Adventures of a Telegraph Boy or 'Number 91'

“Why not?” asked Paul, hopefully.

“Sit down,” said the stranger, pointing to a chair. “I won’t keep you long.”

CHAPTER XXIV

A ROOM AT THE ALBEMARLE HOTEL

The stranger was tall and well formed. He had certainly showed moral weakness in yielding to the fascinations of drink, but he looked like a smart man of business.

“Wait a minute,” he said, “and I will talk to you.”

He went to a stationary washtub, and bathed his head freely.

“There,” he said, after he had rubbed his face vigorously with a towel. “I feel fifty per cent better. There is nothing like cold water after all.”

“Inside as well as outside,” added Paul, with a smile.

“That’s where you are right, my boy. Evidently your head is level. You say you are a telegraph boy?”

“Yes sir.”

“How do you like it?”

“Fairly well – for the present.”

“You wouldn’t like to follow it permanently, eh?”

“No, sir; by the time I got to be fifty or sixty, I might like to change to something else.”

“You might be able to retire on a fortune.”

“It would be a very small one, judging from my weekly pay.”

“I think myself, unless you are wedded to the business, you might pass your time more profitably. What do you think you would like?”

“To enter some business house where I could rise step by step as I deserved it,” answered Paul, with animation.

“You have the right idea. Now let me tell you why I inquire. In the fall my father will establish a branch house here, with myself at the head of it. I don’t mind telling you that if I had lost the money I have with me, it is doubtful whether he would have trusted me so far. Now, thanks to your prompt assistance, I have been spared the natural result of my folly, and my father will never know the risk I have run. So you see that you have rendered me an important service.”

“I am sincerely glad of it, sir.”

“I mean that you shall be, and on your account. If I establish myself here, I shall want a young assistant on whose intelligence and fidelity I can rely. Do you know any such person?”

“I hope you mean me,” said Paul eagerly. “It is just the opening I have been looking for, for a long time.”

“I do mean you. Have you a father or mother?”

“No, sir; unhappily not.”

“Have you no one belonging to you, then?” asked the young man with a look of sympathy.

“No, sir, I can’t say that I have. I live with an old man who is not related to me. It is better than being alone.”

“Doesn’t he rely upon you to contribute to his support?”

“He does, but he need not. He is a miser and has money deposited in the Bowery Savings Bank, and elsewhere, I expect. I think he has enough to carry him through to the end of his life.”

“If he is a miser you probably don’t live very luxuriously.”

“We live in a poor room in an east side tenement house, sir,” answered Paul.

“You are not contented with that, I take it.”

“No, sir; when I compare it with the place where I spent this evening, it makes me mortified and ashamed.”

“You were at a party, you said?”

“Yes, sir, in a fine brown stone mansion up town.”

“Isn’t it a little unusual for a telegraph boy living in a tenement house to be invited to a fashionable party?”

“Yes, sir, but these are very kind friends of mine, who overlook my poor social position, and notice me as much as if I lived in a house as good as their own.”

“I think they must be uncommon people, but I approve them for all that. ‘A man’s a man for a’ that,’ as Robert Burns says in his poem. That is, it makes no difference whether he is rich or poor, whether he lives in a palace or a hovel, if there is good stuff in him, he deserves honor.”

“I would like to see the whole poem,” said Paul. “I think Burns is right.”

“So do I, but I must not forget that it is late, and I am keeping you from your bed. I have not told you my name yet.”

“No, sir.”

“It is Eliot Wade. The firm name is William O. Wade & Co., of St Louis. We have a wholesale clothing house, and propose to establish a similar one in New York. Now, when this arrangement is effected, how can I communicate with you?”

“If you will write to Paul Parton, A. D. T., No. – Broadway, I shall receive the letter. If I leave the telegraph service before, I will tell them where to send any letter which is received.”

“And in case both fail, you will be sure to learn our place from the advertising columns of the newspapers. In that case, call and inquire for me.”

“Thank you, sir. I will be sure to do so.”

“You will be likely to find it to your advantage.”

Paul, concluding that there was nothing more to be said, rose to go.

“Good night, Mr. Wade,” he said. “I consider myself lucky in having met you.”

“I can return the compliment. But I have not yet got through with you.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Paul, resuming his seat.

“You don’t suppose I would send you away without an immediate acknowledgment of the service you have done me tonight?”

“The future employment which you promised me I consider a very valuable acknowledgment.”

