Adventures of a Telegraph Boy; or, "Number 91"

Transcriber’s Notes:

Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).

Additional Transcriber’s Notes are at the end.

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Adventures of a Telegraph Boy

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[Illustration: “FORTY DOLLARS!” EXCLAIMED OLD JERRY. “I’M IN LUCK FOR ONCE.”]

Adventures of a Telegraph Boy OR “Number 91”

By Horatio Alger, Jr.

Author of “Tom Tracy,” “Ned Newton,” “Walter Griffith,” etc.

[Illustration]

New York and Boston H. M. Caldwell Company Publishers

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_Copyright, 1889_ BY FRANK H. LOVELL & CO.

_Copyright, 1900_ BY STREET & SMITH

Adventures of a Telegraph Boy

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Adventures Of A New York Telegraph Boy.

Chapter I. Paul, The Telegraph Boy.

On Broadway, not far from the St. Nicholas Hotel, is an office of the American District Telegraph. Let us enter.

A part of the office is railed off, within which the superintendent has a desk, and receives orders for boys to be sent to different parts of the city. On benches in the back part of the office are sitting perhaps a dozen boys varying in age from fifteen to eighteen, clad in the well known blue uniform prescribed by the company. Each wears a cap on which may be read the initials of the company, with the boy’s number.

At the end of the benches sat a stout, well made boy, apparently sixteen years of age. He had a warm, expressive face, and would generally be considered good looking.

On his cap we read this inscription:

A. D. T. 91.

Some of the boys were smaller, two or three larger than Number 91. But among them all, he was the most attractive in appearance. The boys sat on the benches in patience waiting for a call from the superintendent. They were usually selected in turn, but sometimes the fitness of a particular boy for the errand required was taken into consideration.

“Number 87!” called the superintendent.

A small boy of fifteen, but not looking over thirteen, left his seat and advanced to the desk.

“No, I don’t think you’ll do,” said the superintendent “There’s a man at the New England Hotel who wants a boy to go down with him to the Cortlandt Street Ferry, and carry his valise. A larger boy will be required.”

He glanced at the boys in waiting and called:

“Number 91!”

The boy of whom we have spoken rose with alacrity, and stepped up to the desk. He had been sitting on the bench for an hour, and was glad of an opportunity to go out on an errand.

The superintendent wrote on a card the name “D. L. Meacham, New England Hotel,” and handed it to the boy.

“Go at once to the New England Hotel, and call for that gentleman,” he said. “If he is not in, wait for him.”

“Yes, sir.”

Paul Parton, for this was his name, did not need any further directions. He was perfectly acquainted with the city, especially in the lower part, where he had lived for years. He crossed Broadway, and, taking an easterly course, made his way to the Bowery, on which, at the corner of Bayard Street, the New England Hotel stands. This is a very respectable inn, and by its fair accommodations and moderate prices attracts a large number of patrons.

Entering, Paul advanced to the desk.

“Is Mr. D. L. Meacham in?” he asked, referring to the card given him by the superintendent.

“Here he is!” replied, not the clerk to whom the question was addressed, but a tall, elderly man with gray hair, clad in a rusty suit, evidently a gentleman from the rural districts.

“Are you the telegraph boy?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“I want to go down to the ferry to take the train to Philadelphia.”

“All right, sir. Is this your valise?” asked Paul, pointing to a shabby traveling bag that might, from its appearance, have been used by Noah when he was on board the ark.

“Yes, that’s mine.”

“Do you want to start now, Mr. Meacham?”

“Well, I might as well. I hain’t got nothing to keep me here. How fur is it?”

“About a mile. Perhaps a little more.”

Paul took the valise in his hand, and went out of the hotel, followed by the old man.

“Do you know the way all round here, sonny?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, it beats me. I get turned round, and don’t know where I am. If it wasn’t for that, I could have gone to the ferry alone. But land’s sake! I might wander all round till tomorrow morning without finding it.”

“Then I guess it’s better to have a boy with you,” said Paul, laughingly.

“You look like a smart boy,” said the old man, attentively examining Number 91. “Do you like your business?”

“Pretty well,” answered Paul.

“Is the pay pretty good?”

“I get four dollars a week.”

“That’s more than I got when I was your age, sonny.”

“It doesn’t go very far in the city, when you have your board and clothes to pay for,” replied the young telegraph messenger.

“That’s so. I didn’t think of that. I was reared on a farm, where they didn’t make much account of the victuals you ate.”

“We have to make account of it here, sir.”

“So you don’t have much left out of your four dollars?”

“No, sir; but I get rather more than four dollars. Sometimes the gentlemen I am working for give me a little extra for myself.”

“How much does that come to--in a week?”

“Well, sometimes I make a dollar or two extra. It depends a good deal on whether I fall in with liberal gentlemen or not. I don’t mean this as a hint, sir,” added Paul, smiling. “I am not entitled to anything extra, but, of course, when it is offered I take it.”

Paul had a motive in saying this. He abhorred the idea of seeming to beg for a gratuity. Besides, judging from the appearance and rusty attire of the old man, he decided that he was poor, and could not afford to pay anything over the regular charges.

“I see,” said the old farmer, as Paul supposed him to be, with a responsive smile. “You’re right there, sonny. If you’re offered a little extra money, it’s all right to take it.”

By this time they had reached the City Hall Park, and were crossing it. Then, as now, the Park swarmed with bootblacks of all sizes, provided with the implements of their trade.

Frequently, in the rivalry which results from active competition, the little fellows are pushed aside, and the bigger and stronger boys take possession of the customers they have secured. There was a case of this sort which fell under the attention of Paul and his elderly companion.

A pale, delicate looking boy of twelve was signaled by a gentleman, a rod or two from the City Hall. He hastened eagerly to secure a job, but unhappily the signal had also been seen by a bigger boy, larger, if anything, than Paul, and he, too, ran to get in ahead of the smaller boy. Without ceremony, he put out his foot and tripped little Jack, and with a triumphant laugh sped on to the expectant customer. The little boy, who had been bruised by the fall, rose crying and disappointed.

“That’s mean, Tom Rafferty,” he said. “The gentleman called me.”

Tom only responded by another laugh. With him, might made right, and the dominating law was the will of the stronger.

“Oh, you’ll get another soon,” he said.

He got down on his knees, and placed his box in position. But all was not to be as smooth sailing as he expected. Paul, with a blaze of honest indignation, had seen the outrage. He was not surprised, for he knew both boys.

“Never mind, Jack,” he said. “I’ll fix it all right.

“Please mind the valise a minute, sir,” he added, and rather to the surprise of Mr. Meacham, he left him standing in the park, while he darted forward, seized Tom Rafferty by the collar, pulled him over backwards, and called, “Now, Jack!”

The little boy, emboldened by this unexpected help, ran up, and took Tom’s place at the foot of the customer.

“I’m the boy you called, sir,” he said.

“That’s true, my boy. Go ahead! Only be quick!” said the gentleman.

Tom Rafferty was furious.

“Don’t you know any better, you overgrown bully, than to get away little boys’ jobs?” asked Paul, indignantly.

“I’ll mash yer!” roared Tom.

“You mean if you can,” said the undaunted Paul.

“You think you’re a gentleman, just because you’re a telegraph boy. I could be a telegraph boy myself if I wanted ter.”

“Go ahead--I have no objection.”

“I’ll give that little kid the worst lickin’ he ever had, soon as he gets through, see ef I don’t.”

“Do it if you dare!” said Paul, his eyes flashing. “If you do, I’ll thrash you.”

“You dassn’t.”

“Remember what I say, Tom Rafferty. Now, Mr. Meacham, we’ll go on. I hope you’ll excuse me for keeping you waiting.”

“Yes, I will, sonny. It did me good to see you pitching into that young bully. I’d like to have done it myself.”

“I know both boys, sir. Little Jack is the son of a widow, who sews for a living, and she can’t make enough to support the family, and he has to go out and earn what he can by shines. He is small and weak, and the big boys impose upon him.”

“I’m glad he has some friends; Number 91, you’re a brave boy.”

“I don’t know about that, sir. But I can’t stand still and see a little kid like that imposed upon by a big brute like Tom Rafferty.”

They crossed Broadway, and presently neared Cortlandt Street. Just at the corner stood an old man, with bent form and white hair, dressed with extreme shabbiness. His hand was extended, and he was silently asking for alms.

Paul’s cheek flushed, and an expression of mortification swept over his face.

“Grandfather!” he said, reproachfully. “Please go home! Don’t beg in the streets. You make me ashamed!”

Chapter II. The Cortlandt Street Ferry.

The old man turned, and, recognizing Paul, looked somewhat ashamed.

“I--I couldn’t help it,” he whined. “I’m so poor.”

“There is no need for you to beg. I’ll bring you some money tonight.”

“Just for a little while. See, a kind gentleman gave me that,” and he displayed a silver dime.

Paul looked very much annoyed.

“If you don’t stop begging, grandfather,” he said, “I won’t come home at all. I’ll go and sleep at the Newsboys’ Lodge.”

The old man looked frightened. Paul turned in every week two dollars and a half of his wages, and old Jerry had no wish to lose so considerable a sum.

“I’ll go--I’ll go right away,” he said, hastily.

“Be sure you do. If you don’t I shall hear of it, and you won’t see me any more.”

Just then a policeman of the Broadway squad, whose business it was to pilot passengers across through the maze of vehicles, took the old man in tow, and led him carefully across the great thoroughfare.

Mr. Meacham had watched in attentive silence this interview between Paul and the old man.

“So that is your grandfather,” he said.

“I call him so,” answered Paul, slowly.

“You call him so!” repeated his companion, puzzled. “Isn’t he really your grandfather?”

“No, sir; but as I have lived with him ever since I was very small, I have got into the habit of calling him so.”

“When did your father die?”

“When I was about six years old. He only left a hundred dollars or so, which Jerry took charge of, and took me to live with him. We were living in the same tenement house, and that’s how it came about.”

“Is he so very poor?”

“I used to think so,” answered Paul, “till one day I found out that he got a monthly pension from some quarter in the city. I don’t know how much it is, but I know he has money deposited in the Bowery Savings Bank.”

“How did you find that out, Number 91?”

“I was walking along the Bowery one day on an errand, when, as I was passing the bank, I saw grandfather going up the steps. That made me curious, and I beckoned to a friend of mine, Johnny Woods, and asked him to go in and see what the old man’s business appeared to be. I met Johnny that evening and he told me that he saw grandfather write out a deposit check and pay in money. I couldn’t find out how much it was, but Johnny said there were several bills in the sum.”

“Then your grandfather, as you call him, is a miser.”

“Yes, sir, that’s about what it comes to.”

“In what way does he live?”

“We have a poor, miserable room in a tenement on Pearl Street that costs us four dollars a month. Grandfather is always groaning about having to pay so much.”

“I suppose he doesn’t live very luxuriously?”

“Dry bread, and sometimes a little cheese, is what he lives on. Sometimes Mrs. O’Connor, an Irish washerwoman, living in the room below, brings up a plate of meat out of charity.”

Paul uttered the last word bitterly, as if he felt keenly the mortification of the confession.

“But how can you look so well and strong on such fare?” asked the old farmer, gazing not unadmiringly at the red cheeks and healthy complexion of the young telegraph boy.

“I don’t take my meals with grandfather. He wanted me to hand in all my money, and share his meals, but I told him I should die in a week if I had to live like him, so he agreed to let me pay him two dollars and a half a week, and use the rest for myself. I generally eat at some restaurant on the Bowery.”

“But that must cost you more than a dollar and a half a week.”

“So it does, sir, but I get a dollar or two extra on fees from parties that employ me.”

“Even then, at the prices I paid at the New England Hotel, I shouldn’t think you could buy three meals a day.”

“What do you take me for, Mr. Meacham--a Vanderbilt or an Astor?” asked Paul, smiling. “I might as well go to Delmonico’s or the Fifth Avenue Hotel as to the New England House.”

“Where do you eat, then?”

“Generally at the Jim Fisk restaurant on Chatham Street.”

“Is that a cheap restaurant?”

“I can get a good breakfast there for eight cents, and a good dinner for eleven.”

Mr. Meacham looked surprised.

“What on earth can you get for those prices?” he asked.

“I can get a cup of coffee, eggs, fish balls, or mutton stew, with bread and butter, for eight cents,” said Paul. “The coffee costs three cents, the other five. Then, for dinner, all kinds of meat cost eight cents a plate, and bread and butter thrown in.”

“That’s cheap enough certainly. Is it good?”

“It’ll do,” said Paul, briefly. “Last Sunday I got roast turkey. That cost twelve cents.”

“Great Scott!” ejaculated the farmer. “I never dreamed of how people live here in this great city.”

“You see we can’t all of us eat at Delmonico’s.”

“Did your grandfather ever eat at your restaurant?”

“Once I invited him, and told him I would pay the bill. He ate a square meal, meat, coffee, and pie, costing sixteen cents. He seemed to relish it very much, but when we were going away he groaned over my extravagance, and predicted that I would die in the poorhouse. I’ve never succeeded in getting him there since.”

“Well, well,” said the farmer, “of all the fools on the footstool, I believe the biggest is the man who deprives himself of vittles to save up money for somebody else to spend. I’m too selfish, for my part.”

“There isn’t a day that grandfather doesn’t groan over my foolish extravagance,” continued Paul. “Sometimes it makes me laugh, but oftener it makes me ashamed.”

“You don’t feel much attachment to him, then?”

“No, sir; perhaps I ought, as he has been my guardian so long, but you saw him yourself, sir--a poor, shabby, dirty old man! How can I feel attached to him?”

“I confess it must be hard.”

“You don’t think me much to blame, do you?”

“I don’t think you to blame at all. Affection must be natural, and there seems to be no ground for it in this case. But isn’t that the ferry?”

“Yes, sir.”

They crossed the street and entered the ticket office of the Cortlandt Street Ferry. Paul set down the valise, while Mr. Meacham secured a ticket.

“Now, Number 91,” said the old man, “how much do I owe you?”

Paul stated the sum, and Mr. Meacham put it in his hand.

“Thank you, sir,” said Paul, touching his cap.

“Stop a minute; here is something for yourself,” said his companion, taking out a silver dollar from his purse.

Paul regarded the old man with undisguised amazement.

“Are you surprised to get so much?” asked the old man with a smile.

“Yes, sir; I--” and he hesitated.

“You thought me a poor man, perhaps a mean man?”

“No, sir, not that; but I thought you not rich.”

“Don’t always judge by the clothes a man wears, Number 91. I own a large farm, and fifty thousand dollars in railroad stocks. That is rich for the country.”

“I don’t often get so much as this, sir.”

“I suppose not. But I have got a good deal of information out of you. I have heard much that surprised me, that I couldn’t have learned in any other way. So you are welcome to the dollar, and I think I have got my money’s worth.”

“I am very much obliged to you, sir.”

“That’s all right. Now, Number 91--by the way, what is your real name?”

“Paul Parton, sir.”

“Then, Paul, if you ever come my way, I should like to have you spend a week or a month on my farm, as a visitor. I live in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, about a couple of miles from the city, and I’ll promise to give you enough to eat at less than you have to pay at the Jim Fisk restaurant.”

Paul thanked him with a smile, and turned to leave the ferry.

In the waiting room was a tall, bearded man, who looked something like a miner, as indeed he was, just returned from a long sojourn in California.

“Excuse me, boy,” he said, advancing towards our hero. “Do you mind telling me your name?”

“My name is Paul Parton,” answered the telegraph boy, with a glance of surprise.

“Were you ever in California?”

“Not that I know of, sir.”

“It’s strange!” said the miner, reflectively.

“What is strange, sir?”

“You are the living image of a man I used to know a dozen or fourteen years since in California. Were you born in New York?”

“I think so, sir--I don’t know.”

“Is your father living?”

“No, sir; I live with an old man who is not related to me.”

“Was your father ever in California?”

“He may have been, sir; but I was so young when he died that I don’t know much about his history.”

“What is that number on your cap?”

“I am Number 91, and work for the District Telegraph Company.”

“Number 91? Well, my boy, I hope you’ll excuse the liberty I took in addressing you. The California miners are rather unceremonious. I suppose you think it strange?”

“No, sir, not at all,” returned Paul, politely. “I am glad to have made your acquaintance.”

As he left the ferry, and lost sight of his questioner, he regretted that he had not at least inquired his name.

“He may have known my father,” thought Paul, “and I should be glad to meet some of his friends. I don’t think old Jerry knows much about him. I am getting tired of living with the old man, and should like to meet some relative or friend of whom I need not be ashamed.”

