"Your store!" ejaculated the old man, fixing his eyes upon his ragged companion, who certainly looked very little like a New York merchant.
"In course. Don't I keep a cigar store at No. 95?"
"I hope you don't smoke yourself," said the deacon (for he was a deacon), solemnly.
"Yes, I do. My constitushun requires it."
"My boy, you are doing a lasting injury to your health," said the old man, impressively.
"Oh, I'm tough. I kin stand it. Better give me a dime, and let me show yer the way."
The deacon was in a hurry to get to Canal Street, and after some hesitation, for he was fond of money, he drew out ten cents, and handed it to his ragged companion.
"There, my boy, show me the way. I should think you might have done it for nothing."
"That aint the way we do business in the city, gov'nor."
"Well, go ahead, I'm in a hurry."