“That will, I hope, prove so, but there is nothing like a bird in the hand.”

As Eliot Wade spoke, he produced the wallet which had been saved to him by the intrepidity and presence of mind of Paul, and drew therefrom a bank note, which he tendered to Number 91.

“Accept that with my thanks added,” he said.

Paul looked at the bill and his face expressed the amazement he felt.

It was a hundred dollar bill!

“You don’t mean to give me so much as this, Mr. Wade,” he ejaculated.

“Why not?” asked the young man, with a smile.

“It is a good deal too much.”

“On the other hand, it is about fifty dollars too little. Ten per cent on the sum saved would be one hundred and fifty dollars, and it is worth that. However, I will reserve that for a future occasion. Consider me fifty dollars in your debt.”

“You are very liberal,” said Paul earnestly, “and I heartily thank you. You can imagine that a hundred dollars is a large sum to a poor telegraph boy.”

“Now,” said the young man, smiling, “let me give you a piece of advice, suggested by my own experience. Don’t drop into any drinking saloon on your way home, or you may fall into the hands of a sharper, as I did.”

“I will remember your caution, sir,” said Paul, smiling.

“It may be safer for you to ride home, as the hour is late.”

“I will do so, sir. Good night and thank you.”

“It seems to me that you are born under a lucky star, No. 91,” said Paul to himself. “In a single evening I have received a sum of money equal to half a year’s wages. If old Jerry only knew it, I should not dare to fall asleep in the same room with him.”

He took the green car whose terminus was the Grand Street Ferry, and in less than half an hour he reached the door of his humble lodging.

He went upstairs and entered the bed chamber – which contrasted so strongly with the handsomely furnished hotel room which he had just left. He expected to find old Jerry fast asleep, but he was mistaken. The old man was lying on his poor bed in a cramped position, his eyes open, moaning piteously.

“What is the matter, Jerry?” he asked, approaching the bed.

“I am sick, Paul,” said the old man. “I – I am feeling very miserable! Do you think I am going to die?”

CHAPTER XXV

OLD JERRY’S WEALTH

Old Jerry certainly did look weak and miserable. His face seemed thinner and paler than usual; his thin gray hair looked quite disordered, and there were dark rings around his eyes.

“You look sick,” answered Paul, pityingly.

“Do you think I am going to die?” asked the old man, tremulously.

“Oh, no, not yet awhile,” answered Paul, in a cheering voice. “But you must have a doctor.”

“No, no; I can’t afford it,” said Jerry, in alarm. “Doctors charge so much. They – they seem to think a man is made of money.”

“Would you rather die,” Paul exclaimed, impatiently, “than pay for a doctor’s attendance? What good will your money do you if you die?”

“You – you might ask the druggist for some medicine to help me. That would be much cheaper.”

“That won’t do you; you need a doctor. If you don’t have one, you may die before morning.”

Jerry was thoroughly frightened now. He made no further resistance, and Paul summoned a doctor having an office on Grand Street.

When he saw Jerry, and felt his pulse, he looked grave.

“I think he is going to have a low fever,” he said.

“Is it catching?” asked Mrs. Hogan, nervously, for Paul had waked her up, and asked her to come in.

The doctor smiled.

“O, no,” he said. “Don’t be alarmed. Pardon me for asking,” he said, turning to Paul, “but does your grandfather – I suppose he is your grandfather – eat regularly and sufficiently?”

“I am afraid not, sir.”

“He has lowered his system, I should judge, by lack of nourishing food, and at present his vitality is very low.”

“I can easily believe it, doctor,” said Paul. “I will speak to you on the subject later. Do you think he is going to have a fever?”

“Yes, a low fever, as I said – the revenge of outraged nature for a violation of her rules.”

“Am I going to die?” asked Jerry, his parchment skin assuming a greenish hue. “I – I want to live; I am not ready to die.”

“That depends on whether you follow my rules.”

“I will if – if you don’t make me spend too much money; I am poor – miserably poor.”

“I will see that your rules are followed, doctor,” said Paul, finding it hard to hide the disgust he felt at this characteristic manifestation of the old man’s miserly disposition.

“I see you are a sensible boy,” said the doctor, approvingly. “Perhaps I had better speak to you privately.”

“Very well, doctor. As we have no other room, will you step into the entry?”

The doctor followed Paul out.

“Before you give your instructions,” said the telegraph boy, “I want to say that Jerry – he is not my grandfather – is a miser, and has deliberately deprived himself of the necessaries of life.”

