“I thought maybe I didn't hear straight. It ain't yours at all. Didn't I take it?”
“You wouldn't have got it if I hadn't fit with Paul.”
“That ain't nothin' to me,” said Jerry. “The shirt's mine, and I'll kape it.”
Mike felt strongly tempted to “put a head on” Jerry, whatever that may mean; but, as Jerry was a head taller already, the attempt did not seem quite prudent. He indulged in some forcible remarks, which, however, did not disturb Jerry's equanimity.
“I'll give you my old shirt, Mike,” he said, “if you can find it. I left it in an alley near the Old Bowery.”
“I don't want the dirty rag,” said Mike, contemptuously.
Finally a compromise was effected, Jerry offering to help Mike on the next occasion, and leave the spoils in his hands.
I have to chronicle another adventure of Jerry's, in which he was less fortunate than he had been in the present case. He was a genuine vagabond, and lived by his wits, being too lazy to devote himself to any regular street employment, as boot blacking or selling newspapers. Occasionally he did a little work at each of these, but regular, persistent industry was out of his line. He was a drone by inclination, and a decided enemy to work. On the subject of honesty his principles were far from strict. If he could appropriate what did not belong to him he was ready to do so without scruple. This propensity had several times brought him into trouble, and he had more than once been sent to reside temporarily on Blackwell's Island, from which he had returned by no means improved.
Mike was not quite so much of a vagabond as his companion. He could work at times, though he did not like it, and once pursued the vocation of a bootblack for several months with fair success.
But Jerry's companionship was doing him no good, and it seemed likely that eventually he would become quite as shiftless as Jerry himself.