Chapter III. Old Jerry The Miser.

At six o’clock every other day Paul was let off from the office, other days he stayed much later.

On this particular day he was dismissed at six, and bent his steps homeward. He paused in front of a tall, shabby brick tenement house, unsightly in its surroundings, and abounding inside in unsavory smells, and took his way up the creaking staircase to a room on the fourth floor. He opened the door and entered.

The room was bare and cheerless in the extreme. The floor was uncarpeted, and if it had ever been painted it retained no vestiges of it. Two chairs, one broken, a small table which would have been dear at fifty cents, a low bedstead in one corner with a dirty covering--there were no sheets--and a small cot bed which Paul occupied--these were about all that could claim the name of furniture. There was, however, a wooden chest, originally a sailor’s, probably, which the telegraph boy used to hold the few extra clothes he possessed.

Old Jerry was sitting on one side of the bedstead.

“Good evening, grandfather,” said Paul, cheerfully.

“It isn’t a good ev’ning,” answered the old man, querulously. “I--I haven’t made a cent today.”

“I thought you got ten cents by begging,” said Paul.

“I--I forgot that. I might have got more if you hadn’t interfered. You are very hard on your poor old grandfather, Paul.”

“I can’t bear to have you beg,” said Paul, his brows contracting. “I don’t want to have it said that I live with a beggar.”

“It isn’t my fault that I am very poor, Paul.”

“Are you so very poor?” asked Paul, pointedly.

“I--of course I am. What do you mean, Paul?” asked the old man, his manner indicating alarm. “Don’t you _know_ I am very poor?”

“I know you say so.”

“Of course I am. Did any one ever tell you I wasn’t?”

“This room looks like it at any rate,” answered Paul, looking about with ill concealed disgust.

He didn’t choose to say anything of the discovery he had made, through his friend Johnny Woods, of old Jerry’s deposit in the Bowery Savings Bank.

“Yes, yes, and it is more than I can afford. Four dollars a month is an awful price. I have often thought I must find a cheaper room.”

“You couldn’t easily find a poorer one,” said Paul, moodily. “Well, grandfather, have you had your supper?”

“Yes, I have eaten a piece of bread.”

“That isn’t enough for you, grandfather. If you will come out with me I will get you some supper at the Jim Fisk restaurant.”

“No, no, Paul; I can’t afford it. It is sinful extravagance.”

“I can get you a cup of tea and some corn beef hash for eight cents. That isn’t much. Don’t you think you would enjoy a cup of tea?”

“Yes, Paul, it would do me good, if I could afford it.”

“But I will pay for it.”

“Oh, Paul, you will die in the poorhouse if you are so wasteful. The money that you have spent at that eating house would bring joy to the heart of your old grandfather.”

“Look here,” said Paul, who could not bring his mind to calling the old man grandfather, as he had often done before. “It’s no use talking. You may starve yourself if you want to, but I don’t mean to. I’m going out to supper now. If you go with me I’ll pay for your supper, and it shan’t cost you a cent. I am sure you would like a good cup of tea.”

For an instant an expression of longing crept over the face of the old miser, but it was soon succeeded by a look of cunning and greed.

“It would cost eight cents, wouldn’t it, Paul?” he said.

“Yes, but that isn’t much. If you’d like a plate of roast beef and a cup of tea, I’ll buy it for you. They will cost only eleven cents. So put on your hat, and we will go out together.”

“Wait a minute, Paul,” said the old man. “Would you mind giving me the money instead--eleven cents?”

“No, I don’t mind, but I would rather you would go out with me. How do you expect to keep soul and body together without anything but dry bread and cold water?”

“I’m so poor, Paul; I can’t afford anything better,” whined old Jerry.

“I see it’s no use talking to you,” said Paul, in a vexed tone. “Well, if you prefer to have me give you the money, here it is.”

He took from his pocket a dime and a penny, and passed it over to the old man.

Old Jerry chuckled, and a smile crept over his wrinkled features, as he eagerly clutched the coins.

“Good boy, Paul!” he said. “That’s right, to be kind to your poor old grandfather.”

“Well, I’m going out to supper,” said Paul, abruptly, for it was painful to him to witness this evidence of the old man’s infatuation. “I’ll be back soon.

“That’s a guardian to be proud of,” he said, bitterly, as he made his way carefully down the rickety staircase. “Who can blame me for not liking him? I don’t believe I can make up my mind to call him grandfather again. After all, why should I? He is no relation of mine, and I am glad of it.”

Chapter IV. A Strange Commission.

The life of a telegraph boy is full of variety and excitement. He never knows when he goes to the office in the morning on what errands he may be sent, or what duties he may be called upon to discharge. He may be sent to Brooklyn, or Jersey City, with a message--sometimes even farther away. He may be detained to supply the place of an absent office boy, or sent up town to go out and walk with a child. In the evening he may be directed to accompany a lady to the theater as escort. These are a few of the uses to which telegraph messenger boys are put.

Of course Paul had had his share of varied commissions. But the day after that on which our story opens, a new duty awaited him.

It was about five o’clock that the superintendent called “Number 91.”

“Yes, sir,” answered Paul, promptly.

“You are to go up to No. ----, West Fifty First Street, to spend the night.”

Paul looked surprised.

“To spend the night?” he repeated.

“Yes, the head of the household has been called away for a day or two, and there is no man in the house. Mrs. Cunningham is timid, and has sent for a boy to protect the house against possible burglars.”

The superintendent smiled, and so did Paul.

“I guess I can do it,” he said.

“Very well, you will report at the house about seven o’clock.”

“Can I go home and tell grandfather? He might be alarmed if I didn’t come home.”

“Yes; I will give you an extra half hour for supper.”

At seven o’clock Paul rang the bell of a handsome brown stone mansion on West Fifty First Street.

The door was opened by a servant girl.

“I was sent for by Mrs. Cunningham,” said Paul.

“Yes, the missis is expecting you. Come right in!”

Paul observed, as he followed the girl upstairs into a sitting room on the second floor, that the house was very handsomely furnished--and came to the natural conclusion that the occupants were rich.

“Just take a seat, and I’ll tell the missis,” said the girl.

Paul sat down in a plush covered arm chair, and looked about him admiringly. “I wonder how it must seem to live in such a house as this,” he reflected. And then his thoughts went back to the miserable tenement house in which he and his grandfather lived, and he felt more disgusted with it than ever, after the sight of this splendor.

His reflections were interrupted by the entrance of a pleasant faced lady.

“Are you the boy I sent for?” she asked, with a smile.

“Yes, ma’am,” answered Paul, respectfully, rising as he spoke.

“I suppose you know why I want you,” proceeded the lady.

“Yes, ma’am; I was told there were only ladies in the house, and you wanted a man to sleep here.”

“I am afraid you can hardly be called a man,” said the lady with another smile. “Still you are not a woman or girl, and I shall feel safer for having you here. I am afraid I am a sad coward. What is your name?”

“Paul--Paul Parton.”

“That is a nice name.”

“My husband has been called to Washington,” she added, after a pause, “and will be absent possibly ten nights. Knowing my timidity, he recommended my sending for a messenger boy. I may say, however, that I have some reason for alarm. Two houses in this block have been entered at night within a month. Besides, through a thieving servant, who was probably a confederate of thieves, it has become known that we keep some valuables in a safe in the library, and this may prove a temptation.”

At this moment an extremely pretty girl of fourteen entered the room, and looked inquiringly at Paul.

“Jennie,” said Mrs. Cunningham, “this is Paul Parton, who is to protect and defend us tonight, if necessary.”

Jennie regarded Paul with a smile.

“Won’t you be afraid?” she asked.

“No, miss,” answered Paul, who was instantly impressed in favor of the pretty girl whose acquaintance he was just making.

“I’m not easily frightened,” he answered.

“Then you’re different from mamma and me. We are regular scarecrows--no, that isn’t the word. I mean we are regular cowards. Still, with a brave and strong man in the house,” she added, with an arch smile, “we shall feel safe.”

“I hope you will be,” said Paul

“It is still early,” said Mrs. Cunningham. “Have you had your supper, Paul?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“We shall not retire before ten--Jennie, you can entertain this young gentleman, if you like.”

“All right, mamma--if I can--that is, if he isn’t hard to entertain. Do you play dominoes, Paul?”

“Yes, miss.”

“O, don’t call me miss--I don’t mind your calling me Jennie.”

The two sat down to a game of dominoes, and were soon on the friendliest possible terms.

After a while, seeing a piano in the room, Paul asked the young lady if she played.

“Yes; would you like to hear me?”

“If you please.”

After three or four pieces, she asked--“Don’t you sing?”

“Not much,” answered Paul, bashfully.

“Sing me something, won’t you?”

Paul blushed, and tried to excuse himself.

“I don’t sing any but common songs,” he said.

“That’s what I want to hear.”

After a while Paul mustered courage enough to sing “Baby Mine,” and another song which he had heard at Harry Miner’s.

They were not classical, but the young lady seemed to enjoy them immensely. They were quite unlike what she had been accustomed to hear, and perhaps for that reason she enjoyed them the more.

“I think you sing splendidly,” she said.

Of course Paul blushed, and put in a modest disclaimer. Still he felt pleased, and decided that Jennie Cunningham was the nicest girl he had ever met.

“But what would she say,” he thought, “if she could see the miserable place I live in?” and the perspiration gathered on his face at the mere thought.

At ten o’clock Mrs. Cunningham suggested that it was time to go to bed.

“Paul, you will sleep in a little bedroom adjoining the library,” she said.

“All right, ma’am.”

“Come with me and I will show you your bedroom.”

It was a pleasant room, though small, and seemed to Paul the height of luxury.

“Shall I leave with you my husband’s revolver?” asked the lady.

“Yes, ma’am, I would like it.”

“Do you understand the use of revolvers?”

“Yes; I have practiced some with them in a shooting gallery.”

“I hope there will be no occasion to use it. I don’t think there will. But it is best to be prepared.”

Paul threw himself on the bed in his uniform in order to be better prepared to meet any midnight intruder.

“It won’t do to sleep too sound,” he thought, “or the house might be robbed without my knowing it.”

He was soon fast asleep. It might have been because he had the matter on his mind that about midnight he woke up. A faint light had been left burning in the chandelier in the library. Was it imagination on Paul’s part that he thought he heard a noise in the adjoining room? Instantly he was on the alert.

“It may be a burglar!” he thought, with a thrill of excitement.

He got up softly, reached for the revolver, and with a stealthy step advanced to the door that opened into the library.

What he saw was certainly startling.

A man, tall and broad shouldered, was on his knees before the safe, preparing to open it.

“What are you doing there?” demanded the telegraph boy, firmly.

[Illustration: THE INTERRUPTED BURGLAR.--See page 27.]

The man sprang to his feet, and confronted Paul standing with a revolver in his hand pointed in his direction.

“O, it’s a kid!” he said, contemptuously.

“What are you doing there?” repeated Paul.

“None of yer business! Go back to bed!”

“Leave this house or I fire!”

The man thought of springing upon the boy, but there was something in his firm tone that made him think it best to parley. A revolver, even in a boy’s hand, might prove formidable.

“Go to bed, or I’ll kill you!” said the burglar, with an ugly frown.

“I will give you two minutes to leave this room and the house!” said Paul. “If you are here at the end of that time I fire!”

There was an expression of baffled rage on the face of the low browed ruffian as he stood bending forward, as if ready to spring upon the undaunted boy.

Chapter V. An Exciting Interview.

For a full minute Paul and the burglar faced each other without either moving. The telegraph boy of course waited for some aggressive movement on the part of his opponent. In that case he would not hesitate to fire. He felt the reluctance natural to any boy of humane instincts to take human life, and resolved, if possible, only to disable the ruffian. His heart quickened its pulsations, but in manner he was cool, cautious and collected. If the burglar had seen any symptoms of timidity or wavering, he would have sprung upon Paul. As it was, he was afraid to do so, and was enraged at himself because he felt cowed and intimidated by a boy. He resolved to inspire fear in Paul if he could.

“I have a great mind to kill you,” he growled.

“Two can play at that game,” said Paul, undaunted.

“Look here! You are making a fool of yourself. You are risking your life for nothing.”

“I am only doing my duty,” said Paul, firmly.

“The kid’s in earnest,” thought the burglar. “I must try him on another tack.

“Look here,” he said, changing his tone. “You are a poor boy, ain’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Just you lower that weapon, and don’t interfere with me, and I will make it worth your while.”

“What do you mean?” asked Paul, who, however, suspected the burglar’s meaning.

“I mean this,” said the intruder, in an insinuating tone. “Let me open the safe and make off with the contents, and I’ll give you a liberal share of it.”

“What do you take me for?” demanded Paul, indignantly.

“For a boy, of course. What do you care for the people in the house? They are rich and can afford to lose what will make us rich. Let me know where you live, and I’ll deal squarely with you. I mean it. All you’ve got to do is to go back to bed, and they’ll think you slept through and didn’t see me at all. What do you say?”

“I say no a thousand times!” answered Paul, boldly. “I may be poor all my life long, but I won’t be a thief.”

The burglar’s face expressed the rage he felt. It was very hard for him to resist the impulse to spring upon Paul, but the resolute mien of the boy satisfied him that it would be very dangerous.

“You refuse then?” he said, sullenly.

“Yes; you insult me by your proposal.”

“I wish I had brought a pistol; then you wouldn’t have dared speak to me in that way.”

Paul was relieved to hear this. He had concluded that the burglar was unarmed, but didn’t know it positively. Now he could dismiss all fear.

“Well,” he said, “are you going?”

The burglar eyed our hero during a minute of indecision, and decided that his plan was a failure. He certainly could not open the safe within range of a loaded revolver, and should he attack Paul, would not only risk his life, but rouse the house, and fall into the hands of the police, a class of men he made it his business to avoid. It was a bitter pill to swallow, but he must submit.

“Will you promise not to shoot if I agree to leave the house?”

“Yes.”

“Will you promise not to start the burglar alarm, but allow me to escape without interference?”

“Yes, if you will agree never to enter this house again.”

“All right!”

“You promise?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Then I’ll go. If you break your word, boy, you’ll wish you had never been born,” he added, fiercely. “I’d hunt you night and day after I got out of jail, and kill you like a dog.”

“You need not be afraid. I will keep my word.” There was something in Paul’s tone and manner that inspired confidence.

“You ain’t a bad sort!” said the burglar, paying an involuntary tribute to the boy’s staunch honesty. “You’re a cool kind of kid, any way. What an honor you’d make to our profession!”

Paul could not help smiling.

“I suppose that’s a compliment,” he said. “Thank you. Now I must trouble you to go.”

“I’m going! Remember your promise!”

In an instant the burglar was out of the window, through which he had made his entrance, and disappeared from sight. Paul did not approach the window, lest his doing so should excite alarm in the rogue. When a sufficient time had elapsed he ran to the window, closed it, and once more breathed freely. The danger was passed, and he began now to feel the tension to which his nerves had been subjected.

“Has anything happened, Paul?” asked a voice. Turning, Paul saw Mrs. Cunningham at the door. She had thrown a wrapper over her, and, attracted by the sound of voices, had entered the library.

“Has any burglar been here?” she asked, nervously, observing Paul with the revolver in his hand.

“Yes,” answered the telegraph boy; “I have just bidden the gentleman good night.”

By this time Jennie, too, made her appearance. “What is it, mamma? What is it, Paul?” she asked. “Why are you standing there with the revolver in your hand?”

Paul told the story as briefly as the circumstances would admit.

“It was a mercy you were awake!” said Mrs. Cunningham. “Did you hear the noise of the man’s entrance?”

“I don’t know how I happened to wake up,” said Paul. “I generally sleep sound. But I opened my eyes, and immediately heard a noise in this room.”

“But did you have time to dress?” asked Jennie.

“I did not need to do so, for I threw myself on the bed with my clothes on.”

“And with your cap on?” inquired Jennie with an arch smile.

“No, but when I rose from the bed I put it on without thinking. I don’t know whether I ought to have let the burglar get off free, but I thought it the easiest way to avoid trouble.”

“You did right. I approve your conduct,” said Mrs. Cunningham. “You seem to have acted with remarkable courage and discretion.”

“I am very glad if you are pleased, madam,” said Paul, gratified at this cordial indorsement.

“Weren’t you awfully scared, Paul?” asked Jennie Cunningham.

“Well, I was a little scared, I admit,” answered Paul, with a smile, “but I didn’t think it wise to show it before the burglar.”

