“I hope you’ll do that; I hate the sight of him.  I feel as if he had turned me out of my place.”

“How do you like the new boy, Mr. Rich?” asked the jeweler at the end of the first week.

“I don’t care much for him,” said Simon Rich, coldly.

“What is the matter with him?  Does he neglect his work?”

“No,” Rich admitted, unwillingly.

“What have you against him, then?”

“He has a sneaking way about him.”

“On the contrary, he seems to me to be unusually frank and open.”

“He is trying to get into your good graces.”

“Well, that is proper, isn’t it?

“Yes, but—­”

“Well?”

“I think he will bear watching.”

“Surely you don’t suspect him of dishonesty.”

“Still waters run deep,” said the clerk, sententiously.

Mr. Flint smiled to himself as he turned away.  He understood that the secret of his head clerk’s prejudice was the fact that Andy had taken the place of his nephew.

Meanwhile Andy had got well acquainted at his boarding house.  Besides
Mr. Warren he found his next neighbor, Sam Perkins, quite sociable.

Sam was a youth of eighteen, and was employed in a furnishing-goods store on lower Broadway.  He was fortunate in the location of his store, as he finished work at half-past five, and was able to be at supper at the regular hour.  He seemed rather fond of dress and indulged in a variety of showy neckties, being able to get them at wholesale rates.

He introduced himself to Andy the first evening.

“What pay do you get?” he asked.

“Five dollars a week.”

“I get seven, but it’s too small.  A man can’t live on it.  Why, my car fare costs me sixty cents a week.”

“It must be rather a tight squeeze.”

“The folks at home allow me two dollars a week besides.  You see, the governor’s got money.  But I tell you money melts away in New York.”

“No doubt.  There are a good many ways of spending money here.”

“Suppose we go to the theater to-night.”

“I would rather wait a while.  This is my first night in the city.”

“Have you got acquainted with old Warren?”

“You mean the occupant of the large room opposite?”

“Yes.”

“I have talked with him a little.”

“How do you like him?”

“I don’t know him well enough to judge,” said Andy, cautiously.

“He’s a crank—­and soft at that.  Pretends that he is literary and writes for the magazines.”

“He does, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, he writes for them, but I don’t think his articles get printed.  He just sits round and writes, and isn’t any company at all.  I have tried to get him to go to the theater, but he won’t.  Once I was hard up—­hadn’t but a nickel—­and asked him to lend me a quarter.  He wouldn’t.”

“Very likely he hasn’t got much money.”