Just on the steps of the building,
as he was coming out, he met Johnny Nolan, who had been sent on an
errand to Wall Street by some gentleman, and was just returning.
"What are you doin' down here, Dick?" asked Johnny.
"I've been mailin' a letter."
"Who sent you?"
"Nobody."
"I mean, who writ the letter?"
"I wrote it myself."
"Can you write letters?" asked Johnny, in amazement.
"Why shouldn't I?"
"I didn't know you could write. I can't."
"Then you ought to learn."
"I went to school once; but it was too hard work, so I give it up."
"You're lazy, Johnny,--that's what's the matter. How'd you ever
expect to know anything, if you don't try?"
"I can't learn."
"You can, if you want to."
Johnny Nolan was evidently of a different opinion. He was a
good-natured boy, large of his age, with nothing particularly bad
about him, but utterly lacking in that energy, ambition, and natural
sharpness, for which Dick was distinguished. He was not adapted to
succeed in the life which circumstances had forced upon him; for in
the street-life of the metropolis a boy needs to be on the alert,
and have all his wits about him, or he will find himself wholly
distanced by his more enterprising competitors for popular favor. To
succeed in his profession, humble as it is, a boot-black must depend
upon the same qualities which gain success in higher walks in
life. It was easy to see that Johnny, unless very much favored by
circumstances, would never rise much above his present level.
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