“I'm sorry for that,” said the other, “as I have got to buy some for my wife and family.”
Paul stared in surprise for a moment, and then realizing that he was being made game of, began to grow angry.
“You'd better go home to your wife and family,” he said with spirit, “or you may get hurt.”
“Bully for you, country!” answered the other with a laugh. “You're not as green as you look.”
“Thank you,” said Paul, “I wish I could say as much for you.”
Tired with walking, Paul at length sat down in a doorway, and watched with interest the hurrying crowds that passed before him. Everybody seemed to be in a hurry, pressing forward as if life and death depended on his haste. There were lawyers with their sharp, keen glances; merchants with calculating faces; speculators pondering on the chances of a rise or fall in stocks; errand boys with bundles under their arms; business men hurrying to the slip to take the boat for Brooklyn or Jersey City,—all seemed intent on business of some kind, even to the ragged newsboys who had just obtained their supply of evening papers, and were now crying them at the top of their voices,—and very discordant ones at that, so Paul thought. Of the hundreds passing and repassing before him, every one had something to do. Every one had a home to go to. Perhaps it was not altogether strange that a feeling of desolation should come over Paul as he recollected that he stood alone, homeless, friendless, and, it might be, shelterless for the coming night.
“Yet,” thought he with something of hopefulness, “there must be something for me to do as well as the rest.”
Just then a boy some two years older than Paul paced slowly by, and in passing, chanced to fix his eyes upon our hero. He probably saw something in Paul which attracted him, for he stepped up and extending his hand, said, “why, Tom, how came you here?”
“My name isn't Tom,” said Paul, feeling a little puzzled by this address.
“Why, so it isn't. But you look just like my friend, Tom Crocker.”