to
an independent career as a bootblack.

They lived in a tumble-down house in a waste of land near the steam
cars, and besides her hens Mrs. Bob owned a goat.

Our story has, however, nothing to do with the goat except to say he was
there, and that he was on nibbling terms, not only with Jericho Bob,
but with Bob's bosom friend, Julius Caesar Fish, and it was surprising
how many old hat-brims and other tidbits of clothing he could swallow
during a day.

As Mrs. Bob truly said, it was no earthly use to get something new for
Jericho, even if she could afford it; for the goat browsed all over him,
and had been known to carry away even a leg of his trousers.

Jericho Bob was eight years old, and the friend of his bosom, Julius
Caesar Fish, was nine. They were both of a lovely black; a tallow-dip
couldn't take the kink out of their hair, and the hardest whipping did
not disturb the even cheerfulness of their spirits. They were so much
alike that if it hadn't been for Jericho's bow-legs and his turn-up
nose, you really could not have told them apart.

A kindred taste for turkey also united them.

In honor of Thanksgiving day Mrs. Bob always sacrificed a hen which
would, but for such blessed release, have died of old age. One drumstick
was given to Jericho, whose interior remained an unsatisfied void.

Jericho Bob had heard of turkey as a fowl larger, sweeter, and more
tender than hen; and about Thanksgiving time he would linger around the
provision stores and gaze with open mouth at the noble array of turkeys
hanging, head downward, over bushels of cranberries, as if even at that
uncooked stage, they were destined for one another. And turkey was his
dream.

It was spring-time, and the hens were being a credit to themselves. The
goat in the yard, tied to a stake, was varying a meal of old shoe and
tomato-can by a nibble of fresh green grass. Mrs. Bob was laid up with
rheumatism.

"Jericho Bob!" she said to her son, shaking her red and yellow turban at
him, "Jericho Bob, you go down an' fetch de eggs to-day. Ef I find yer
don't bring me twenty-three, I'll--well, never mind what I'll do, but
yer won't like it."

Now, Jericho Bob meant to be honest, but the fact was he found
twenty-four, and the twenty-fourth was so big, so remarkably big.

Twenty-three eggs he brought to Mrs. Bob, but the twenty-fourth he
sinfully left in charge of the discreet hen.

On his return he met Julius Caesar Fish, with his hands in his