he explained, "for the requisite
materials. If either you or your mother presents it, they will be given
you."

"Very good, sir," said Paul.

He took his cap, and prepared to go.

"Good-evening, Mr. Preston," he said.

"Good-evening. I shall expect you with the shirts when they are ready."

Paul went downstairs and into the street, thinking that Mr. Preston was
very sociable and agreeable. He had fancied that 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 w