As Frank entered Broadway from Canal street, by a strange coincidence he caught sight of the man of whom he had been thinking. Mills, with the same querulous, irritable expression he knew well, was making his way up Broadway, led by a boy younger than Frank.
"Pity a poor blind man!" he muttered from time to time in a whining voice.
"Look out, you young rascal, or you will have me off the sidewalk," Frank heard the blind man say; "I'll have a reckoning with you when I get home."
The boy, who was pale and slight, looked frightened.
"I couldn't help it, Mr. Mills," he said. "It was the crowd."
"You are getting careless, that's what's the matter," said Mills, harshly. "You are looking in at the shop windows, and neglect me."
"No, I am not," said the boy, in meek remonstrance.
"Don't you contradict me!" exclaimed the blind man, grasping his stick significantly. "Pity a poor blind man!"
"What an old brute he is!" thought Frank; "I will speak to him."
"How do you do, Mr. Mills?" he said, halting before the blind man.