“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. Passing the Cooper Institute, 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 shirt, is it?” sneered Mike.
“It isn't mine.”