“Has he money?”

“He has enough, I am sure, to pay what is needful, but it will be hard to get him to spend it.”

“He must have nourishing food, and stimulating medicines, or he cannot recover. His life is at stake.”

“Will he need a nurse?”

“I suppose you can’t attend to him?”

“No; I prefer to attend to my regular business, and hire some one.”

“Then do so, for the old man will require some weeks, at least, to recover from the low point to which he has brought himself.”

“I think I can get Mrs. Hogan to take care of him. You may give her your directions.”

First, however, Paul made the proposal to the good woman. “I’ll see that you are paid,” he said. “If I can’t get the money out of Jerry, I will pay it myself.”

“But, Paul, dear, I wouldn’t want to take the little you have. You’ve no more than enough for yourself.”

“I will show you something, Mrs. Hogan, if you won’t let Jerry know.”

“Shure I won’t.”

Paul produced the hundred dollar bill, and filled the soul of Mrs. Hogan with amazement.

“Where did you get it?” she asked, in wonder.

“It was given me by a gentleman whom I saved from being robbed of a good deal more,” he answered. “You see, Mrs. Hogan, I am not so poor as you suppose. I will pay you seven dollars a week, if that will satisfy you, for your care of Jerry, but I will try to get him to repay me the money, for his life depends on what we are able to do for him.”

The doctor, upon Mrs. Hogan’s acceptance of the office of nurse, gave her instructions. To begin with, though late, he directed that some tea and oatmeal should be prepared and administered to his patient to reinforce his failing strength.

It was nearly one o’clock when Paul threw himself down on the lounge with his clothes on, and fell into a sound sleep.

Old Jerry did not immediately improve. His strength was so far reduced that it required time to rebuild his enfeebled constitution. Mrs. Hogan proved a good nurse. Indeed, in her younger days she had acted in that capacity, and was not ignorant of the duties.

When Paul came home the next evening, he found the nurse waiting to speak to him.

“The doctor says Jerry must be undressed, and not lay with his clothes on,” she said, “but old Jerry is so obstinate that he won’t agree to it.”

“Jerry, you will feel a great deal better to take off your clothes,” said Paul, in a tone of expostulation.

“No, no!” objected Jerry, in a terrified tone.

“And why not?” asked Mrs. Hogan. “Shure, the doctor knows what’s best for you.”

But Jerry obstinately refused.

“It’s a quare frake the old man has, not to be undressed like a good Christian,” observed Mrs. Hogan.

“I think I know his objection,” said Paul. “We won’t trouble him just now.”

The next day at noon Paul called at the house, having a few minutes to spare. Mrs. Hogan met him with a smile of triumph.

“We’ve took off his clothes,” she said, “and I’ve put a night gown on him, and he’s lying as peaceful as can be.”

“Didn’t he refuse?” asked Paul, in surprise.

“No, and a good reason why. He was out of his head, and so I asked Mr. McQuade, downstairs, to come up and help me. And niver a word the old man spoke, but seemed dazed like.”

“Where are his clothes?” inquired Paul, eagerly.

“Shure there they are!” said the nurse, pointing to a pile of wretched garments on a chair near the bedside.

“I’ll stay here ten minutes, Mrs. Hogan,” said Paul, “and give you a chance to go to your room.”

“Thank you, Paul. I’ll go and make a bit of tay for the old man.”

Paul locked the door after her, and eagerly took up the shabby old suit which had been worn for years by old Jerry. He instituted a careful search, and found himself richly rewarded. In one pocket he found a bank book on the Bowery Savings Bank. His eyes opened with amazement when he found nearly three thousand dollars set down to the old man’s credit. There was another book, marked the Union Dime Savings Bank, a bank in the upper part of the city. On this book deposits were entered to the amount of eight hundred and ninety dollars. Feeling something stiff behind the lining of the coat, Paul hastily ripped it open, and found a certificate of one hundred shares of Erie, then selling at forty eight dollars per share. This appeared to be all, except a few dollars in money.

“It is my duty to take care of them,” reflected Paul. “Mrs. Hogan is no doubt honest, but others might enter the chamber who would not scruple to rob the old man. I will take care of them, and deposit them in a safe place.”

He made a hasty calculation, and found that the two savings bank books contained deposits amounting to three thousand eight hundred dollars. The value of the Erie stock he afterwards ascertained to be four thousand eight hundred, making in all eight thousand six hundred dollars.

