Adventures of a Telegraph Boy or 'Number 91'

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. T91

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’.”