Paul the Peddler Part 15

"I am not afraid of work," said Paul, promptly.

"No, I do not believe you are. I can tell by a boy's face, and you have the appearance of one who is willing to work hard. How long have you been a street peddler?"

"About a year, sir. Before that time my father was living, and I was kept at school."

"You will find the street a school, though of a different kind, in which you can learn valuable lessons. If you can get time in the evening, however, it will be best to keep up your school studies."

"I am doing that now, sir."

"That is well. And now, about the s.h.i.+rts. Did your mother say how long it would take her to make them?"

"About three weeks, I think, sir. Will that be soon enough?"

"That will do. Perhaps it will be well, however, to bring half the number whenever they are finished."

"All right, sir."

"I suppose your mother can cut them out if I send a s.h.i.+rt as a pattern?"

"Yes, sir."

Mr. Preston rose, and, going to a bureau, took therefrom a s.h.i.+rt which he handed to Paul. He then wrote a few lines on a slip of paper, which he also handed our hero.

"That is an order on Barclay & Co.," he explained, "for the requisite materials. If either you or your mother presents it, they will be given you."

"Very good, sir," said Paul.

He took his cap, and prepared to go.

"Good-evening, Mr. Preston," he said.

"Good-evening. I shall expect you with the s.h.i.+rts when they are ready."

Paul went downstairs and into the street, thinking that Mr. Preston was very sociable and agreeable. He had fancied that rich men were generally "stuck up," but about Mr. Preston there seemed an absence of all pretense. Paul's ambition was aroused when he thought of the story he had heard, and he wondered whether it would be possible for him to raise himself to wealth and live in as handsome a house as Mr. Preston. He thought what a satisfaction it would be if the time should ever come when he could free his mother from the necessity of work, and give little Jimmy a chance to develop his talent for drawing. However, such success must be a long way off, if it ever came.

He had intended to ride home, but his mind was so preoccupied that he forgot all about it, and had got some distance on his way before it occurred to him. Then, not feeling particularly tired, he concluded to keep on walking, as he had commenced.

"It will save me six cents," he reflected, "and that is something. If I am ever going to be a prosperous merchant, I must begin to save now."

So he kept on walking. Pa.s.sing the Cooper Inst.i.tute, he came into the Bowery, a broad and busy street, the humble neighbor of Broadway, to which it is nearly parallel.

He was still engaged in earnest thought, when he felt a rude slap on the back. Looking round, he met the malicious glance of Mike Donovan, who probably would not have ventured on such a liberty if he had not been accompanied by a boy a head taller than himself, and, to judge from appearances, of about the same character.

"What did you do that for, Mike?" demanded Paul.

"None of your business. I didn't hurt you, did I?" returned Mike, roughly.

"No, but I don't care to be hit that way by you."

"So you're putting on airs, are you?"

"No, I don't do that," returned Paul; "but I don't care about having anything to do with you."

"That's because you've got a new s.h.i.+rt, is it?" sneered Mike.

"It isn't mine."

"That's what I thought. Who did you steal it from?"

"Do you mean to insult me, Mike Donovan?" demanded Paul, angrily.

"Just as you like," said Mike, independently.

"If you want to know why I don't want to have anything to do with you, I will tell you."

"Tell ahead."

"Because you're a thief."

"If you say that again, I'll lick you," said Mike, reddening with anger.

"It's true. You stole my basket of candy the other day, and that isn't the only time you've been caught stealing."

"I'll give you the worst licking you ever had. Do you want to fight?"

said Mike, flouris.h.i.+ng his fist.

"No, I don't," said Paul. "Some time when I haven't a bundle, I'll accommodate you."

"You're a coward!" sneered Mike, gaining courage as he saw Paul was not disposed for an encounter.

"I don't think I am," said Paul, coolly.

"I'll hold your s.h.i.+rt," said Mike's companion, with a grin, "if you want to fight."

Paul, however, did not care to intrust the s.h.i.+rt to a stranger of so unprepossessing an appearance.

He, therefore, attempted to pa.s.s on. But Mike, encouraged by his reluctance, stepped up and shook his fist within an inch of Paul's nose, calling him at the same time a coward. This was too much for Paul's self-restraint. He dropped the s.h.i.+rt and pitched into Mike in so scientific a manner that the latter was compelled to retreat, and finally to flee at the top of his speed, not without having first received several pretty hard blows.

"I don't think he will meddle with me again," said Paul to himself, as he pulled down the sleeves of his jacket.

He walked back, and looked for the s.h.i.+rt which he had laid down before commencing the combat. But he looked in vain. Nothing was to be seen of the s.h.i.+rt or of Mike's companion. Probably both had disappeared together.

CHAPTER XI

BARCLAY & CO.