"I'm no mind-reader, mister," said Paul. He slapped the rejected shoe back into the box, and pulled out another pair. "I don't want a vici kid," said the customer. "That's the style nowadays." "I don't care. I don't want it!" "Well, try it on, can't you?" grumbled Paul. "There, how does it feel?" "It's too tight That's not my size." "It certainly is your size! It's a 9-D, and that's what you've got on right now. Don't tell me my business, mister. Look--see? That's your size." "I say it doesn't fit! And I don't want a vici kid, anyway. I can have a good strong walking shoe if I want it, can't I?" "Oh, you want a shoe for walking! Why didn't you say so in the first place and save my time? Sure, you can have it; I got no objection. What do you want to pay?" "About six dollars." "We don't keep cheap shoes, mister," said Paul, getting up from his knees. "I don't want a cheap shoe." "Yes, you do! What do you call a six dollar shoe, if it ain't a cheap shoe? Say, I might sell you one shoe for that." "Young fellow," growled the customer, pulling on his own shoe again and jabbing viciously at the eyelets, "you couldn't sell me any shoe at all. You need a lesson in good manners, you do!" "Go along now, mister," said Paul, reclining again on his bench. "You're in the wrong store, see? [Illustration] "I guess I showed that fresh guy where he got off," he chuckled satisfiedly as the enraged customer went stamping up the iron stairs to One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street. "Yah," grunted Ernest Birdsong, his fellow clerk from the ladder where he was sorting stock. Ernest was a recent arrival from Europe. Paul sprawled on the bench and lit a cigarette, which he "ate" in long, lung-filling inhalations. "There you go," he went on, "working your fat head off. You'll learn better, or I miss my guess! You're some of this here blamed pauper labor that wants to come here and lower the American standard of living. You ain't got the mind of a free man, Birdy. Go ahead, and work yourself to death, and see what you get for it! Old Hepp doesn't care a whoop for you or for me, except what he can get out of us. I'm telling you. That's where the old tight-wad's head is level; I don't care a whoop for him except for what I can get out of him, see? He's a blood-sucking capitalist, that's what old Hepp is. Pretty soft for him--five stores, and not a blamed thing to do but go around from one to the other, and crash the cash-register!" "Yah, Mr. Paul," murmured Ernest inattentively. "Aw, gosh!" yawned Paul. "I'm feeling all in today. Had a big time last night, Birdy. Yep, we had a large time. Punished a quart between three of us, we did. Say, Birdie, I know where I can get genuine _Old Cobbler_, rye, for six bucks a bottle. You want some good booze?" "No, Mr. Paul."