what do you want, the apple and the money and the change too?"
The old man snapped the penny down on the glass top of the candy case. "Gimme my nickel," he said like a bird with one note.
The vendor passionately snatched up the penny and cast it at his feet. "Go to Hell with your penny!" he cried.
Someone put a foot on it and that likewise was seen no more.
"Gimme my nickel!" said the old man.
Suddenly a voice in the crowd was heard to say: "Gee! it's Simeon Deaves!"
"Simeon Deaves, of course!" thought Evan. That old face was continually in the newspapers.
Instantly the temper of the crowd changed. There was nobody who could read English that was not acquainted with this man's reputation. A chorus of imprecations was heard:
"Miser! Skinflint! Tight-wad! Robber!"
The sallies of the sidewalk wits were almost drowned in the mere cries of rage:
"Tight-wad, did you say? His wad is ossified to him!"
"He wants to put that penny out at interest!"
"Say, the Jews go to school to him."
"He'd skin the cream offen a baby's bottle, he would."
The old man looked down and back at them snarling. Like a cowed animal's, his gaze was fixed upon their feet. Fearful of blows to follow, he turned around, and edging away from the stand got his back against the wall of the building. His face was ashy, yet oddly the mouth was still fixed in the unvarying lines of the sly smile. The fruit vendor made haste to shut up his stand.
A flushed and burly Irishwoman stepped in advance of the crowd. She looked Deaves up and down insultingly. "What kind of a man do you call yourself?" she cried. "With all your millions locked up in the bank, and dressed in a suit that my old man wouldn't sweep up manure in! What are you doing down here anyhow? Go back up town where you belong!" She shook a fist like a ham in his face. "Do you see that? That's an honest hand that never filched a penny. For a word I'd plant it in your ugly face, you Shylock! You penny-parer!"
A youth's voice cried out: "Come on, fellows, let him have it!"
The crowd suddenly swayed forward. No one could tell exactly what happened. A raised clenched fist smashed the old man's hat over his eyes. Deaves went down out of sight.
This was too much for Evan. After all the man was old and it was fifty to one against him. His blood boiled, and the megrims were forgotten. He rushed in on the old man's side, swinging his arms and shouting:
"Get back, you cowards! Give the old man a chance!"
The passionately indignant voice was more effective than the blows against so many. The crowd drew back shamefacedly, revealing the old man prone on the sidewalk, but not visibly injured. He was able to scramble to his hands and knees as soon as they gave him room. Evan helped him to his feet.
"Come on, I'll get you out of this," he said peremptorily. With his flashing eyes he searched the faces of the crowd for eyes that dared to withstand his, but none cared to.
He started to march the dazed old man smartly towards West street. It was an uncomfortable moment when they were obliged to turn their backs on the crowd. Evan expected another rush. But it did not come.
They had not taken ten steps when the old man pulled back. "M-my bundle," he stammered. "I've lost my bundle."
Evan could not tell what the crowd might do. There was of course no policeman to be expected in that forgotten little street. "Let your bundle go!" he warned him. "Come on."
But the old man planted himself like a child with immovable obstinacy. "My old clothes!" he said. "They're worth money! I'm not going to give them up!"
Evan with an exasperated laugh went back. The crowd which had started to follow backed off. The bundle lay where the old man had fallen. It had come unwrapped and the deplorable garments were fully revealed. Evan, gritting his teeth, stooped over and rolled them up. He knew what a chance he was providing to the wits of the crowd.
"Old clo'! Old clo'!"
"Rags, bones, bottles! Any rags, bones, bottles!"
"Say, fella, what do you think you'll get out of it?"
"Aw, Simeon Deaves 'll give him his old clothes."
The envious note was clearly audible. Individuals in the crowd were beginning to ask themselves now, why they hadn't had the wit to take the old man's part, and earn his gratitude. Evan held himself in from reply.
"What's the use," he thought. "Scum!"
Rejoining the old man he led him to the West street corner. Deaves had had a bad shock, and he was still trembling all over, and stumbling slightly in his walk. He betrayed no consciousness of gratitude towards his rescuer. His mind was still running on the lost nickel.
"Robber! Outrage! Thieving scoundrel!" he was muttering.
They waited for a Belt line car. Another man waited alongside of them, a quiet little youth in a grey suit whom Evan had seen as an onlooker in the crowd.
When the car came the old man was still so shaky that it seemed to Evan only the part of common humanity to accompany him. But on the step Deaves turned sharply.
"You needn't come," he said. "I can take care of myself."
"That's all right," said Evan politely. "It's no inconvenience."
"I won't pay your fare," said Deaves.
Evan laughed. "I'll pay the fares," he said. To himself he thought: "It's not often one has a chance of standing treat to a millionaire."
Deaves did allow Evan to pay the fares, and indeed seemed quite pleased as if he had got the better of him in a deal. But something about Evan disconcerted him. He continued to glance at him sideways out of his restless, furtive little grey eyes. Finally he said:
"I'm not going to give you anything for coming with me."
"Don't expect it," said Evan.
"What are you coming for then?" Deaves demanded.
Evan laughed in an annoyed way. "Well, now that you put it to me, I don't exactly know. I suppose I owe it to myself not to let an old man fall down in the street."
Deaves thought over this quite a long while. Along with his shrewdness there was something childish in the old man. "You're a good boy!" he announced at last.
Evan appreciated that this was an immense concession. "Much obliged," he said dryly.
"Just the same, you needn't think you're going to get anything out of me," the old man quickly added.
"I don't."
Having established this point to his satisfaction Deaves seemed disposed to become friendly. "What are you doing out on the street in the middle of the morning?" he asked.
"I might ask the same of you," returned Evan good-naturedly.
"I'm retired. I've a right to take my ease. But all young fellows ought to be at work. Haven't you got any work to do?"
"I'm an artist."
"Pooh! Waste of time!"
Evan laughed. It was useless to get angry at the old boy.
"Why aren't you working at it now?" Deaves demanded to know.
"It wouldn't come to-day," said Evan.
"Stuff and nonsense! You'll never get on that way! Look at me!"
Evan did so, thinking: "I wouldn't be like you for all your millions!"
Deaves went on: "Keep everlastingly at it! That's my motto. That's what's brought me to where I am to-day. I've retired now – though I still have my irons in the fire – but when I was your age I worked early and late. I didn't waste my time fooling round like young men do. No, sir! My only thought was how to turn everything to advantage. I denied myself everything; lived on two bits a day, I did, and put my savings to work. The cents and the dollars are good and willing little servants if you make them work for you. I watched