Paul the Peddler; Or, The Fortunes of a Young Street Merchant by Jr. Horatio Alger (best finance books of all time TXT) 📕

rich men were generally “stuck up,” but about Mr. Preston there seemed an absence of all pretense. Paul's ambition was aroused when he thought of the story he had heard, and he wondered whether it would be possible for him to raise himself to wealth and live in as handsome a house as Mr. Preston. He thought what a satisfaction it would be if the time should ever come when he could free his mother from the necessity of work, and give little Jimmy a chance to develop his talent for drawing. However, such success must be a long way off, if it ever came.

He had intended to ride home, but his mind was so preoccupied that he forgot all about it, and had got some distance on his way before it occurred to him. Then, not feeling particularly tired, he concluded to keep on walking, as he had commenced.

“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.”

“That's what I thought. Who did you steal it from?”

“Do you mean to insult me, Mike Donovan?” demanded Paul, angrily.

“Just as you like,” said Mike, independently.

“If you want to know why I don't want to have anything to do with you, I will tell you.”

“Tell ahead.”

“Because you're a thief.”

“If you say that again, I'll lick you,” said Mike, reddening with anger.

“It's true. You stole my basket of candy the other day, and that isn't the only time you've been caught stealing.”

“I'll give you the worst licking you ever had. Do you want to fight?” said Mike, flourishing his fist.

“No, I don't,” said Paul. “Some time when I haven't a bundle, I'll accommodate you.”

“You're a coward!” sneered Mike, gaining courage as he saw Paul was not disposed for an encounter.

“I don't think I am,” said Paul, coolly.

“I'll hold your shirt,” said Mike's companion, with a grin, “if you want to fight.”

Paul, however, did not care to intrust the shirt to a stranger of so unprepossessing an appearance.

He, therefore, attempted to pass on. But Mike, encouraged by his reluctance, stepped up and shook his fist within an inch of Paul's nose, calling him at the same time a coward. This was too much for Paul's self-restraint. He dropped the shirt and pitched into Mike in so scientific a manner that the latter was compelled to retreat, and finally to flee at the top of his speed, not without having first received several pretty hard blows.

“I don't think he will meddle with me again,” said Paul to himself, as he pulled down the sleeves of his jacket.

He walked back, and looked for the shirt which he had laid down before commencing the combat. But he looked in vain. Nothing was to be seen of the shirt or of Mike's companion. Probably both had disappeared together.