“My hand would have trembled so that I couldn’t hold the pistol,” declared the young lady.

“Of course; you are a girl, you know.”

“Don’t you think girls are brave, then?”

“They are not called upon to be brave in the same way.”

“A good answer,” said Mrs. Cunningham. “And now, Jennie, we had better go back to bed. Will you not be afraid to sleep here the rest of the night after this adventure?” she asked, turning to Paul.

“No, Mrs. Cunningham. The burglar won’t feel like coming back.”

“What’s that?” asked Jennie, pointing to some article on the floor.

“It is the burglar’s jimmy,” said Paul, stooping to pick it up. “He left in such a hurry that he forgot to take it with him. I will carry it into my room, and take care of it.”

Paul bade the two visitors good night and threw himself once more on the bed. The remainder of the night passed quietly. The midnight visitor did not reappear.

Chapter VI. Paul Makes A Strange Discovery.

The next morning Mrs. Cunningham insisted on Paul’s taking breakfast with her before he returned to the telegraph office. Though it was a new experience to Paul sitting down at a luxuriously furnished table, in a refined family, he was possessed of a natural good breeding, which enabled him to appear to advantage.

He was flattered by the cordial manner in which Mrs. Cunningham and her daughter treated him, and he was tempted to ask himself whether he was the same boy that had lived for years in a squalid tenement house, under the guardianship of a ragged and miserly old man. Being gifted with a “healthy appetite,” Paul did not fail to appreciate the dainty rolls, tender meat, and delicious coffee with which he was served.

“I can’t get such a breakfast as this at the ‘Jim Fisk’ restaurant,” thought Paul. “Still, that is a good deal better than I could get at home.”

“I am not sure whether I shall need you tonight, Paul,” said Mrs. Cunningham, as they rose from the breakfast table. “It is not certain whether Mr. Cunningham will be at home or be detained over another night at Washington.”

“I shall be glad to come if you need me,” said Paul.

“I think I will have you come up, at any rate, about seven o’clock,” said the lady. “I will write a line to the superintendent to that effect.”

“Very well, ma’am.”

When Paul presented himself at the office he was the bearer of a note to the superintendent.

That official showed some surprise as he read it.

“So you drove away a burglar, Number 91?” he said.

“I believe I frightened him away,” answered Paul.

“Humph! Was he a little fellow?”

“No, a large man.”

“And he was afraid of you?” continued the superintendent, surprised.

“He was afraid of my revolver,” amended Paul.

The superintendent asked more questions, being apparently interested in the matter.

“The lady wishes you to go up again tonight,” he said.

“Yes, sir, so she told me, but it is not certain that I shall have to stay all night.”

“Of course you are to go.”

As the telegraph office would receive a good round sum for Paul’s services, the superintendent was very willing to send him up.

At noon Paul went home.

The tenement house seemed still more miserable and squalid, as he clambered up the rickety staircase. He mentally contrasted it with the elegant mansion in which he had spent the night, and it disgusted him still more with the wretched surroundings of the place he called home.

He was about to open the door of old Jerry’s room, when he was arrested by the sound of voices. Jerry’s, high pitched and quavering, was familiar enough to him, but there seemed something familiar, also, in the voice of the other, and yet he could not identify it with any of Jerry’s acquaintances.

There was a round hole in the door, the origin of which was uncertain, and Paul, knowing that he was at liberty to enter, did not think it wrong to reconnoiter through it before doing so.

To his intense surprise, the face of the visitor, visible to him through the opening, was that of the burglar whom he had confronted the night before.

“What can he have to do with Jerry?” Paul asked himself, in bewilderment.

Just then the man spoke.

“The fact is, father, I am hard pressed, and must have some money.”

Paul’s amazement increased. Was this burglar the son of old Jerry? He remembered now having heard Jerry refer to a son who had left him many years ago, and who had never since been heard of.

“I have no money, James,” whined the old man. “I am poor--very poor.”

“I’ve heard that talk before,” said the son, contemptuously; “and I know what it means.”

“But I am poor,” repeated old Jerry, eagerly. “I don’t get enough to eat. All I can afford is bread and water.”

“How much money have you got in the bank?” asked James.

“Wh--what makes you ask that?” asked the old man, in an agitated voice.

“Ha! I have hit the nail on the head,” said the visitor with an unpleasant laugh.

“You see how poor I am,” said the old man. “Does this poor room look as if I had money?”

“No, it doesn’t, but I know you of old, father. I suppose you are the same old miser you used to be. I shouldn’t wonder if you could raise thousands of dollars if you chose.”

“Hear him talk!” ejaculated the old man, raising his feeble arm in despairing protest. “I--I haven’t got any money except a few cents that Paul brought me yesterday.”

“And who is Paul?” asked the son, quickly.

“He is a boy I took years ago when he was very small. I--I took him out of charity.”

“Very likely. That’s so like you,” sneered the son. “I warrant you have got more out of him than he cost you.”

This was true enough, as Paul could testify. He was only six when he came under the old man’s care, but even at that tender age he was sent out on the street to sell papers and matches, and old Jerry tried to induce him to beg; but that was something the boy had always steadfastly refused to do.

He had an independent, self respecting spirit, which made him ashamed to beg. He was always willing to work, and to work hard, and he generally had an opportunity to do so. This will relieve Paul from the charge of ingratitude, for he had always paid his own way, and really owed Jerry nothing.

“He--he has cost me a great deal,” whined Jerry, “but I knew his father, and I could not turn him out into the streets.”

“And how old is this boy now?” asked the son.

“I--I think he is about sixteen.”

“He ought to be able to earn something. What does he do?”

“He is a telegraph boy.”

“Ha!” exclaimed the burglar with a scowl, for the word provoked disagreeable memories of the previous night. “I hate telegraph boys.”

“Paul is a good boy--a pretty good boy, but he eats a sight.”

The son indulged in a short laugh.

“How does he like your boarding house?” he asked.

“He doesn’t eat here; he goes to a restaurant. He spends piles of money!” groaned the old man.

“Telegraph boys are not generally supposed to revel in riches,” said the son in a sarcastic tone. “It’s so much out of your pocket, eh?”

“Yes,” groaned the old man. “If he would give me all his wages I should be very comfortable.”

“But he wouldn’t. From what I know of your table, father, I think he would starve to death in a month. I haven’t forgotten how you starved me when I was a kid.”

“You look strong and well now,” said old Jerry.

“Yes, but no thanks to you! But to business! How much money have you got?”

“Very little, James. I have eleven cents that Paul gave me yesterday.”

“Bah! You are deceiving me. Where is your bank book?”

“I have none. What makes you ask such questions?” demanded the old man, querulously. “I wish you would go away.”

“That is a pretty way to treat a son you haven’t seen for twelve years. Do you know what I am?”

“No.”

“Then I’ll tell you; for years I have been a burglar.”

Old Jerry looked frightened.

“You’re not in earnest, James?”

“Yes, I am. I ain’t proud of the business, but you drove me to it.”

“No, no,” protested the old man.

“You made me work hard, and half starved me when I was a boy, you gave me no chance of education, and all to swell your paltry hoards. If I have gone to the bad, you are responsible. But let that drop. I’ve been unfortunate, and I want money.”

“I told you I had none, James.”

“And I don’t believe you. Hark you! I will come back tomorrow,” he said, with a threatening gesture. “In the meanwhile, get fifty dollars from the bank, and have it ready for me. Do you hear?”

“You must be mad, James!” said old Jerry, regarding his son with a look of fear.

“I shall be, unless you have the money. I will go now, but I shall be back tomorrow.”

Paul ran downstairs hastily, as he heard the man’s heavy step approaching the door. He didn’t care to be recognized by his unpleasant acquaintance of the night previous.

Chapter VII. Paul Resolves To Move.

After Jerry’s unwelcome visitor was well out of the way, Paul returned to the room. He found old Jerry trembling and very much distressed. The old man looked up with startled eyes when he opened the door.

“Oh, it’s you, Paul,” he said, in a tone of relief.

“Who did you think it was?” asked Paul, wishing to draw out the old man.

“I--I have had a visit from a bad man, who wanted to rob me.”

“Who was it?”

“I’ll tell you, Paul, but it’s a secret, mind. It was my son.”

“I didn’t know you had a son.”

“Nor I. I thought he might be dead, for I have not seen him for twenty years. I am afraid he is very wicked.”

“How did he find you out?”

“I don’t know. He--he frightened me very much. He wanted me to give him money--and I so miserably poor.”

Paul didn’t answer.

“You know how poor I am, Paul,” continued the old man appealingly.

“You always say so, Jerry.”

The old man did not appear to notice that Paul had ceased to call him grandfather.

“And it’s true--of course it’s true. But he wants me to pay him fifty dollars. He is coming back tomorrow.”

“But he can’t get it if you haven’t it to give.”

“I--I don’t know. He was always bad tempered--James was. I am afraid he might beat me.”

“What! Beat his father!” exclaimed Paul, indignantly.

“He might,” said the old man. “He wasn’t a good boy like you. He always gave me trouble.”

“Are you really afraid he will come, grand--Jerry?” asked Paul, earnestly.

“Yes, he is sure to come--he said so.”

“Then I think we had better move to another place where he can’t find us.”

“Yes--yes--let us go,” said the old man, hurriedly. “But, but,” he added, with a sudden thought, “we have paid the rent here to the end of the month. I can’t afford to lose that--I am so poor.”

“It will only be a dollar and a half; I will pay it,” said Paul.

“Then I think I shall go. When shall we leave, Paul?”

“This evening, Jerry, if I can get the time. I may have to stay up town to guard a house where the gentleman is absent, but it isn’t certain. If I do, I will be here early in the morning, before I go to work.”

This assurance seemed to abate the apprehensions of the old man, who, it was evident, stood in great fear of his son. Paul was obliged to take a hurried leave of him in order to have time for lunch before returning to the office.

“Who would have dreamed,” he said to himself, “that the bold burglar whom I encountered last night, was the son of old Jerry? One is as timid as a mouse, the other seems like a daring criminal. I wonder why Jerry never told me that he had a son.”

The discovery that Jerry had such a son made Paul still more unwilling to own a relationship to him. It was bad enough to pass for the grandson of a squalid miser, but it was worse to be thought the son or nephew of a burglar.

The day passed quietly. Paul was not sent out much, on the supposition that he might have to pass another night at the house of Mr. Cunningham.

About seven o’clock he rang the bell of the house in Fifty First Street.

The same servant admitted him. This time she received him with a smile, knowing that he stood high with her mistress.

“Come right in,” she said. “The mistress will see you in the sitting room.”

“Have you had any more visits from burglars?” asked Paul.

“No; may be they’re waiting till night.”

“Has Mr. Cunningham got back?”

“No, but he’s expected at eight.”

Paul was glad to hear this, for he preferred not to remain over night, as he knew that old Jerry would need him.

When Paul entered the sitting room Mrs. Cunningham received him cordially.

“I suppose you have not seen the burglar since,” said Mrs. Cunningham, innocently.

She little dreamed what a discovery he had made, and he did not think it wise to enlighten her.

“He has not called upon me,” answered Paul, with justifiable evasion. “I don’t think I want to meet him again.”

“I hope he will never present himself here,” said the lady.

“He made me a promise that he would not,” said Paul.

“I suppose he wouldn’t mind breaking it.”

“No, but he may conclude that you would be on your guard.”

“There is something in that,” said Mrs. Cunningham, looking relieved. “My husband has telegraphed me that he will be here at eight o’clock, but I don’t want him to run the risk of encountering such a man.”

“Then you won’t need me to remain here?”

“No; but I wish you to stay till Mr. Cunningham returns. He will wish to see you.”

“Certainly, if you desire it,” said Paul, politely.

“My daughter will entertain you,” continued the lady. “Here she is.”

“Good evening, Paul!” said Jennie, cordially extending her hand, as she entered the room.

“Good evening!” responded Paul, brightening up.

“Would you like to play a game of dominoes?”

“I would be very glad to do so.”

“Then we’ll play ‘muggins.’ There’s more fun in that than in the regular game.”

So the two sat down and were soon deeply immersed in the game.

“Do you know, Paul,” said Jennie, suddenly, “I feel as if I had known you for a long time, though it is only about twenty four hours since we met.”

“I feel the same,” said Paul.

“I’m awfully glad they sent you here instead of some other telegraph boy.”

“Perhaps you would have liked another one better?”

“I don’t think I should, but I ought not to say so. It may make you vain.”

“Are boys ever vain? I thought it was only girls.”

“That’s a very impolite speech. I shall have to give you a bad mark!”

“Then I’ll take it all back!”

“You’d better,” said Jennie, with playful menace. “I hope you’ll come up some time when you are not sent for on business!”

“I would like to very much, if your mother is willing.”

“Why shouldn’t she be willing?”

“I am only a poor telegraph boy.”

“I don’t mind that. I don’t see why a telegraph boy isn’t as good as a boy in a store. My cousin Mark is in a store.”

It will be seen that these young people were rapidly coming to a very good understanding. Paul was not in love, but he certainly did consider Jennie Cunningham quite the nicest girl he had ever met.

So the time passed till Mr. Cunningham returned. His wife informed him briefly of what had occurred. They both entered the room together. He was a man of middle age, a very pleasant and easy mannered gentleman.

“Are you the boy who drove away the burglar?” he asked, with a smile.

“Yes, sir, I believe so,” answered Paul.

“Then let me add my thanks to those of my wife. You have done us a great service.”

“I am very glad to have had the chance,” said Paul.

“If you will come to my office tomorrow morning,” continued Mr. Cunningham, “I will thank you in a more effective way. Come at ten o’clock. As you may find it difficult to leave the office otherwise, tell the superintendent that I have an errand for you.”

“Very well, sir.”

“Here is my business card.”

Paid took the card and rose to go.

“Mamma,” said Jennie, “can’t you invite Paul to call and see us sometimes?”

“Certainly,” said the lady, smiling. “After what he has done he ought to have the freedom of the house. We shall be glad to see you as a visitor, Paul,” she said, kindly.

Paul left the house in a flutter of pleasant excitement. He was quite determined to avail himself of an invitation so agreeable.

He crossed over to Third Avenue, and returned by the elevated railway to the home of old Jerry.

Chapter VIII. Paul Moves To Ludlow Street.

In the evening Paul found old Jerry anxiously awaiting him.

“Have you found a new room, Paul?” he asked, eagerly.

“I haven’t had time,” Paul answered, “but I’ll go at once and see about it.”

“James will be here tomorrow,” said the old man, nervously, “and I--I am afraid of him. He is a bad man. He wants me to give him money. You know I have no money, Paul?” he concluded with a look of appeal.

Now Paul knew that old Jerry had money, and he could not truthfully answer as the old man desired him.

“You say so, and that is enough,” he said.

“But it’s true,” urged Jerry, who understood the doubt in Paul’s mind. “How could I get any money? What you give me is all we have to live on.”

“That isn’t much, at any rate.”

“No, Paul, it isn’t much. Couldn’t you give me half a dollar more? Two dollars and a half are very little for me to live on and pay the rent,” whined the old man.

The appeal would have moved Paul if he had not suspected that the old man had a considerable sum of money laid away. As it was, it only disgusted him and made him feel angry at Jerry’s attempt to deceive him.

“Are you sure you get no money except what I give you?” he asked, pointedly.

“What do you mean, Paul?” demanded the old man, looking alarmed. “What gave you the idea that I had any other money?”

“At any rate,” said the telegraph boy, “you haven’t any money to throw away on this son of yours. I have no doubt he’s a bad man, as you say.”

“He was always bad and troublesome, James was,” said old Jerry. “He was always wanting money from the time he was a boy.”

“When he was a boy there was some reason for his asking it, but now he is a man grown, isn’t he?”

“Yes, yes.”

“How old is he?”

“James must be nigh upon thirty,” answered Jerry, after a little reflection. “You won’t hire too expensive a room, Paul?” he added. “You know we are poor, very poor!”

“Not unless I am willing to pay the extra cost myself.”

“Don’t do that! Give me the extra money, Paul,” said Jerry, with eager cupidity. “I--I find it hard to get along with two dollars and a half a week.”

“You forget, Jerry,” said Paul, coldly, “that I must have my meals. I can’t live without eating.”

“You eat too much, Paul, I’ve long thought so. It’s hurtful to eat too much. It’s--it’s bad for the health.”

“I’ll take the risk,” said Paul, with a short laugh. “I am not afraid of dying of gout, Jerry, with my present bill of fare.”

“If you wouldn’t mind my going out a few hours every day, and asking kind gentlemen to help me, Paul, we--we could get along better.”

