"I feel hungry myself," said Ben. "If you'll go with me I'll buy you
some dinner to pay you for your trouble."

"'Nough said!" remarked Tom briefly, as he shouldered his box. "I'm
your man. Come along! Where shall we go first?"

"To an eating-house. We might have to wait at the office."

Tom conducted Ben to a cheap restaurant, not far away, where the two
for a moderate sum obtained a plentiful meal. Had either been
fastidious, some exception might have been taken to the style in
which the dishes were served, but neither was critical. A dapper
young clerk, however, who sat opposite Tom, seemed quite disturbed
by the presence of the bootblack. As his eye rested on Tom he
sniffed contemptuously, and frowned. In truth, our friend Tom might
be useful, but in his present apparel he was not fitted to grace a
drawing-room. He had no coat, his vest was ragged, and his shirt
soiled with spots of blacking. There were spots also upon his
freckled face, of which Tom was blissfully unconscious. It didn't
trouble him any to have a dirty face. "Dirt is only matter in the
wrong place," as a philosopher once remarked. Tom was a philosopher
in his own way.

The young clerk pulled out a scented handkerchief, and applied it to
his nose, looking at Tom meanwhile.

"What's the matter of yer?" inquired Tom, suspecting the cause of
the dandy's discomfort. "Be you sick?"