“I’ll give that little kid the worst lickin’ he ever had, soon as he gets through, see ef I don’t.”
“Do it if you dare!” said Paul, his eyes flashing. “If you do, I’ll thrash you.”
“You dassn’t.”
“Remember what I say, Tom Rafferty. Now, Mr. Meacham, we’ll go on. I hope you’ll excuse me for keeping you waiting.”
“Yes, I will, sonny. It did me good to see you pitching into that young bully. I’d like to have done it myself.”
“I know both boys, sir. Little Jack is the son of a widow, who sews for a living, and she can’t make enough to support the family, and he has to go out and earn what he can by shines. He is small and weak, and the big boys impose upon him.”
“I’m glad he has some friends; Number 91, you’re a brave boy.”
“I don’t know about that, sir. But I can’t stand still and see a little kid like that imposed upon by a big brute like Tom Rafferty.”
They crossed Broadway, and presently neared Cortlandt Street. Just at the corner stood an old man, with bent form and white hair, dressed with extreme shabbiness. His hand was extended, and he was silently asking for alms.
Paul’s cheek flushed, and an expression of mortification swept over his face.