“I won’t hear of it, Jerry,” said Paul, sternly. “If I hear of your going out to beg I will leave you and go off and live by myself. Then there will be no two dollars and a half coming to you every week.”

“No, no, don’t leave me, Paul,” said Jerry, thoroughly alarmed by this threat. “I won’t go out if you don’t want me to, though it’s very, very foolish to stay in, when there are so many kind gentlemen and ladies ready to give money to old Jerry.”

“Besides,” added Paul, “if you go out and stand in the street, your son will sooner or later find you out, and make trouble for you.”

“So he will, so he will,” chimed in the miser, with the old look of alarm on his face. “You are right, Paul, you are right. I must put it off. I--I wish he would go away somewhere--to--to California, or some place a great way off.”

Paul saw that he had produced the effect he intended upon the old man’s mind, and went out at once to look for a new room. He finally found one some half mile farther up town, in Ludlow Street--a little below Grand.

The room was better furnished than the one in which he and Jerry had lived for some years. There was a cheap carpet on the floor, a bed in one corner, and a shabby but comfortable lounge, on which Paul himself proposed to sleep. The rent was two dollars a month more than they had been accustomed to pay, but Paul concluded to say nothing of this to the old man, but quietly to pay it out of his own pocket. It would be but fifty cents a week, and he thought he could make that extra sum in some way. He was beginning to be more fastidious about his accommodations, now that he had seen how people lived uptown.

In fact, Paul was becoming ambitious. It was a very proper ambition, too. He had lived long enough in a squalid, miserable room, and now he meant to be better provided for.

“I am getting older,” he said to himself. “I ought to earn more money. I am sure I can somehow. I will keep my eyes open and see what I can find.”

Paul resolved to buy a bureau, if he could get one cheap, for at present he had absolutely no place in which to keep his small stock of clothing. He did not know exactly where the money was coming from, but he was hopeful, and had faith in himself. He was not waiting for something to turn up, as many lazy boys do, but he meant himself to turn up something.

Having concluded a bargain for the room, paying a dollar down, and promising to pay a further sum on Saturday night when he received his weekly pay, he returned to old Jerry.

“Well, Jerry,” he said cheerfully, “I’ve found a room.”

“Where is it, Paul?”

“In Ludlow Street.”

“Then let us go--at once. James might change his mind, and come round tonight. I don’t want to see him. He is a bold, bad man.”

Paul suggested that they had better not leave word with the neighbors where they were going, as this might furnish a clew to James Barclay, and put him on his father’s track.

Old Jerry eagerly assented to this, and the two started for their new home. They had very little to carry--at any rate, this was the case with the miser, and Paul’s wardrobe was not too extensive for him to carry it all with him at once.

When Jerry saw the room that Paul had engaged he was alarmed.

“This--this is too fine for us, Paul,” he said. “We can’t afford to pay for it. How much is the rent?”

“Six dollars a month,” answered Paul.

“We shall be ruined!” ejaculated Jerry, turning pale.

“It is two dollars more than we paid in the old place,” said Paul, “but it won’t come out of you. I will make a new arrangement with you--I will pay the entire rent, and give you a dollar and a half a week.”

“Make it two dollars, Paul,” said Jerry, in a coaxing tone.

“What are you thinking of? Do you want to starve me?” demanded Paul, sternly.

“I--I am so poor, Paul,” whined the miser.

“So am I,” answered Paul, “but I must keep enough to pay for my meals.”

Jerry saw that it would be useless to contest the point further, and settled himself in his new quarters, rather enjoying the improvement, but groaning inwardly over Paul’s extravagance. Paul threw himself on the lounge, after taking off his coat and vest, and, covering himself with a blanket, was soon sound asleep.

[Illustration: PAUL THREW HIMSELF ON THE LOUNGE, AND SOON WAS FAST ASLEEP.]

Chapter IX. Paul Becomes A Capitalist.

Paul did not fail to meet the appointment at Mr. Cunningham’s office the next morning. He had no difficulty in getting away, for it was understood at the office that he was wanted to run an errand and his time would be paid for.

“You seem to be in with the Cunninghams, Number 91,” said the superintendent.

“Yes, sir, they are very kind to me,” answered Paul.

“That is well. We like to have boys on good terms with customers. It increases the business of the office.”

Mr. Cunningham was talking with another gentleman when Paul entered his office.

“Sit down, Paul,” he said in a friendly tone, indicating a chair. “I shall soon be at leisure, and then I will attend to you.”

“Thank you, sir,” said the telegraph boy.

He had to wait about ten minutes. Then Mr. Cunningham’s visitor left him, and he turned to Paul.

“How is business this morning?” he asked, with a smile.

“This is my first call, sir.”

“Oh, well, no doubt you will have plenty before the day is over.”

“Yes, sir, I am engaged for the afternoon.”

“Indeed! And in what way?”

“I am to go shopping with a lady.”

“Can’t she go by herself there?”

“Yes, sir, I suppose so, but she wants me to carry her bundles.”

“Retail merchants generally send them home.”

“Yes, sir, but she once had one miscarry, and now she prefers to take a boy with her.”

“How do you like that business?” asked Mr. Cunningham.

“It is rather tiresome,” answered Paul, “as the lady is hard to suit and spends a good deal of time in each store. However, there is one thing that reconciles me to it.”

“What is that?”

“She is liberal, and always gives me something for myself.”

“That is very considerate of her. I was speaking of that to my wife this morning.”

“Of what, sir?” inquired Paul.

“We both decided that you were entitled to a present for your brave defense of the house.”

Now I suppose it would have been the proper thing for Paul to protest against receiving any present, but I am obliged to record the fact that he had no objection to having his services acknowledged in that way.

“I only did my duty, sir,” he said, modestly.

“Very true, but that is no reason why I should not show my appreciation of the service rendered. I suppose you have no bank account?”

“I never got along as far as that, sir,” said Paul.

“Then I won’t give you a check, as it might inconvenience you.”

Paul was a little surprised, for a bank check sounded large, and the gratuities he usually received seldom reached as high as fifty cents.

Mr. Cunningham drew out his pocketbook, and, taking out three bills, placed them in Paul’s hands.

Paul’s eyes expanded when he saw that the first bill was a ten. But he was destined to be still more surprised, for each of the other two was a twenty. There was fifty dollars in all.

“Is all this for me?” he asked, almost incredulous.

“Yes, Paul.”

“But here are fifty dollars.”

“I am quite aware of it,” said the merchant, smiling. “That is the exact sum I intended to give you.”

“I don’t know how to thank you,” said Paul, warmly. “To me it is a fortune.”

“Excuse my giving you advice, but I hope you will spend it wisely.”

“I will try to do so, sir. I will put all but ten dollars in a savings bank.”

“You could not do better. You may in time be able to add to it.”

“I shall try to, sir, when I earn more money.”

“How much do you earn now?”

“With presents, it amounts to six or seven dollars a week--sometimes less.”

“You can’t save out of that?”

“No, sir; I live with an old man, and give him two dollars and a half a week for rent and other expenses. Hereafter I am to give him three dollars. I should give more, but I pay for my own meals.”

“Then you have no parents living?”

“No, sir; I am alone in the world.”

“Is the old man any relation to you?”

“No, sir.”

“When you need friends to call on you will always be welcome at my house.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Paul, gratefully, and he decided to avail himself of the invitation soon. He was anxious to meet Jennie Cunningham again. Having no sister, he had enjoyed scarcely any opportunities of meeting girls, except such as sold matches or papers in the streets, and these, for the most part, were bold and unattractive.

Mr. Cunningham turned to his desk, and Paul saw that his interview was over.

He did not like to carry around so much money. He was liable to be robbed; that he could not afford. So he resolved to go around to the Bowery Savings Bank and deposit forty dollars, taking out a book. Then he would feel safe as to that. The ten dollars he had a use for, as he wished to buy a cheap bureau, or trunk; he had not quite made up his mind which.

He took the shortest cut to the Bowery Savings Bank. This is one of the largest and most important savings banks in the city, and its deposits exceed twenty millions. It is a blessing to thousands of salaried men and women, mechanics and others, in providing them a safe place of deposit for their surplus money.

Paul entered the bank, and, going up to the proper clerk, subscribed the books of the bank, giving his age, and other particulars necessary to identification; and then, rather to the surprise of the bank officer, wrote out a deposit check for forty dollars.

“You have just been paid off, I take it,” he said with a smile.

“Yes, sir,” answered Paul.

“Two weeks’ pay, I presume?”

“I earned it in considerably less time than that, sir.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes, I earned it all, and ten dollars besides, in one night.”

“Then your business is better than mine. I should be willing to exchange.”

“It isn’t a steady business,” said Paul.

“What is it?”

“Defending a house from burglars.”

“I am not quite sure how I should like that business; there might be some risk attending it.”

Paul’s business was completed, and he prepared to go away. The book he put in his pocket, and took his way back to the office on Broadway. He began to feel like a young capitalist. Forty dollars may not seem a very large sum to some of my fortunate readers, but Paul had never before possessed ten dollars at a time, and to him it seemed a small fortune.

He had no idea that his visit to the bank was observed by any one that knew him, but such was the case.

Old Jerry, as the reader already knows, was a depositor at the Bowery Savings Bank, and this very morning, having a small deposit to make, he was shambling along the Bowery, when he saw Paul descend the steps with a bank book in his hand. He was intensely surprised.

Chapter X. Paul Loses His Bank Book.

Old Jerry felt outraged at Paul’s withholding money from him for deposit in the savings bank.

“The--the thieving young rascal!” he muttered to himself, indignantly. “He is putting my money into the bank, and letting me starve at home, while he lives on the fat of the land, and lays up money. Me that have taken care of him ever since he was a little boy, and--and cared for him like a father.”

Jerry had a curious idea of the way fathers care for their children, judging from his words. When Paul was only six years old, he had been sent into the streets to sell matches and papers, and, being a bright, winning boy, had earned considerably more, even at that tender age, than many older boys.

At times Jerry had induced him to beg, but it was only for a short time. Paul had a natural pride and independence that made him shrink from asking alms, as soon as he was old enough to understand the humiliation of it. So there was never a time when he had not earned his own living, and more besides. But Jerry chose to forget this, and to charge Paul with ingratitude, when he discovered that he had a private fund of his own.

“I must get hold of that money,” thought Jerry. “I wonder how much Paul has got.”

There was no way of finding out, unless he got hold of the book, or inquired at the bank. He decided to do the latter. Accordingly he went over to the bank, and entering it walked up to the receiving teller.

“Was there a boy named Paul Parton here just now?” he asked.

“Yes; what of it?”

“Did he put some money into the bank?”

“Yes.”

“How much was it?”

“We don’t give information about our depositors,” said the teller. “Is he your grandson?”

“Yes; that is, he lives with me.”

“You are a depositor also, are you not? I seem to remember your face.”

“Yes.”

“What is your name?”

“Jeremiah Barclay.”

“I remember now. Why do you want to know about this boy?”

“He ought to have given me the money, instead of putting it into the bank.”

“We have nothing to do with that. He did not steal it from you, I presume.”

“No,” answered Jerry, reluctantly. It occurred to him for an instant to claim that Paul had robbed him, but he was rather afraid that the telegraph boy would in that case become angry and leave him, and the sum he had in bank would not pay him for that.

The miser did not suspect that Paul had over five dollars laid up, having no knowledge of the handsome gift he had received from Mrs. Cunningham. But even if it were only five dollars, it was sufficient to excite Jerry’s cupidity, and he decided that he must manage to get possession of it.

“Then you won’t tell me how much money Paul has in the bank?”

“It is against our rules.”

Jerry felt that he was dismissed, and stumbled out of the bank, forgetting, in his thoughts about Paul, the business of his own which had brought him there.

But there was other business for Jerry to attend to that morning. We are about to let the reader into a secret, which he had hitherto kept from Paul.

Not far away was a small tenement house which Jerry hired and sublet to tenants. Every month he called to collect his rents, and the difference between the rent he paid for the whole building, and the rents he collected from the tenants, gave him a handsome profit.

It was not rent day, but there were two of the tenants in arrears. One was a laborer, temporarily out of work, and the other was a poor widow who went out scrubbing, but was now taken down with rheumatism, and therefore not able to work.

The old man ascended with painful toil to the third floor, and called on the widow first.

She turned pale when she saw him enter, for she knew his errand, and how little chance there was of softening him.

“I hope you have got the rent for me this morning, Mrs. O’Connor,” said Jerry, harshly.

“And where would I get it, Mr. Barclay?” she asked. “It’s very little work I can do on account of the sharp pains I have.”

“That’s none of my business,” said Jerry, in a harsh tone. “You will have to go, then.”

“And would you put me on the street, me and my poor childer?” said the poor woman, with a troubled look. “I’m afraid it’s the hard heart you have, Mr. Barclay.”

“Don’t talk nonsense, Mrs. O’Connor,” said Jerry, sharply. “I can’t let you stay here for nothing. I--I’m very poor myself,” he added, with his customary whine.

“You poor!” repeated the widow, bitterly. “I’ve heard that you’re rolling in riches, Mr. Barclay.”

“Who--who says so?” asked Jerry, alarmed.

“Everybody says so.”

“Then you can tell ’em they’re very much mistaken.”

“What do you do with all the rent you get from this building, then?”

“I pay it away, that is, almost all of it. I don’t own the building. I--I hire it, and some months, on account of losses, I don’t make a cent,” asseverated Jerry. “I--I think I’m a little out take the year together.”

“Then why don’t you give it up if you don’t make any money out of it?”

“That--that is nothing to the purpose. Once more, Mrs. O’Connor, will you pay me my rent?”

“How can I when I have no money?”

“Then you must borrow it. I’ll give you till tomorrow, and not a day longer. Remember that, Mrs. O’Connor, will you not?”

Next Jerry visited the other tenant with rather better success, for he collected one dollar on account.

He waited eagerly for Paul to come home. He had made up his mind to explore Paul’s pockets after he was asleep and get possession of his bank book. With that, as he thought, he would go to the bank and draw the money that stood in Paul’s name. It would be a theft, but Jerry did not look at it in that light. He persuaded himself that he had a perfect right to take the property of the boy who was living under his guardianship, though, to speak properly, it was rather Paul that took care of him.

It was rather late in the evening when Paul got home, for every other evening he was employed. The old man was awake, but pretended to be asleep. Paul took off his coat and vest, and threw himself on the lounge, covering himself up with a quilt. His clothes he put on a chair alongside.

It was not long before he was sound asleep, being much fatigued with the labors of the day.

Old Jerry got up cautiously from the bed. He, too, was dressed, for he seldom took the trouble to undress, and cautiously drew near the lounge. He took up Paul’s coat, and threw his claw-like fingers into an inside pocket. His eyes sparkled with delight as he drew out the telegraph boy’s bank book.

“I’ve got it!” he muttered, gleefully. “Paul isn’t any match for the old man! I--I wonder how much money he has saved up!”

Paul slept on, unaware of the cunning old man’s treachery, and of the danger to which his little treasure was exposed.

Chapter XI. At The Savings Bank.

Old Jerry laid down Paul’s coat, and opened the bank book, of which he had just obtained possession. He was eager to ascertain how much Paul had saved up.

“Forty dollars!”

He could hardly believe his eyes.

How in the world could Paul have managed to save up forty dollars?

“Forty dollars!” exclaimed old Jerry, gleefully. “I’m in luck for once. Of course it belongs to me. I am Paul’s guardian, and have a right to his earnings. He shouldn’t have kept it from me. I--I will go to the bank and draw it all tomorrow. Then I will put it in in my own name. That will make it all right.” And old Jerry rubbed his hands joyfully.

After this theft, for it can be called by no other name, Jerry did not sleep much. He was too much excited by the unexpected magnitude of his discovery, and by his delight at adding so much to his own hoards. Then, again, he was afraid Paul might wake up, and, discovering his loss, demand from him the restitution of the book.

Generally Paul rose at six o’clock, as this enabled him to get his breakfast and get round to the telegraph company at seven. He generally waked about fifteen minutes before the hour, such was the force of habit.

This morning he woke at the usual time, but old Jerry had got up softly and left the room twenty minutes before.

Turning over, Paul glanced toward the bed in the corner, and was surprised to see no signs of the old man.

“Jerry gone out already!” he said to himself, in amazement “I wonder what’s come over him. I hope he isn’t sick.”

Paul didn’t however borrow any trouble, for he concluded that Jerry had got tired of his bed, and gone out for a morning walk.

