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?"
"It's enough to make one sick to sit at the table with you,"
answered the clerk.
"Why?"
"You are absolutely filthy. Don't you know any better than to come
in where there are gentlemen?"
"I don't see any except him," said Tom, indicating Ben with his
glance.
"This is really too much. Here, waiter!"
A waiter answered the summons.
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