Adventures of a Telegraph Boy or 'Number 91'

“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.”