He lay till seven, and then, throwing off the quilt, rose from the lounge. He was already partly dressed, and only needed to put on his coat. Then, with a cheerful smile, he felt for his bank book, which he had placed in the inside pocket of his coat.

_It was not there!_

He started, and turned pale.

“Where is my bank book?” he asked himself in alarm.

Then it flashed upon him.

“Old Jerry has taken it!” he said, sternly, “and has slunk off with it before I am up. That’s why he got up so early. But I’ll put a spoke in his wheel. I’ll go to the bank and give notice that my book has been stolen. He shan’t draw the money on it, if I can prevent it.”

But Paul was unable to carry out his intention of calling at the bank at the hour of opening, in order to give notice of his loss. On reporting for duty at the telegraph office, he was sent over to Jersey City, where he was detained until eleven o’clock. He felt uneasy, and thought of asking to have some other boy assigned to the duty, but it so happened that the superintendent was not in an amiable frame of mind, and he knew that his request would not be granted.

Meanwhile, about five minutes after the bank was opened, old Jerry shambled in, and, sitting down at a table, wrote out an order for forty dollars in favor of Book No. 251,610 signing it “Paul Parton.”

This he took to the desk of the cashier.

“Please give me the money on this,” he said.

The cashier eyed him sharply.

“Are you Paul Parton?” he demanded.

“N-no,” faltered the old man; “I am Paul’s guardian.”

“Did you put in this money for him?”

“N-no.”

“Did he write this order?”

Old Jerry would have had no scruples about asserting that it was written by Paul, but he knew that the statement would at once be recognized as false, as he had himself written it in the presence of the cashier.

“N-no,” he admitted, reluctantly; “but it makes no difference; Paul is busy, and can’t come. He’s a telegraph boy. H-he wanted me to draw it for him.”

It will be seen that old Jerry’s conscience was elastic, and that he had no scruple about lying.

“That won’t answer,” replied the cashier, eying the old man suspiciously. “It is not according to our rules.”

“I--I want to use the money--that is, Paul does,” remonstrated old Jerry, disappointed.

“That makes no difference.”

“I--I’ll get Paul to write an order,” said Jerry, as he left the bank.

“That old man stole the boy’s book,” thought the cashier. “Now he is going home to forge an order in the boy’s name.”

That is exactly what old Jerry meant to do. He thought it best however, to wait till afternoon.

Meanwhile, at twelve o’clock, Paul, then for the first time able to get away, hurried into the bank, breathless.

“I want to give notice that my bank book has been taken,” he said, panting.

“Your name, please?”

“Paul Parton.”

“Number of book?”

“No. 251,610.”

“Your book was presented two hours since by an old man, who handed in an order for all the money.”

The perspiration gathered on Paul’s brow.

“Did you give it to him?”

“No; it is not according to our rules to pay, except to the written order of the depositor.”

“I am glad of that,” said Paul. “Don’t pay it if he comes again.”

“We will not,” replied the cashier; and Paul left the building feeling greatly relieved.

Old Jerry ought to have known that there was very little chance of a forged order being honored, for the bank possessed Paul’s autograph signature on its books, making the fact of the forgery evident at once, but it sometimes happens that men sharp in some matters are very obtuse in others. This was the case with old Jerry in the present instance.

About two o’clock he entered the bank once more. Paul had not come home at the noon hour--he seldom did, being in the habit of dining at a restaurant, and the old man thought him still ignorant of the theft. He was anxious to draw the money before the telegraph boy learned that his book had been appropriated.

He had prepared an order, having taken one with him in blank, and made it out for forty dollars, signing it “Paul Parton.”

Armed with this, he walked up to the cashier’s window, and without a word presented it in the book.

The cashier recognized him instantly.

“Well,” he said, “what do you want?”

“The money,” answered the old man, his features working with cupidity.

“You were here this morning?”

“Y--yes.”

“I told you you could not draw out the money on your own order.”

“This is Paul’s order,” returned Jerry, with unblushing falsehood.

“Did he write it?”

“Y--yes.”

“I thought you said he was occupied by business.”

“He--he came home at noon, and wrote the order.”

“That is false!” said the cashier, sternly. “The boy has been here to report that his book has been stolen, and forbade us to pay out any money on it.”

The old man’s face was the picture of dismay.

“The--there’s some mistake,” he managed to mutter. “It must be some other boy. Paul asked me to draw the money. Besides, it isn’t his money at all. It--it rightfully belongs to me.”

“You can draw no money on the order which you have forged,” said the cashier, sternly.

“Then give me back the book,” said Jerry, beginning to get frightened.

“I shall retain the book for the rightful owner,” said the official. “And now let me advise you never to come here again on any such errand, or I shall feel it my duty to hand you over to the police.”

Without another word old Jerry shambled out of the bank, with a scared look on his face. This reference to the police startled him. It had not occurred to him that he was doing anything of which the law could take cognizance. His exultation of the morning had quite passed away. He had flattered himself that his hoard would increase by forty dollars. Now he had found himself foiled in the attempt to convert Paul’s savings to his own use.

About six o’clock Paul returned to the humble home. Old Jerry was resting on the bed in the corner. He looked up nervously as the telegraph boy entered, and saw at once by the expression on Paul’s face that he knew all.

“Jerry,” said Paul, “why did you take my bank book?”

“I--I’m so poor, Paul,” whined Jerry, “I--I needed the money.”

“So you turned thief,” returned the boy, indignantly.

“The money was mine by right--you shouldn’t have kept it from me.”

“I deny it!” said Paul, with emphasis. “Have you got the book with you?”

“N--no; they wouldn’t give it back to me,” complained Jerry.

“And they did right. If you ever play such a trick on me again, robbing me in my sleep, I’ll leave you. Suppose I should get hold of your bank book--”

“I--I haven’t any money in the bank. I’m so poor!” ejaculated the miser, panic stricken.

“I have reason to believe you have the bank book in your pocket at this moment.”

“You--you wouldn’t rob me, Paul?” implored Jerry.

“How can I if you have no bank book? But you can rest easy. I am not in the habit of stealing.”

He went out to supper, leaving Jerry utterly discomposed. Not only had his plan failed, but his secret had been discovered.

Chapter XII. James Barclay’S Disappointment.

Though he is a very unworthy specimen of humanity, the reader may feel interested to know something more about James Barclay, whose acquaintance we made while he was attempting to commit a burglary.

It was mere accident that made him acquainted with the fact that his father was living in New York. To him it seemed a most fortunate discovery. Knowing old Jerry’s miserly habits, he had no doubt that the old man was worth some thousands of dollars, and upon this sum he felt that he had a right to draw. His father was timid, and he depended upon terrifying him into complying with his demands.

The first visit terminated as well as he expected. He didn’t suppose that Jerry kept much money in his room. Hence his arrangement to come back the next day.

As he left the poor tenement house he chuckled to himself, “I’ll scare the old man into giving me all the money I want. It will be like drawing a tooth, and I’ve no doubt he’ll make a great fuss, but there’s no escape for him. He can live on little or nothing and enjoy it. It won’t do him any real harm to let me have, say half of his miserly hoard. Egad, James Barclay, you’re in luck at last. I thought when that telegraph kid foiled me last night that nothing would go well with me, but things seem turning. If I ever meet that boy again I must give him a lesson. He’s a bold young rascal, though, and would be a credit to my line of business.”

It is doubted whether Paul would have considered this a compliment if he had heard it. His ambitions did not run in the direction of becoming a successful burglar.

It was a question with James Barclay where to spend the intervening time, as he was not to call on his father till the next day. He was about at the end of his resources, having less than a dollar in silver in his possession. He might have tried to hatch up some dishonest scheme for filling his pockets but for the chance discovery of his father. That afforded a chance quite as promising, and far less perilous, and he decided not to make any illegal ventures till he had made all he could out of old Jerry.

“I’d rather be honest,” he said to himself in a glow of virtuous feeling; “but, confound it, a man must live, and as the world owes me a living, I must get it one way or another.”

It did not seem to occur to James Barclay that the same chance existed for him as for the majority of his fellow men--a chance of earning a living by honest work. Labor and industry he abhorred. They might do for others, but not for him.

“Tomorrow I’ll be in funds,” he said to himself complacently. “Now, what shall I do with myself today? A man can’t do much without money.”

It occurred to him that an old acquaintance--rather a shady acquaintance by the way--used to live in Jersey City. He would go over and see him. It would while away the time in a pleasant manner, and he might get news of his other companions, for he had been out of the city himself for several years. In fact, for we need not keep the secret from the reader, he had been passing three years in seclusion at the village of Sing Sing on the Hudson. That accounted for his father having been spared any visits for that length of time.

James Barclay turned down Cortlandt Street, and made his way to the ferry at the foot of the street. He invested three cents in a ferry ticket, and in a few minutes set foot in Jersey City.

“It’s a long time since I have been here,” he reflected. “Ten to one Jack isn’t hanging out at the old place. However, I can see.”

He made his way to the former abode of his old friend, Jack Cratts, who was much such a character as himself, but, being more prudent, less apt to get into trouble.

He only met with disappointment. Another family occupied the room once tenanted by Jack, and he could obtain no information as to the whereabouts of his friend.

James Barclay was disappointed. The time was hanging heavily on his hands. He made his way slowly toward the ferry, when he encountered a poorly dressed woman of about thirty, carrying a heavy basket of clothes. She was evidently a laundress.

His face lighted up with instant recognition.

“Is it you, Ellen?” he said.

The woman turned pale, and nearly dropped the basket she was carrying.

“James!” she ejaculated, faintly.

“Yes, Ellen, it is your poor, unfortunate husband. Egad, I’m glad to see you.”

It was now over three years since James Barclay and his wife had met. She had never been very happy with him, after the first few months of married life, and she did not know now whether to be glad or sorry she had met him. She had not lost all love for him--wives seldom do under any provocation--but she knew him too well to believe that he had changed materially. He was likely still to prove a disturbing element in her life. Yet she felt a momentary pleasure, lonely as she was, in meeting the man who, ten years before, had captured her affections.

“Are you glad to see me, Ellen?” asked Barclay, in an unusually pleasant tone.

“Yes,” she answered, slowly.

“How are the children? I don’t suppose I should know them.”

“They are well. Jimmy and Mary are going to school. Jimmy sells papers evenings to help me along.”

“How old is the young rascal?”

“Eight years old.”

“Is he a chip of the old block, eh, Ellen?”

“I hope not,” said the woman, heartily. Then, with a half frightened look, she added, “Don’t be offended with me, James, but I don’t want him to follow in your steps.”

“No offense, Ellen,” said Barclay, laughingly. “I don’t pretend to be an angel, and I hope the kid will be more of one than I. And how are you yourself, old woman?”

“I’ve had to work very hard, James,” sighed the woman. “It’s been all I can do to earn a poor living for the children.”

“I wish I could help you, and perhaps I may. I’m expecting some money tomorrow, and I’m hanged if I don’t give you ten dollars of it.”

“It would be a great help to me, James,” said his wife, with a momentary look of pleasure.

“Are you going home now?”

“Yes, James.”

“I’ll go along, too, and see what sort of a crib you’ve got. Can you let me have some dinner?”

“Yes, James, though it’ll be a poor one.”

“O, I shan’t mind. Here, give me that basket. I’m stronger than you.”

“Has he really reformed and become better?” thought Ellen, puzzled. She had never been used to such marks of attention from her husband. But he was in an amiable frame of mind. He had found a place of refuge till the next day, and then he would draw fifty dollars from his father--the first of many forced loans he promised himself.

He lounged away the rest of the day at his wife’s poor room. When the children came home from school he received them with boisterous good nature. They seemed afraid of him, remembering his severity in earlier days, but this only seemed to amuse him.

“That’s a pretty way to receive your loving father,” he said, laughingly. “Come here and sit on my knee, Mary.”

The little girl obeyed with scared face, because she did not dare to refuse lest she should anger her father. So the day passed. James Barclay lay in bed late next morning, but about eleven o’clock started for New York, to meet the appointment with his father.

A little before noon he ascended the staircase, and opened the door of the room which he had visited the day before.

It was empty!

His face darkened, and an unpleasant misgiving entered his mind.

He knocked at the door of the opposite room, which was opened by a woman.

“What has become of the old man who occupied the room opposite?” he asked.

“He has moved,” answered Mrs. Duane.

“Moved! When did he move?”

“This morning, I believe.”

“Where has he gone to?”

“He didn’t leave word.”

“The old fox!” muttered James Barclay. “He has gone to get rid of me. But I’ll follow him up, and sooner or later I’ll find him.”

Chapter XIII. James Barclay At Home.

James Barclay’s disappointment was intense when he discovered that his father had eluded him. He was almost penniless, and had nothing of sufficient value to pawn. Had he raised the sum which he had expected from old Jerry, it is doubtful whether he would have returned to his family in Jersey City. As it was, he had no other resource.

His wife, who took in washing to do at home, was hard at work ironing when the door opened and her husband entered. A frown was on his face, and he was evidently in ill temper.

A cat, the family pet, being in his way, he kicked her brutally, and the poor animal, moaning piteously, fled in wild dismay.

“Get out of the way, you beast!” he said, angrily.

“Don’t kick poor Topsy!” pleaded his wife. “I am afraid you have hurt the poor little thing.”

“Keep her out of my way, then,” growled Barclay. “I hate cats. You must be a fool to keep one.”

“The children love poor Topsy, James,” said his wife.

“I suppose you’d keep a snake for them, if they liked it.”

“A kitten is very different from a snake.”

“I shall kill it some time if it gets in my way. Have you got anything to eat in the house?”

Mrs. Barclay paused in her work long enough to get some bread and meat from the pantry, which she set before her husband.

“Where are the children?” he asked, after a while.

“They have gone to school.”

“They ought to be earning something at their age,” growled Barclay.

“They are very young yet, James. You wouldn’t have me take them from school?”

“School won’t do ’em much good.”

“You wouldn’t have them grow up ignorant, surely?”

“They have got to earn something. I can’t support them in idleness.”

As it was some years since he had contributed a cent to their support, his wife didn’t quite appreciate his complaint, but she knew too much of her husband’s temper to argue with him.

“Jimmy sells papers when he gets home from school,” she said.

“How much does he earn that way?”

“Sometimes from fifteen to twenty cents.”

“He’ll need to earn more, I can tell you that. I’m very poor, Ellen, and cursed unfortunate, too. I haven’t money enough to buy a ten cent cigar.”

“I will try to support the children if you will take care of yourself, James.”

Any man with a spark of true manhood in him would have been shamed by such a proposition, but James Barclay was a thoroughly selfish man. It seemed to him that his wife ought to support him, too.

“Have you got a dollar about you, Ellen?” he asked.

“Ye-es,” she answered, hesitatingly, “but I must buy some bread and groceries this evening, or the children won’t have their supper.”

“Seems to me you care more about the children than you do about your husband. A pretty wife you are!”

“I don’t deserve that, James. Of course you are welcome to your share of the supper.”

“Thank you! So you want to treat me as a child.”

The man was utterly unreasonable, and his wife can hardly be blamed if there rose in her mind a regret that he had not stayed away longer, and left her and the children in peace.

“I thought you expected to have some money today, James,” she said.

“Yes, but I didn’t get it. Just my cursed luck!” he answered, bitterly. “My own father turns his back on me, and won’t give me a cent, though he has money in plenty.”

“Your father?” said his wife in surprise. “Is he--have you seen him?”

“Yes, I saw him yesterday, and told him I would call today for fifty dollars. I went, and found the old scoundrel had disappeared.”

“Is it right to call your father by such a name? He may not have had the money.”

“You don’t know my father. He’s a miser, and always has been. He lives in a wretched hole, not so good as this place, while he has thousands of dollars invested, or hidden somewhere. He thinks he’s got rid of me, but” (here an oath escaped his lips) “he will find he’s mistaken.”

All this was new to Mrs. Barclay, who had heard very little of her husband’s family.

“Perhaps if you find him you could induce him to come and live with us,” she said. “He might take an interest in the children and do something for them.”

“More likely he would want to live off us. However, if I could once get him here, I’d manage to get my hand into his purse. It’s a good idea.”

“Does he live alone? He must be an old man.”

“He’s all bent and shriveled up; he’s got a telegraph boy living with him, he told me. I hate telegraph boys--I met one the other night--an impudent young rascal! I’d like to meet him again. I’d wring the kid’s neck for him.”

“Where did you meet him, James?”

James Barclay eyed his wife suspiciously. He did not care to tell her under what circumstances he met Paul Parton.

