The Quaker gentleman, who, at the commencement of the young scamp’s speech, as if frightened at the prospect of a colloquy he had provoked, had betrayed a desire to escape from the crowd, seemed, as the other proceeded, to have changed his mind, and listened to him with the utmost calmness and imperturbable good humor.  When the boy had got through with his impertinences, which he ran over with great volubility, garnishing them with many epithets we have omitted, and, at the close, had received the applause of those like him, who stood around, and, now, seemed waiting for a reply, the Quaker, with great sweetness, answered—­

“My young friend, it would ill become me to return a harsh word for thy rather rude address, nor will my feelings towards thee and all in thy unhappy condition, permit me to speak to thee, except in pity and in sorrow.”

“Go to h——­l with your pity.  Nobody asks you for it,” exclaimed Haxall, fiercely.

“Gently, boy, gently, and do not profane thy lips with such language.  Alas! thou hast been allowed to grow up like a wild animal, and canst not be expected to know there are those who regard thee with affection.  But, surely, goodness can never be quite extinguished in one who has the form of humanity.  I see thou dost not know me?”

“Never set eyes on ye before, old square toes, and be d——­d to you.”

“Yet, I know thee, and, perhaps, the guilt is partly mine that thou art even now what thou art.  Thou hast, then, forgotten the man who, only a year ago, jumped off Coenties Slip, and, by the kindness of Providence, rescued a boy from drowning?”

“Have I forgot!” exclaimed Haxall, with a sudden revulsion of feeling.  “No, d——­d me, not altogether.  I thought there was something devilish queer in your voice.  So you was the man, and I am the b’hoy.  Oh, what a cussed beast I am to insult you!  Give us your hand.  I ask your pardon, sir.  I ask your pardon.  And,” he added, looking fiercely round, “if there’s a man here who crooks his thumb at ye, I swear I’ll whip him within an inch of his life.”

“Swear not at all,” said the mild Quaker, “nor talk of fighting, as if thou wert a dog.  I see, notwithstanding thy coarseness and vile language, thou art not all evil, and, if thou wilt come with me, I will endeavor to repair my former neglect, by putting thee in a situation where thou mayst become an useful man.”

The boy hesitated.  Two impulses seemed to be drawing him in opposite directions.  He was afraid of the ridicule of his companion, and of the sneer which he saw on his face, and who, now, was urging him to leave with him.  Yet, there was something peculiarly attractive about the Quaker that was difficult to resist.

The good Quaker read the indecision of his mind, and understood the cause.  “Come,” he said, “be a man, and choose for thyself like a man.  Thou shalt remain with me only so long as thou wilt, and shalt be free to leave at thy pleasure.”