“All right,” said he. “Hand over your money.”
“Wait till I get there,” said Joshua, cautiously.
“Payment in advance,” said the young Arab. “That’s the way they do business in the city.”
Joshua drew out seventy-five cents, and placed them in his hand.
“Follow me, mister,” said the young conductor. “I guess I won’t go the way I told you. I’ll take a short cut,” he added.
The bootblack led Joshua by a pretty direct course to Eighth avenue. It was a considerable walk, and to Joshua an interesting one. As he noted block after block of elegant buildings he felt elated to think that his home was from henceforth to be in the great city. Some time or other, when his father had forgiven him, he would go back to Stapleton, and show off the same city airs which had so impressed him in the case of Sam Crawford. He was rather alarmed when he came to cross Broadway, and came near being run over by a passing omnibus.
“Look out, mister,” said his young guide, “or you’ll get knocked into a cocked hat. Folks is in such a hurry here that they don’t stop to pick up dead bodies.”
Arrived in Eighth avenue, the bootblack, who had cunningly managed to find out Sam Crawford’s business, pointed to the first shoe store they reached, and said, “That’s the place.”
“Does Sam Crawford work there?”
“In course he does. You jest go in, and you’ll see him at the back of the store.”