“Never you mind, old woman!” he said. “It’s no concern of yours.”

“If you don’t want to tell me, I don’t care to know, James,” she answered, meekly.

“Well, I don’t want to tell you. But about the old man’s coming here, it’s a good idea of yours. I will send off the telegraph boy, for he might be dangerous. Ten to one he’s trying to get the old man to leave him his property. I wish I knew where he is.”

“Haven’t you got any clew?”

“No, he’s hid somewhere. He won’t come out of his hole for fear of meeting me.”

“If you could meet this telegraph boy, you might learn through him where your father is.”

“Unfortunately, Mrs. B., I don’t know the telegraph boy--never met him--shouldn’t know him from Adam.”

“I suppose he has a number.”

“That’s so, old woman!” exclaimed Barclay, slapping his knee with emphasis. “I think I know where I can find out his number, and then it’ll be easy to find him. He can’t hide from me, for he has to be on duty every day. But I shall want money--just give me that dollar!”

“I can’t, James; the poor children would have to go without their supper.”

“Look here, Mrs. B., I want you to understand that you’ve got to obey your husband. I’ll give you back the money as soon as I can, but I need it to track my father. Let me once get hold of him, and it’ll be all right. I will soon have plenty of money.”

“But I can’t spare the money, James. The children must have their supper.”

“I’m tired of your talk,” he rejoined, roughly. “If you refuse me the money, I’ll raise it in some other way.”

He glared round the room, and his eyes rested on a dress that his wife had just ironed.

“I can raise something on that,” he said, seizing the dress, and preparing to carry it away.

“Stop, James, for pity’s sake!” cried his wife, terrified. “That dress belongs to one of my customers. It would be stealing to take it!”

“She’s probably got plenty of others; she can spare it,” he said.

His wife hastened to him and tried to wrench the dress from his grasp, but holding it in one hand beyond her reach, he gripped her arm with the other so hard that she uttered a cry of pain.

At this moment the door was pushed open, and a new character appeared upon the scene in the person of a stalwart policeman.

“What’s all this?” he demanded, in a tone of authority. “Release that woman, or I’ll take you in.”

Chapter XIV. On The Track Of Number 91.

The policeman’s sudden appearance can be easily explained. He and his family occupied rooms in the same house with Mrs. Barclay, and he happened to be passing the door of her apartment when he heard the cry.

“What’s all this?” he demanded once more.

“None of your business!” returned Barclay, indignantly. “What call have you to intrude where you’re not wanted?”

“I often do that,” said the policeman, grimly. “Mrs. Barclay, who is this man?”

“My husband, sir.”

“There, do you hear that?” demanded Barclay. “I have a right to be here.”

“What were you about to do to your wife? What made her cry out?” asked the policeman, sharply. “I ask you that question, Mrs. Barclay.”

“My husband was carrying off that dress to pawn it,” replied the wife. “It does not belong to me, and it would have got me into trouble.”

“What have you to say to that?” asked the officer, turning to Barclay.

“My wife would give me no money,” answered Barclay, sullenly, “and I threatened to pawn her dress.”

“She says it was not her dress.”

“I thought it was,” said Barclay.

“O, James,” began his wife, but a threatening look from her husband stopped her words.

“And then you treated her roughly, it seems!”

“No, I didn’t. I just took her by the arm, to stop her getting the dress.”

“Have you any complaint to make, Mrs. Barclay?” asked the officer.

“Not if he will give me the dress back. It doesn’t belong to me, and I don’t want to lose it.”

“Take the dress,” said Barclay, throwing it down.

“Mind you make no more trouble,” said the policeman in a warning voice, as he left the room.

“Where did the cop come from?” asked Barclay.

“He lives in the house.”

“Then I wish he’d move out of it. Cops are no company for decent people.”

It is small wonder that James Barclay did not enjoy the company of a class of men who, first and last, had given him considerable trouble.

His wife did not reply, but picked up the rumpled dress and began to smooth it.

“Now, Ellen,” said Barclay, changing his tone out of policy, “I’ll make a bargain with you. I want to go over to New York, and hunt up that telegraph boy. Through him I can track my father and get some money. See, this is all I have in the world,” and he drew out four pennies from his pocket.

“But the children, James.”

“The children can get along on half of it. Give me fifty cents, and I will give you ten dollars as soon as I make a raise. That’s pretty good interest, hey, old woman?”

Mrs. Barclay drew from her pocket two silver quarters and handed them to her husband.

“There, take them, James,” she said, “and don’t forget your promise. I made that money by hard work.”

“It will be all right, Ellen,” said Barclay, thrusting the money carelessly into his vest pocket. “You can’t raise a crop without seed, you know.”

He put on his hat and left the house whistling.

Arrived in New York, James Barclay lost no time in returning to his father’s old lodgings. Mrs. O’Connor, one of the tenants, chanced to be just coming out of the house with a bundle of clean clothes, which she was about to carry to a customer.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” said Barclay, politely, for he could be polite when he saw fit, “I believe you knew an old man who moved away from here recently?”

“Old Jerry? Yes, I knew him well. He lived here ever since I did, and what took him away so sudden I can’t tell.”

“I am sorry not to find him, for I know of something to his advantage.”

“He didn’t leave word where he was going, more’s the pity. I wish he had, for I’d like to have called to see him and the bye some time.”

“There was a boy, then, who lived with him? I believe I have heard him mentioned before.”

“Yes, sir, and a nice bye he was, and a smart one. He was rale kind to the old man, Paul was, and I don’t think old Jerry could have got along without him.”

“He was employed in a store, wasn’t he?” asked Barclay, assuming less knowledge than he possessed.

“No, indade. Paul is a telegraph bye, and has been for ’most two years. He’s a favorite with the company, I’m thinkin’, as he ought to be, for he always attinds to his duties, and is up early and late.”

“So he’s a telegraph boy!” said Barclay, musingly. “I should like to see him, especially as you speak so well of him. He has a number, hasn’t he? I notice the boys have a number on their caps.”

“Yes, sir. Paul is Number 91.”

“Number 91?” returned Barclay, briskly. “I think I can remember that. I’m much obliged to you, my good lady.”

“Shure, and you’re a very polite gintleman,” said Mrs. O’Connor, who was flattered at being called a lady.

“Why shouldn’t I be polite to a lady like you?” said Barclay. “Perhaps you can give me a little more information.”

“Shure, and I will if I can, sir.”

“At what office can I find this Paul--Number 91, as you call him? I should like to speak to him about my aged relative.”

“I can’t just recollect the number, sir, but the office where Paul goes is on Broadway, same side as the St. Nicholas Hotel, and not far away from it.”

“Thank you very much. You are really the most obliging lady I have met for a long time.”

“Shure, sir, you flatter me. You must have kissed the blarney stone, I’m a thinkin’!”

“No, ma’am, I haven’t; but I hope I know enough to be polite to a lady. You don’t seem like a stranger to me, for you are the image of a lady I used to know on the other side of the water, the Countess of Galway.”

Mrs. O’Connor smiled and simpered, for she had never before been compared to a countess.

“And can I do any more for you, sir?” she said.

“No, thank you. You have given me all the information I require. Good day!”

As Barclay walked away, Mrs. O’Connor followed him with her eyes.

“He isn’t dressed very nice,” she said to herself, “but in his manners he’s a perfect gintleman. I’d like to see that Countess of Galway, that I look so much like.”

Chapter XV. Barclay Gets Into Business.

“You’re getting on finely, old fellow,” said James Barclay to himself, as he left the tenement house, and steered toward Broadway. “I managed that old woman skillfully, and got all the information I want. I think, Jerry Barclay, you won’t long elude me. I shall have no trouble now in finding the telegraph boy, and then I shall soon be face to face with the old man.”

Arrived at Printing House Square, he struck across the City Hall Park, the other side of which is skirted by Broadway.

Sitting on one of the benches was a man rather showily dressed, with a red blotched face, and an indefinable expression that stamped him as one who lived by his wits, rather than by honest toil. As Barclay’s glance rested upon him, he uttered an exclamation of surprise.

“Bill Slocum, is that you?” he said.

“Jim Barclay, as I’m a sinner,” said the other, rising and extending a rough hand, on one of whose fingers sparkled a ring, set with what might have been a diamond, but was probably paste. “And how is the world using you, old pal?”

“Rough,” answered Barclay. “The old man’s gone back on me, and my own wife made a great fuss because I wanted to borrow a dollar. Sometimes I think I was better off in our old boarding place up the river.”

Bill Slocum was one of his fellow boarders up at Sing Sing.

“The world owes you a living, Barclay,” said his friend.

“So it does, but how’s a chap going to collect his claim? That’s what I’d like to know.”

“O, well, there’s ways if you only know how,” said Slocum, rather enigmatically.

“How are you makin’ it yourself?” asked Barclay, curiously.

“I get enough to eat and drink and wear. I ain’t in no anxiety about livin’.”

“How do you do it?”

“Just look at that!”

Bill Slocum drew from his pocket a roll of bills, and held it up for his companion to see. It was a thick roll, and amounted to a fair sum, even if the denominations were small.

“How’d you get all that?” asked Barclay.

“There’s more where they come from,” answered Slocum.

“Are there any for me?” asked Barclay, eagerly.

“Yes, if I introduce you.”

“You’ll do it, Slocum, won’t you?”

“Yes, if you want me to. But, first, a word in your ear.”

He rose from his seat, and withdrew to a place where he would not be heard.

“They’re flimsies,” he said, briefly.

“Oh!” ejaculated Barclay, looking a trifle disappointed.

He understood that they were not genuine bills, but counterfeit.

“Well, and what if they are?” said Slocum, reading his expression.

“There’s a risk about it.”

“Nothin’ venture, nothin’ have, as my old grandmother used to say. Just be foxy, and you won’t get caught. I’m making a good living off of it, myself.”

“What commission do you get for passing them?”

“Fifty cents on a dollar. That’s liberal, isn’t it?”

“Yes, that is liberal,” Barclay admitted. “Have you made anything today?”

“Have I? Well, I reckon I have.”

“How much?”

“I’ve passed a ten and a five.”

“And that gives you seven and a half for your share?”

“Right you are, Barclay. Your knowledge of arithmetic does credit to your education. It’s plain your respected parent took great pains with your trainin’.”

“My respected parent,” repeated Barclay, frowning, “is about the meanest old skinflint you’ll find within a hundred miles. I found him out yesterday, and let him know that I was going to call again today, to raise a loan, but when I called the old fox was gone bag and baggage.”

“A shabby way to treat his offspring. I pity you, Jim. So you are left to the tender mercies of the world.”

“I don’t find ’em very tender,” growled Barclay. “Do you see that?” and he drew from his pocket about forty cents in change.

“Yes, but it doesn’t dazzle me.”

“It’s all the money I have in the world.”

“Then you’d better join me.”

Barclay hesitated.

“I don’t quite like it. I don’t care about going up the river again too soon.”

“You needn’t, if you are careful. I’ll give you a few points. If one of your bills is found out, you are at once searched to see if you have any more.”

“There’s the danger.”

“So there is, but you can guard against it. When I am preparing to offer a bill, I put a number of good bills in my vest pocket, where they will be certain to be found at once. The other counterfeits I put in a secret inside pocket where they are not likely to be discovered. Then when it is found that all the other bills are good, I say that some rascal must have passed the bad bill on me, taking advantage of my innocence and ignorance of the world.”

This seemed to Barclay an excellent joke, and he laughed long and loud.

“Excuse me, Bill, but you don’t look it.”

“I can when it’s necessary.”

After a little more conversation Barclay, who was already half convinced, yielded to the temptation, and agreed to accompany his friend to the secret office of the counterfeiters, and enroll himself as one of their agents. Slocum offered to conduct him within at once.

The interview proved a satisfactory one, and Barclay was readily accepted, being vouched for by his friend and companion. It may be said also that his appearance was in his favor, though it would hardly have recommended him for any honest business.

When Barclay came out of the office, and again found himself on Broadway, his spirits were perceptibly raised. He was no longer impecunious, but carried with him fifty dollars in counterfeit bills.

“Well, good by, Jim,” said Slocum. “It is best for us to part, and not work near each other. Then again, it is best not to recognize each other when we meet, so that if one gets into a scrape the other need not be molested.”

“All right, Slocum. Success to you!”

James Barclay walked up Broadway, when all at once he uttered a half exclamation indicative of astonishment.

He was nearly face to face with a telegraph boy, in whom he recognized the resolute lad who had foiled him in his attempt at burglary. But this was not all. On the boy’s cap he recognized, with amazement, the distinctive inscription:

A. D. T. 91.

Chapter XVI. An Unexpected Meeting.

“Number 91!” ejaculated James Barclay in surprise.

The surprise was reflected on Paul’s face when on looking up he recognized James Barclay.

“I think we have met before,” said the burglar, grimly.

“Yes,” answered Paul, smiling.

“You are the boy that lives with my father?”

“Yes, if you are the son of Jerry Barclay,” Paul admitted, seeing that denial was useless.

“It’s queer how things come about,” said Barclay, reflectively.

“I think you will have to excuse me,” said Paul, “for I am sent on an errand, and it won’t do for me to stop.”

“Where are you bound?”

“To the Astor House.”

“Are you going to walk?”

“Yes.”

“Then I will go with you, if you don’t mind.”

Paul was by no means desirous of Barclay’s company, but there seemed no way to shake him off. The street was free to all.

“You can come with me if you like,” he said.

“Then I’ll go. I’ve got something to say to you. But first I’ll say that I don’t bear any ill will against you for what you did the other night. You only did your duty.”

“That’s true. I’m glad you look upon it in that light.”

“I admire your pluck, blest if I don’t. All the same I was disappointed.”

“Don’t you think it would be better to go into some other line of business, Mr. Barclay?”

“Yes, I do, but that was all that was open to me at that time. Now, I’ve got into something different.”

Paul looked curious, but didn’t ask what that business was. He concluded that Barclay would tell him if he felt disposed.

“I’m a confidential agent,” continued Barclay, “and it’s likely to pay me well. Where has my father moved to?”

Paul hesitated.

“I see you don’t want to tell me. My father moved to get out of my way, I expect.”

“Yes, he did.”

“I don’t know as I blame him much, being the kind of man he is. I’m his son, but money is his god. I asked for money, and he didn’t want to give it to me.”

“That’s what he said.”

“Well, I was in need of money then. Now I’m not. Do you see that?”

He drew from his vest pocket the roll of counterfeit notes which had been intrusted to him, and showed it to Paul.

“That doesn’t look as if I was in want of money, does it?”

“No, it doesn’t,” Paul admitted. In truth he was surprised at this unexpected wealth on the part of his companion, and it occurred to him to wonder whether he had engaged in another burglary in which he had been more successful.

“No, I didn’t get it in the way you think,” he said, answering Paul’s suspicious thought. “I got it in the way of business. Now will you tell me where my father lives?”

“I can’t without his permission.”

“Then tell him that I don’t want any money from him. I am able to pay my own way now.”

“He says he is poor.”

“Do you believe him, 91?” asked Barclay.

“I think he must have some money,” answered Paul, cautiously.

“So do I, decidedly. But he can keep it. Tell him that. I only want to see him about some family matters. It ain’t strange if a son wants to have a chat with his father after twelve years, is it?”

“No, I should say not.”

“Tell the old man that I am willing to give him five dollars as a sign of good faith. If he will give me five, I’ll hand him ten.”

“I’ll tell him that,” said Paul, rather surprised, and asking himself whether James Barclay was in earnest.

“You couldn’t give me small bills for a ten, could you?” asked Barclay, meaning to push his business by Paul’s help.

“No, I couldn’t. I don’t carry any money about with me except a little silver.”

“Never mind; I’ll get it somewhere else. Will you let me know tomorrow what my father says?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll call at your office about ten o’clock.”

“I may be away, but if I am not you can see me.”

“How long have you been with my father?”

“Ever since I was five or six years old.”

“What made him take you? He isn’t so very charitable.”

“There was some money that went with me, I have heard.”

“I’ve no doubt of it. The old man is keen to look out for Number One. He prefers that to looking out for Number Ninety One.”

Paul laughed at the joke, though he didn’t think it very brilliant.

“Do you expect he will leave you his money?” questioned Barclay, with a sharp glance at Paul.

“No, I have no claims upon him.”

“That’s true, but you might take advantage of his being weak and old.”

“What do you take me for?” asked Paul indignantly.

Barclay laughed.

“I don’t take you for an angel, and a few thousands might be a temptation to you as well as the next man.”

“Do you think your father has as much money as that?”