“How strange that a man with so much money should be willing to live so miserably!” he thought. “Probably he has shortened his life by this means.”

At this point Mrs. Hogan reentered the room.

Paul had replaced the clothes on the chair, and she did not observe that they had been touched.

“Is there anything you want, Mrs. Hogan?” asked Paul. “If so, I can leave some money with you.”

“I might, maybe, need to send Mike out to the druggist.”

“Here’s a dollar, then.”

“Shure, Paul, you’re very kind to the old craythur, though he’s no kin to you.”

“Oh, I expect to be paid back some time.”

“I’m sure you will. We’ll try to keep life in the craythur, though it’s little he enjoys it.”

“Perhaps he enjoys it as much in his way as you or I.”

“Shure it’s little I’d enjoy if I lived like him.”

“I agree with you, Mrs. Hogan. But I must be going.”

About three o’clock there was a knock at Mrs. Hogan’s door. A woman of thirty presented herself.

“Shure, and it’s I that am glad to see you, Mrs. Barclay,” said the hospitable widow. “I haven’t set eyes on you since you went over to live in Jersey City.”

“No, I don’t often get over here. Today I had to bring clothes to a customer, and thought I’d come and see you.”

The visitor was Ellen Barclay, whom a strange chance – or was it Providence? – had brought unwittingly to the poor home of her husband’s father.

CHAPTER XXVI

ELLEN BARCLAY’S DISCOVERY

Mrs. Barclay had only experienced a feeling of relief when her husband failed to return to her. She had grown accustomed to taking care of herself and the children without him, and his presence seemed likely only to impose upon her an additional burden. Though she earned her living in a humble way, she was fairly educated, and could sew neatly, but a brief trial with the needle satisfied her that it would be quite impossible to obtain the comforts of life for three persons in that way. So she had mastered her pride, and entered the lists as a laundress.

“And how are the children, Mrs. Barclay?” asked Mrs. Hogan.

“They are both well, thank God.”

“And do you never hear anything of their father?”

Mrs. Barclay’s face clouded.

“Yes,” she answered, “he came home a few days since, but only stayed one day.”

“Didn’t he bring you any money then?”

“No; he borrowed some from me.”

“It’s a shame, so it is, in a great, strapping man like him to leave you to work for the poor children.”

Mrs. Hogan had never seen Mr. Barclay, or she would have recognized him in the man whom she helped drive away from his father’s room, and was utterly ignorant of the relationship between him and the old man whom she was nursing.

“I don’t know but it’s wrong,” said Ellen, “but I believe I should be happy if I thought he would never come again. He has only brought me trouble, and I dread his influence upon the children; we are better off without him. But how are you getting along yourself, Mrs. Hogan?”

“I’ve no cause to complain,” answered the Irish widow. “I’m well, and Mike and I pick up a living. Just now I’m taking care of a sick man in the room across the entry. It’s an ould man – a kind of miser he is, I surmise – and his name is the same as your own, Mrs. Barclay.”

The name of Barclay is not an uncommon one, but this statement seemed to produce a strong impression on Mrs. Hogan’s visitor.

“An old man named Barclay?” she repeated.

“Yes.”

“How old, should you think?”

“I don’t know, but he’s all dried up, and wrinkled. He may be siventy.”

“May I see him?” asked the visitor, eagerly.

“Shure you may go in with me when I give him his medicine.”

Ellen Barclay followed Mrs. Hogan into the opposite room, and looked with strange interest at the wan, emaciated old man stretched out on the bed.

“I’ve brought your medicine for you, Jerry,” said Mrs. Hogan, soothingly.

“Jerry!” exclaimed the younger woman. “Is his name Jerry?”

“Shure it is; and what thin?”

“My husband’s father was named Jeremiah. This may be he.”

“Have you niver seen him?” asked Mrs. Hogan, in surprise.

“Never; I did not know he was living till my husband’s recent visit. Then he spoke of his father’s being a miser, and his expecting to get some money from him.”

“Well, well; if I ever heard the like! As like as not old Jerry is your father in law. I’ll soon see.”

“Jerry, do you want to see your own son?” she asked, bending over, and addressing her patient.

An expression of alarm overspread the old man’s face.

“Don’t let him come in! Keep him away!” he exclaimed.

“Are you afraid of your own son, thin?” asked the nurse.

“He is a bad man; he tried to rob me,” said the old man, looking about him fearfully.

