow on trees." "What's your name?" asked the stranger, abruptly. "Tom." "Haven't you got but one name?" "Tom Grey's my whole name; but everybody calls me Tom." "Grey? Did you say your name was Grey?" asked the stranger, in a tone of some excitement. "Yes," said Tom, surprised at the gentleman's tone. In his surprise he looked up into his customer's face, and for the first time took notice of it. This was what he saw: a square face, with a heavy lower jaw, grizzled whiskers, and cold, gray eyes. But there was something besides that served to distinguish it from other faces--a scar, of an inch in length, on his right cheek, which, though years old, always looked red under excitement. "Grey," repeated the stranger. "Is your father living?" "I don't know," said Tom. "If he is, he's too busy to call round and see me." "You mean that you don't know anything about your father?" "That's about so," said Tom. "I'm ready to adopt a rich gentleman as a father, if it's agreeable." And he looked up with a smile in the face of his customer. But the latter did not respond to the joke, but looked more and more serious. "That smile," he said to himself. "He is wonderfully like. Is it possible that this boy can be----" But here he stopped, and left the sentence unfinished. "Are you sure your name is Tom?" asked the stranger. "Why shouldn't it be?" demanded the boy, in natural surprise. "To be sure," returned the gentleman. "Only I have a theory that there is a connection between faces and names, and you don't look like my idea of Tom." This was rather philosophical to be addressed to a New York bootblack; but Tom was smart enough to comprehend it. "If I don't look like Tom, what do I look like?" he asked. "John, or Henry, or--or Gilbert," said the gentleman, bringing out the last name after a slight pause. "I like Tom best," said the boy; "it's short and easy." "Do you live alone, or have you any friends?" asked the stranger. "I live with an old man, but he ain't any relation to me." "What's his name?" "Jacob." "What other name?" asked the customer, quickly. Tom had by this time completed his task, and was standing erect, facing the speaker. "He's got an inquirin' mind," thought Tom; but, though rather surprised at the questions, he had no objection to answer them. "I don't know," he said. "Don't know?"