“Why shouldn’t he? He has been always scrimping and saving and never spending.”

“Well, it’s nothing to me,” said Paul. “If you ask my opinion, I think he’ll never make a will, and whatever he has will go to his natural heir. I suppose that’s you.”

“Yes, it’s me. If I’m dead, I’ve got a wife and two children.”

They had reached Barclay Street, and the Astor House was close at hand.

“I must leave you now,” said Paul. “I go into the hotel.”

“Very well. Don’t forget to tell my father what I told you.”

“I will do so.”

That evening Paul, in redemption of his promise, said to the miser:

“I saw your son, today, Jerry.”

The old man’s face wore a startled expression.

“You saw--James?” he faltered.

“Yes.”

“Did he know you lived with me?”

“Yes, but I don’t know how he found out. Perhaps he asked at our former lodgings.”

“What--what did he say?”

“He asked where you had moved.”

“You didn’t tell him?” said Jerry, in alarm.

“No, I said I could not without your permission.”

“Good boy, Paul. Don’t tell him--ever. He--he would come here and ask for money. It would be very foolish, for I am wretchedly poor. Why didn’t you tell him that Paul?”

“I don’t think he would believe me if I did. But you are mistaken, he says, about his wanting money. He showed me a roll of bills, and said he had a good position.”

“He asked me for fifty dollars when he came to see me. He is a bold, bad man!”

“Now he says he is willing to give you money. He says if you will give him five dollars back he will give you a ten dollar bill.”

“Did he say that?” asked old Jerry, eagerly.

“He told me to tell you that.”

Old Jerry’s face wore a look of perplexity. He hated to give up a chance of five dollars, but at the same time he felt afraid of his son. He could not believe him to be in earnest, for such liberality was by no means characteristic of him.

“Did he--seem to be in earnest?” he asked Paul.

“Yes, he seemed to be, but you know him better than I do. He said he wanted to have a chat with you, as he had not seen you for so many years. What shall I say to him?”

Old Jerry didn’t immediately reply. Avarice and greed struggled in his mind with an instinctive fear of his son.

“I--I’ll think of it,” he answered. “I can’t tell just yet.”

“Shall I say that to him?”

“Yes--and--Paul--”

“Well.”

“Don’t let him follow you home and find me out. He’ll try to do it. He is a--a bad man, as he was a bad boy.”

“I will do as you say, Jerry.”

Paul was not sorry to carry back this message, for he, too, mistrusted James Barclay, and felt that his desire to see his father covered some sinister design.

Chapter XVII. A Queer Compact.

James Barclay was very much in earnest in wishing to find his father’s new habitation, for he was convinced that the old man possessed a moderate fortune, and he felt that, sooner or later, it would come to him. If in any way he could persuade old Jerry to put it in his hands now, he would be handsomely provided for.

He was not to see Paul until the next morning. He secured lodgings at a low hotel on the Bowery, where twenty five cents per night was charged. The accommodation corresponded with the price, but Barclay, fresh from Sing Sing, was not inclined to be fastidious, and congratulated himself that again he was a free man.

He was not unmindful of his business, but was on the lookout for a chance to exchange his counterfeit bills for good ones.

He strolled into a drinking saloon, and called for a drink. By his side a man, from the country, apparently, was just paying for a glass of whisky, and in so doing displayed a wallet filled with bills. Barclay felt interested in him at once.

“My friend,” he said, “won’t you drink with me? I hate to drink alone.”

“You’re very polite, stranger, but I--hic--I guess I’m about full.”

“O, you can stand another glass, I am sure.”

“Well, I don’t mind,” hiccoughed the countryman. “You’re a--gen--gentleman.”

“So are you,” said Barclay, with a wink at the barkeeper. “What’ll you have?”

The countryman expressed a wish for whisky straight, and was served with a glass.

Then the two sat down, and engaged in conversation. It was evident from the thick utterance of the gentleman of the rural districts, that he was no longer master of himself.

“By the way,” said Barclay, carelessly, “will you do me a favor?”

“I can’t lend you any money,” answered the other, with a remnant of prudence. “I promised my wife I wouldn’t.”

“O, I don’t want a loan,” said Barclay. “Bless you, I’ve got money enough. But I see you’ve got a number of bills. Couldn’t you change a ten for me?”

The countryman saw no harm in this, and counted out ten dollars in small bills, for which he accepted a nice crisp ten dollar bill, which looked handsome, but, as we know, was not worth the paper it was printed upon.

“Won’t you take another drink in acknowledgment of the favor?” asked Barclay. “It has saved my going to the bank.”

The countryman was already so dizzy, that he had the good sense to refuse, after trying to balance himself on his feet without success.

“Then I’ll bid you good day,” said Barclay, who, for obvious reasons, desired now to terminate the acquaintance.

“Goo’ day,” said the other, in a husky voice.

“That was very well done!” soliloquized Barclay, as he counted the good money and put it by itself in an upper vest pocket. “The fellow’s so drunk that he’ll never know where he got the bad tenner. That’ll do for one day’s work.”

The next morning, a little before the time agreed upon with Paul, he was crossing the City Hall Park, when he unexpectedly met the telegraph boy.

“Good morning, Number 91,” he said. “I was just coming up to the office to look for you.”

“Then you are saved the trouble.”

“Yes; and now what word from my father? Where can I find him?”

“He does not seem willing to see you,” answered Paul.

James Barclay frowned angrily.

“I believe you’re doing this, you young rascal, keeping me and the old man apart, so you can get hold of his money yourself.”

“You are welcome to think what you like, Mr. Barclay,” said Paul, with spirit. “Good morning!”

“Curse the kid!” muttered Barclay, following the telegraph boy with a vindictive glance.

“That’s what I say, too, boss!”

Barclay turned quickly, and found the speaker to be a bootblack, a boy about Paul’s size. It was Tom Rafferty, a boy introduced in the first chapter, with whose attempted imposition upon a smaller boy in the same line of business Paul had forcibly interfered.

“So you know the kid?” he said, inquiringly.

“I’d ought to,” answered Tom. “Shine yer boots, boss?”

“Yes, I’ll have a shine,” answered Barclay, thinking he might make this boy of service.

“So you don’t like Number 91?”

“No, I don’t,” was the emphatic reply.

“What’s the matter with him?”

“He thinks himself above me, jest because he is a telegraph boy, and I am a bootblack.”

“Have you known him long?”

“Ever since he was so high,” said Tom, indicating the height of a boy of six.

“Do you know the old man he lives with?”

“Know old Jerry? Of course I do. Used to live in the same house, when dad was livin’.”

“So the boy has always lived with him?”

“Ever since I knowed him.”

“Humph! Where do they live now?”

“Round in Pearl Street.”

“No, they don’t. They’ve moved.”

“I didn’t know it. Must ’ave moved lately.”

“Yes, it was. Now, boy--what’s your name?”

“Tom Rafferty.”

“Then, Tom, would you like a job?”

“Wouldn’t I!”

“I want to find out where the boy and the old man live. I’ve got some business with the old man, but he don’t want to see me.”

“Wouldn’t Paul tell you?”

“No.”

“What’s it worth, boss?” asked Tom, with an eye to business.

“It depends on how soon you can find out. How can you find out?”

“I’ll foller Paul when he goes home from the office.”

“That’ll do. Do you think you can find out for me tonight, so as to let me know tomorrow morning?”

“I reckon I can, boss.”

“Meet me here tomorrow morning, and tell me where they live, and I’ll give you a dollar.”

Tom had not been expecting more than a quarter, and was very well pleased with Barclay’s liberality.

“I’ll do it, boss!” he said, striking the box, to indicate that the shine was completed. Apart from the money that was promised him, he was glad to thwart Paul, who didn’t want his customer to ascertain the address.

“I’ll meet you here about nine o’clock, and have another shine,” said Barclay, as he slipped ten cents--double pay--into Tom’s hand.

“You’ll find me on hand, and right side up with care,” said Tom. “You’re a gentleman I like to fall in with.”

James Barclay walked away, well pleased with the arrangement he had made.

“There’s more’n one way of finding out what you want to know,” he soliloquized. “The old man ain’t sharp, or else he thinks I ain’t. I’ll give him a call when that troublesome telegraph boy is about his business. Me and the old man will have considerable business to discuss. He’s going to give me a share of his money, or I’ll shake the life out of him. It ain’t pleasant to discipline your dad, but when he don’t treat you like he ought, it’s the only way.”

Tom Rafferty, towards the close of the afternoon, loitered in the neighborhood of the telegraph office where Paul was employed. When Number 91 left the office and betook himself homeward, he did not notice that he was followed at the distance of a few rods by Tom Rafferty.

But such was the case.

Chapter XVIII. James Barclay Obtains A Clew.

No commission could have been more congenial to Tom Rafferty than to track Paul and the miser. He had never liked Paul, whom he charged with putting on airs, because he was better dressed than himself, but his aversion had deepened to hatred since the telegraph boy’s forcible interference in favor of little Jack. He saw a way now to annoy Paul, for he was satisfied that James Barclay was no friend of Jerry or Number 91.

He hovered round the telegraph office till Paul was dismissed, and then, unobserved by him, sauntered along behind him. At Grand Street, Paul crossed Broadway and proceeded eastward to where Ludlow Street opens out of it, and proceeded in a southerly direction for about five minutes. Had he turned back, he might have suspected Tom’s motive in following him, but he was absorbed in his own thoughts, and never looked behind him. At length he entered an open doorway and went upstairs. Tom carefully noted the number, and then, with a look of triumph, went back to his usual lounging place at the City Hall Park.

The next morning, at the hour fixed, James Barclay entered the park and looked about for Tom. Tom, who was also on the lookout for him, put himself in his way.

“Shine yer boots, boss?” he asked, with a grin.

“Oh, you’re the boy I saw yesterday,” said Barclay, recognizing him. “Well, what luck have you had?”

“I follered him, and found out where he lives, boss.”

“Good!” said Barclay, brightening up. “Where is it?”

“Where’s the dollar you was to give me?” asked Tom, cautiously.

“Here it is!” said Barclay, producing a silver dollar.

“Give it here, boss.”

“First tell me where my--where the telegraph boy lives.”

“If I should, you might put it back in your pocket,” said Tom, cunningly.

Barclay did not resent this imputation upon his good faith, for his sense of honor was not very keen, and he would only have regarded such a trick as smart. In this case, however, he was so anxious to learn where his father lived that he had no idea of cheating his confidential messenger.

“No, boy, I’m on the square,” he answered. “Here, take the money and tell me the number.”

Tom took the dollar, chucked it in the air, catching it dexterously as it came down, and then pocketed it with an air of satisfaction. He was neither provident nor industrious, and it was rare that he found himself in possession of so large a sum.

“No. 105 Ludlow Street,” he said. “That’s the number.”

“Are you sure of that? Did you see the old man?” demanded Barclay, eagerly.

“No, I didn’t see him, but I knowed he was there, for he and Paul live together,” answered Tom.

“That’s near Grand Street, isn’t it?”

“You’ve hit it boss. Shine yer boots?”

“Go ahead!”

While this operation was being performed, Tom, whose curiosity was excited, began to question in his turn.

“You ain’t no relation to Paul, be you?” he asked.

“What business is it of yours?” demanded Barclay, frowning.

“Didn’t know yer wanted to keep it secret,” said Tom, abashed.

“Have you known the old man long?”

“I’ve knowed old Jerry ever since I was a small kid.”

“How does he make his living?”

“He begs in the streets, when he can get away from Paul. Number 91 is so proud he won’t let him when he knows it.”

“I should think he would rather have the old man beg, so he wouldn’t have to give him so much money.”

“So should I. I wouldn’t mind. Old Jerry could make enough begging to support himself, easy.”

“Evidently you are a different chap from this telegraph boy,” observed Barclay, not without sarcasm.

“I hope so,” said Tom Rafferty. “I don’t put on no airs.”

“And he does?”

“You’d better believe it. And after all he’s only a telegraph boy. I could go on the telegraph myself, if I wanted to.”

“Why don’t you?”

“I’d rather have my liberty, and be my own boss. I guess I make as much money, any way.”

“You could dress better, and be cleaner,” suggested Barclay, surveying the ragged costume and soiled face and hands of the bootblack.

“What’s the use of being clean?” asked Tom, with calm philosophy. “You don’t feel no better. Besides, you’re sure to get dirty again. It’s all foolishness.”

“Right you are, my boy,” said Barclay, with a smile. “There isn’t much of that foolishness about you.”

Here the boy struck the box smartly with his brush, as a sign that the job was completed.

Barclay put down his foot and prepared to go.

“You haven’t paid, boss,” said the bootblack.

“I gave you a dollar.”

“That was for something else. You haven’t paid for the shine.”

“You ought to throw that in,” said Barclay.

“Don’t do business that way, boss.”

“Here’s your money, then,” said Barclay, throwing a nickel on the ground at his feet. He had intended all the time to give it, but amused himself by teasing the boy. “Supposing I should want you again, shall I find you here?”

“Yes, boss; this is my office,” answered Tom, humorously. “If it’s more convenient, you kin call at my house on Fifth Avenue.”

James Barclay left the park in a state of high satisfaction. It was important to his schemes to find his father, and now there seemed to be no further difficulty in the way. Then, too, he rather plumed himself on his success as a detective. Old Jerry, prompted probably by Paul, had removed his residence with the object of avoiding him and putting him off the track. But it had all proved useless. Thanks, as he assured himself, to his remarkable sharpness, he had foiled the old man and found out what he had attempted to conceal.

“How glum he will look when he sees me coming into his room!” he chuckled to himself. “It’ll be worth five dollars to see his scared face. Serves him right, too, for tryin’ to deceive his own flesh and blood.”

It was no little additional satisfaction that Paul, too, against whom he had a grudge for his interference with his attempt at burglary, would be disappointed and discomfited.

Should he go at once to call on his father? By the City Hall clock it lacked a quarter of ten. There was no hurry, for he had his address, and could find him any time. He wanted to make another call first, and decided to do so. What this call was, is not essential to my story. It is sufficient to say that it occupied him two hours, and that it was a little past twelve when he reached the new residence of his father in Ludlow Street.

There was a woman standing at the door.

“Is there an old man and a telegraph boy living here?” asked Barclay.

“Yes,” answered the woman. “Head of the stairs on the third floor.”

“Thank you, ma’am. I’m much obliged.”

James Barclay ascended the stairs, smiling to himself all the way.

Chapter XIX. Old Jerry Receives A Visit.

Though old Jerry was more sensible than some misers in resisting the temptation of keeping all his money at home, where he might feast his eyes in the contemplation of it, he had a little hoard of gold pieces which he secreted in his room, and which from time to time he took out and counted with gloating eyes.

This very day he had taken them from their place of concealment, and, spreading them on the bed, was counting them over with trembling fingers when his son quietly opened the door, and entered the room.

The old man looked around, pale and alarmed, and clutched at the gold in the hope of hiding it before the intruder, whoever it might be, could catch a glimpse of it. But he was nervous, and had only thrust a part of the gold hurriedly into his pocket when James entered.

Over the old man’s face there crept an expression of dire dismay. There was no one in the world whom he less wished to see than his son.

The latter’s keen glance detected his father’s employment, and did not fail to observe the half dozen gold pieces still remaining on the bed spread, though old Jerry, as quickly as possible, gathered them up, and thrust them into his pocket.

“Good morning, dad!” said James, in a jocular tone. “I am afraid you are not glad to see me.”

Old Jerry stared at him in mute consternation.

“Considering that I am your only son, you might give me a better welcome,” said James, carefully closing the door, and sinking into a chair.

“Go away, go away!” said the old man, hoarsely. “You--you are a bold, bad man, and I don’t want to see you.”

“Come, dad, that is unkind!” said James Barclay, in a bantering tone. “You mustn’t forget that I am your son.”

“I wish I could forget it,” muttered the old man.

“I am not so bad as you think I am, father. Seeing that we are all that is left of the family, it’s only right that we should live friendly. I’m glad to see you are not so poor as you pretend.”

“You--you are mistaken, James,” whined old Jerry. “I am very poor.”

“That don’t go down, dad. What were you doing when I came in?”

Old Jerry looked confused.

“How many gold pieces have you got there? Let me count them.”

“Three--or four,” stammered Jerry, unable to deny the statement entirely.

“Three or four!” repeated James, mockingly. “Thirty or forty, more likely.”

“You--you are quite wrong, James,” said Jerry, in nervous alarm. “It’s--it’s all I have in the world.”