“I do believe it’s that man I threw the bilin’ water on!” exclaimed Mrs. Hogan, in surprise. “What’s your husband’s appearance, Mrs. Barclay?”

“He is tall and thick set, and his hair is inclined to be red.”

“Has he a scar on his right cheek?”

“Yes.”

“That’s the same man I drove away last week, wid the bilin’ water. He was trying to hurt old Jerry, wasn’t he, Jerry?”

“Yes, yes,” muttered the old man. “He’s a bad man, and he wanted to take away all my money, and I’m so poor.”

“Is he so poor?” asked Mrs. Barclay.

“No, it’s only his fancy. He’s what you call a miser; that’s what Paul says.”

“Where is Paul? Paul is a good boy!” murmured Jerry, half unconscious, but his attention arrested by the familiar name.

“Yes, he is a good boy,” repeated Mrs. Hogan. “It’s he that engaged me to take care of Jerry, when he was took sick, and he tould me he’d see that I was paid.”

“How long has this boy been with him? I remember now Mr. Barclay mentioned a telegraph boy. He didn’t seem to like him. I should like to see the boy; perhaps he could tell me something of the old man, and help me to decide whether he is really my husband’s father. On what day did James call here?”

Mrs. Hogan told her.

“It was the day after he left me. You say he got no money?”

“No; but he would if I hadn’t come in.”

“It is strange he has not been here since.”

“No, it isn’t, Mrs. Barclay; he was took in by a policeman, and I expect he’s on the Island.”

Ellen Barclay breathed a sigh of relief. Had her husband been the man he should have been, such news would have brought sorrow and distress. Now she regarded it as an augury of peace. While he was in confinement he would not be able to molest her.

“When can I see this boy, Paul?” she asked.

“Paul is generally at home some part of the evening, though he’s liable to come in at odd times.”

“I will try to come over tomorrow evening, if you think he will be at home.”

“It would be a good thing for you if the ould man has money, as Paul thinks,” said Mrs. Hogan, in a low voice.

“Not if my husband were free,” said Ellen Barclay.

“Thrue for you! He came near murderin’ the ould man. But there’s a dale of virtue in hot water,” added Mrs. Hogan, with a laugh. “He made a mistake when he tackled Bridget Hogan, I can tell him that, now.”

“I shall have to go now, Mrs. Hogan. I left the children alone.”

“Not without a cup of tay. I’m just goin’ to make some for the ould man, and you’re welcome to a cup.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hogan. I know of old that your tea is good.”

“It is that same, if I say so myself.”

“One thing I can’t understand,” said Ellen Barclay, thoughtfully. “You say the telegraph boy pays you for taking care of this old man?”

“Yes, he does.”

“But where does he get the money? Telegraph boys are not usually paid a big salary.”

“That’s thrue; but Paul is such a favorite he gets many presents. He’s an honest boy, and it’s my hope my boy Mike will grow up just loike him.”

“I will see him for myself tomorrow evening. If Jerry, as you call him, is really my father in law, I ought to know it. He seems a very different man from my husband. I can’t see any resemblance between them.”

“That’s not strange, neither. Pat Hogan’s father was a little, dried up shrimp of a man like ould Jerry here, and Pat was five tin, or tin feet five, in his stockings I disremember which.”

“I think it must be five feet ten,” said Ellen Barclay, with a smile.

“No doubt you’re right, ma’am. But just come round tomorrow evenin’ and see Paul, and then, maybe, you’ll find out all you want to know.”

CHAPTER XXVII

JERRY DISCOVERS HIS LOSS

It was not until late in the afternoon that Jerry regained sufficient command of his faculties to observe that his clothes had been removed.

He uttered a cry of alarm which brought Mrs. Hogan into the room.

She found the old man struggling to rise in bed, but without success, so great was his weakness.

“Don’t try to get up, Jerry!” she said, soothingly. “Lie still, there’s a good man!”

“Bring me my clothes!” gasped Jerry.

“And what for do you want your clothes?” asked Mrs. Hogan, supposing that he wished to dress. “Shure the doctor said you must have them taken off. It would be better for you.”

“Bring them to me – quick!” gasped the old man once more.

“Shure, and what will you do with them?”

“Never mind, woman! Bring them to me, or I’ll have you arrested for robbing me.”

“O, that’s it, is it?” retorted the nurse, bridling. “If I couldn’t find anything to stale better’n them, I’d remain honest to the end of my life.”

“If you won’t bring them here, I’ll get up myself.”