“Perhaps it is, and perhaps it isn’t. When I was here before, you pretended you didn’t have any money at all. What are you going to do with it?”

“I am keeping it to--to bury me,” answered Jerry.

“Then you’d better give it to me. You can’t bury yourself, you know. I’ll see you buried all right when the time comes.”

“I couldn’t do it, James. I must keep it as long as I live. When I die--”

“It comes to me, I suppose.”

“Ye--es.”

“Then I might as well have it now, don’t you think so, dad?”

“Go away! I don’t feel well. I want to be left alone,” stammered Jerry, with a terrified look at the stout, broad shouldered visitor, whom he could hardly believe to be his son, so great was the difference between the burly strength of the one, and the shrinking weakness of the other.

“Look here, dad, you ain’t treating me well. You don’t seem to consider that I am your only son. Are you saving up your money for that young telegraph brat that lives with you?”

“Paul is a good boy,” mumbled Jerry. “He doesn’t scare and trouble me like you, James.”

“That isn’t answering my question. Are you going to leave him all your money?”

“I--I have very little--to leave, James,” returned the old man, lapsing into his usual whine. “There won’t be anything left when my funeral expenses are paid.”

“What there is will go to me, will it?”

“I--I suppose so,” faltered Jerry.

“Then I think you’d better make your will and say so. Otherwise that boy will claim all.”

“Paul is a good boy. I--I should starve but for what he brings me every week.”

“You look half starved as it is. Come, are you willing to make your will in my favor?”

“I--I’ll think of it, James.”

“And give it to me to keep.”

“It--it won’t do you any good, I--I am so poor.”

“I’ll take the chance of that. You’ve got more money in your pocket than would bury you five times over.”

“No--no,” protested the old man in alarm. “You--you frighten me, James. I don’t feel well. Won’t you go away?”

“There is no need to be scared, dad. I don’t want your money.”

“Is that true, James?” said the old man, in a tone of relief. “I have so little it wouldn’t do you any good.”

“Didn’t that boy tell you I wanted to make you a present?”

“Yes, he said so.”

“Yet you hid away from me and wouldn’t let me know where you lived.”

“Did Paul tell you? How did you find me out, James?”

“No, he didn’t tell me, but I found out all the same. Never mind how! Only I warn you it won’t do you any good to hide from me in future. I have ways of finding you out. But let me convince you that I don’t need your money. Do you see that?”

As he spoke he drew out a roll of counterfeit bills and exhibited them to the astonished eyes of old Jerry.

The old man regarded him with new respect as the possessor of such unexpected wealth.

“Are--are they square?” he asked.

“Of course they are,” answered James. “I intended to give you a present if you hadn’t treated me so coolly--”

“I meant no offense, James,” said the old man, eying the money with a look of greed.

“Well, if you apologize, it’s all right!” said James, with noble magnanimity. “You’ll find you haven’t judged me right. I can do more for you than that telegraph kid. But I want you to trust me, and treat me kind, do hear?”

“Yes,” answered Jerry, meekly.

“To show you that I’m in earnest, I’ll make you a fair offer. Give me two of those five dollar gold pieces, and I’ll give you these two ten dollar bills. If that isn’t a handsome offer, I don’t know what is.”

Jerry was dazzled by this offer. The fact that it was made by such a scapegrace as he knew his son to be should have put him on his guard, but cupidity blinded him.

“Do you mean it, James?” he asked, surveying the bills with avidity.

“Certainly I do. I make the present just to show you that I don’t bear no grudge, and want to live friendly.”

“Let me see the bills, James.”

“There, take them in your hand if you like.”

Old Jerry took the bills, and eyed them at first longingly, but as he marked their new appearance a suspicion entered his mind. If they were counterfeit his son’s unexpected liberal offer would be accounted for. James’s character, too, made it very probable that he would engage in circulating counterfeit bills.

“I--I would rather keep the gold, James,” he said, handing back the bills.

“Then you’re a fool!” said James Barclay roughly. “I see you don’t want to be friendly. I wanted to be on good terms with you, seein’ you’re my father, but now I don’t care. Give me that gold!”

“Go away!” said the old man, in renewed alarm.

James Barclay’s reply was to rise from his seat, and stride over to where his father was sitting on the bed. He seized the old man roughly by the shoulder, and made a motion to search the pocket containing the gold pieces.

“Give it up peaceably or I’ll hurt you!” he said.

Jerry uttered a shrill cry, and tried to make a feeble opposition, but he was like a child in the hands of the burly ruffian.

“Stop your whimpering!” said James, fiercely. “That gold I mean to have, and you’d best give it up.”

Jerry again uttered a cry, which was heard by Mrs. Hogan, an opposite neighbor, who, opening the door, saw, unnoticed by either, the uneven struggle between Jerry and his assailant.

Mrs. Hogan was a brave woman. She dashed back into her own room, and returned in an instant with a dipper of hot water. Armed with this she was prepared for hostilities.

“Let the old man alone, you thafe of the worruld!” she exclaimed, indignantly.

James Barclay turned, and, seeing that it was a woman, replied scornfully, “Get out of here, woman, or it’ll be the worse for you!”

Chapter XX. James Barclay Comes To Grief.

“Get out yourself!” retorted Mrs. Hogan, as with undaunted mien she faced the ruffian. “What are you doin’ to old Jerry?”

“Mind your business, woman, and leave the room, if you don’t want to get hurt!”

James Barclay still retained his grip upon the old man as he spoke.

He was as bold as his father was timid, and did not mean to be frightened away by a woman.

“I’m no more a woman than yourself,” said Mrs. Hogan, angrily, who preferred to be addressed as a lady.

“Well, you’re dressed like one, any way,” rejoined Barclay, with a smile of amusement. “My father and I have a little business together, and you’re not wanted.”

“Is he your son, Jerry?” asked Mrs. Hogan, not certain whether the statement was true.

“Yes,” answered Jerry, feebly, “but he wants to rob me. Take him away, Mrs. Hogan.”

“Ain’t you ashamed of yourself to trate your old father so manely?” demanded Mrs. Hogan, indignantly.

“Give me the money, father, and I’ll go,” said Barclay, thinking it politic to get away as soon as possible.

“Take him away!” said old Jerry, feebly.

“I’ll do it!” responded Mrs. Hogan. “I’ll tache him, the murtherin’ thafe!”

She suited the action to the word, and dashed the scalding hot water into the face of James Barclay.

He uttered a hoarse cry of mingled rage and pain, and, leaving his father, dashed after his bold assailant.

He was partially blinded, however, by the pain, and she easily escaped.

Scarcely knowing where he went, he ran against an athletic, broad shouldered man, who was bringing up a basket of coal.

“O, that’s your game, is it?” said the newcomer, fancying the assault intentional. “I don’t know who you are, but I’ll give ye all ye want. No man can hit Dennis O’Brien widout gettin’ as good as he gives.”

In a trice the two men were grappling, and, losing their balance, tumbled down the stairs, receiving some hard knocks on the way. The result was that both were arrested by a passing policeman, and locked up.

James Barclay, whose burns were severe, was sent to the hospital on the Island, and it was thirty days before he was free to pursue his plans again.

Old Jerry, picking himself up after his narrow escape, carefully counted his gold pieces, and to his great relief found that none were missing.

He breathed a sigh of relief when he learned that his son had been arrested, and determined to deposit his gold in the savings bank, so as to guard against future robbery.

It was about this time that Paul, called up town by some errand, was crossing Madison Square, when he heard his name called.

Looking up he recognized, with no little pleasure the smiling face of Jennie Cunningham.

She was accompanied by a boy of about Paul’s size, fashionably dressed, and wearing an expression of high self appreciation on his rather narrow face.

“How are you, Paul? It’s an age since I saw you,” said the young heiress, cordially, offering her hand.

“I am glad to see you, Miss Jennie,” responded Paul.

“Why haven’t you been up to see us? I have been expecting you for a long time.”

“I wasn’t sure I wouldn’t be intruding.”

“Then I’ll tell you once for all, you needn’t be a bit afraid. I want to beat you at dominoes. You beat me last time, didn’t you?”

“I believe so,” said Paul.

“Then I want my revenge. When will you come?”

“Whenever I am invited,” said Paul, smiling.

“That reminds me--how stupid I was to forget it--that I am to have a fancy dress party of young people next Wednesday evening. You’ll come, won’t you?”

“I am afraid I have no clothes fit to wear at a party.”

“O, you are to come in costume. Come as a telegraph boy. That will be the very thing. You’ll act the character naturally, you know, and no one will know that you are a real telegraph boy.”

“I should like very much to come, if I can come in my uniform.”

“That’s just what I want. Mind, then, Wednesday evening, at eight o’clock. What is the number of your office?”

“No. ---- Broadway.”

“I will send you a regular card of invitation. Then you will be treated just like the rest.”

She was about to turn away when a thought struck her.

“O, I forgot to introduce you to my cousin, Mark Sterling. Mark, this is Paul Parton, the boy who drove off the burglar when papa was gone to Washington. You’ve heard me speak of him?”

“O, yes, I’ve heard of him,” said Mark, coldly. “He behaved in a very creditable way--for a telegraph boy,” he continued, in a patronizing tone.

“Or for any other boy!” rejoined Jennie, quickly. “Really, I look upon Paul quite as a hero.”

“I am afraid I am not entitled to such high praise,” said Paul, modestly.

“You must make allowances for my Cousin Jennie,” said Mark. “She is a girl, and girls are all apt to gush.”

“This particular girl isn’t, Mark,” said his cousin, indignantly. “Have you ever seen the burglar since, Paul?”

“Yes.”

“O, tell me where.”

“On Broadway.”

“Why didn’t you have him arrested?”

“There was no policeman at hand. Besides, I told him that night that if he would go peaceably I would not molest him.”

“Such a promise doesn’t count,” said Mark, in a tone of authority. “You should have called a policeman.”

“My promise always counts!” said Paul, firmly.

“Even if given to a burglar?” said Mark, with a sneer.

“Yes, even if given to a burglar.”

Mark took off his hat mockingly.

“Really, I wasn’t prepared to find such a lofty sense of honor--in a telegraph boy!” he said, with a satirical smile.

“I am afraid you are not very well acquainted with telegraph boys,” said Paul, good naturedly.

He quite understood that Mark meant to sneer at him, but being confident of Jennie Cunningham’s favor, he felt quite indifferent to the opinion of her cousin.

“No,” said Mark, significantly; “I have never had the honor of associating much with that class of--persons.”

“Come, Mark, don’t make yourself so disagreeable,” said Jennie, unceremoniously. “Remember that Paul is a particular friend of mine.”

“Thank you, Miss Jennie,” said Paul, gratefully.

“I was not aware of that,” said Mark, stiffly.

“I am afraid I must be going; my time is not my own,” said Paul. “Good morning, Miss Jennie; good morning, Mr. Sterling.”

Jennie Cunningham responded cordially, but Mark affected not to hear the telegraph boy’s farewell. He was not in the best of humor, having a partiality for his pretty cousin, and being disposed to regard with jealousy any kindness bestowed by her upon other boys. He was foolish enough to venture upon a remonstrance, without reflecting that this was the poorest possible way of recommending himself to the favor of his companion.

“Jennie,” he commenced, “I am very much surprised at the notice you take of that low telegraph boy.”

“Do you mean Paul Parton?”

“Yes, if that is the fellow’s name.”

“Then I wish you to understand that he is not a low boy.”

“What do you know of him? What do you know of his family?”

“Nothing, except that he has neither father nor mother living.”

“Probably they were low persons.”

“Why probably?”

“You know well enough that nice boys don’t become telegraph messengers.”

“Paul is a nice boy,” asserted Jennie, with spirit.

“You seem to be infatuated with him,” said Mark, shrugging his shoulders.

“Because I treat him with common politeness?”

“Didn’t you invite him to your party next Wednesday?”

“Suppose I did?”

“Do you think it suitable to have a boy like that among your guests?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I don’t believe your mother will approve of it.”

“My mother invited Paul to spend the evening whenever he had time.”

This rather took Mark by surprise. He could not very well say anything in condemnation of his aunt, though he chose to lecture his cousin.

“I hope you won’t expect me to take any notice of him,” he said, with dignity.

“O, I don’t think he will insist upon it. I will take care that he feels himself at home.”

Mark did not venture to say more, but walked beside his cousin in a disgusted frame of mind. I am afraid he was really jealous of Paul, whom, against his will, he was forced to admit to be a very good looking boy.

Chapter XXI. The Fancy Dress Party.

Paul might have hesitated about accepting the invitation to attend a fashionable party if he had not been on such cordial and friendly terms with his young hostess and her family. He was sure to be kindly treated by them and by the majority of the guests who very properly follow the lead of their entertainers. He foresaw that Mark would snub him if he had an opportunity, but for this he cared little. It was clear that Mark was foolishly puffed up with an idea of his own consequence, and had been accustomed to look with scorn upon all who were not on the same social plane as himself.

Paul had for some time been thinking of ordering another and newer uniform, and thought it good policy to do so at once, that he might have the new suit to wear for the first time at Jennie Cunningham’s party. It is the custom for boys to obtain them from the company, paying by installments, or regular weekly deductions from their pay.

The next morning some surprise was excited at the office by the receipt of a square envelope, of perfumed French paper, directed to

PAUL PARTON, A. D. T., No. 91.

“A love letter, I suppose,” said the chief, with a smile, as he handed the note to Paul.

Paul opened it, and, having no reason for secrecy, passed it to the superintendent.

“An invitation to a fancy dress party!” said that official, in surprise. “You seem to be pretty thick with the Cunninghams, Number 91.”

“They are very polite and kind,” said Paul.

“I suppose you are trying to ingratiate yourself with the young lady.”

“I am too young to think of that,” answered the telegraph boy, very sensibly.

“Shall you accept the invitation?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You must go in fancy dress.”

“I have already decided to go as a telegraph boy.”

“Then you knew of this before?”

“I met Miss Jennie yesterday in Madison Square, and was told she meant to invite me.”

“You are a lucky boy.”

“So I think, sir.”

From that time Paul was treated with greater consideration in the office, the chief regarding him as a _protege_ of the Cunninghams. This was an advantage, for he was now employed on the most agreeable and desirable commissions that came to the office.

On Wednesday morning Paul said to old Jerry: “I shall be home late tonight, Jerry.”

“Why, Paul? Will you be kept at the office?”

“No; I am to attend a party.”

Jerry opened his eyes.

“A party! Where, Paul?”

“In Fifty First Street. It is a fancy dress party.”

“But how came they to invite you?”

“They employed me on one occasion, and have treated me in a friendly way since.”

“I don’t understand it, Paul. Is it a--a rich family?”

“Yes, Jerry.”

The old man’s eyes lighted up hopefully.

“And they are good friends of yours, Paul?” he asked.

“Yes, grand--yes, Jerry.”

“Then, Paul, you can do me a great favor. You will, won’t you?” pleaded the old man, coaxingly.

“What is it?” inquired Paul, suspiciously.

“Tell them how poor I am, Paul, and ask them if they won’t help me. It would be nothing to rich folks to send an old man ten dollars, or twenty, and would do me a sight of good.”

“You must be crazy to ask me such a thing,” answered Paul, sternly. “Have you no shame, or do you think I have none, to beg money of strangers?”

“But I am so poor, Paul,” whined the miser.

“I am tired of hearing of that, Jerry,” said the boy, with an expression of disgust on his face. “It was bad enough when I believed you to be really poor, but now that I know you to have plenty of money, and are very likely rich, it makes me sick to hear you tell such falsehoods.”

“Is this the way you talk to a poor old man who has brought you up?” whined old Jerry.

Paul was in no wise moved by this appeal. He knew too well the extent of his obligations to the old miser.

“I have always paid my way, Jerry,” he said, coldly. “Even when I was only six years old, I earned all I cost you. If you think I am any expense to you, I am willing to leave you any time.”

“No, no, Paul,” said old Jerry in alarm. “I can’t spare you. I am getting old, and I don’t want to be left alone.”

“Then don’t ask me to do what I am ashamed of, Jerry.”

Paul arrived at the party about twenty minutes after eight. He did not care to be among the first in attendance. He was shown upstairs to the gentlemen’s reception room, and, having adjusted his toilet, went downstairs. Jennie and her mother stood at one end of the drawing room.

Paul made his way towards her, and, following the example of other guests, shook hands, and offered congratulations, for it was Jennie’s birthday.

“I am glad to see you, Paul,” said Jennie, with a smile, and her mother echoed the welcome.

Turning away, Paul met the eyes of Mark Sterlin