Adventures of a Telegraph Boy or 'Number 91'

Mrs. Hogan, standing with her arms akimbo, looked thoroughly fearless and undaunted. She was a powerful woman, and, though James Barclay was of course her superior in physical force, he would not have found her an unresisting victim.

“Why don’t he go away?” was heard in a wailing voice from the bed.

“He is going directly,” answered Ellen Barclay, in a soothing voice.

James Barclay’s brow contracted.

“So you’re sowing mischief between my father and me, my lady!” he said. “Well, it’s just what I expected. But don’t you forget one thing! I’m the rightful heir of that old ninny on the bed there, and if anybody tries to cut me out, he’ll find I’ve got something to say about it.”

“That’s a pretty way to talk of your father – as an ould ninny,” said Mrs. Hogan, indignantly.

“Never you mind! It’s none of your business. I suppose you’re looking for a slice of the property yourself.”

“No, I’m not Mr. James Barclay. I’m an honest woman, and can earn my own living.”

“I’m glad to hear it. But I’m not so sure of the telegraph boy. He’s been living on the old man all his life, and he means to be provided for when he dies.”

“I don’t know what your father would have done without him,” said Mrs. Hogan. “He’s worked for old Jerry ever since he was six years old – when his own flesh and blood deserted him. Isn’t it so, Jerry?”

“Yes, Paul is a good boy,” responded Jerry, feebly.

“Oh, no doubt; he’s an angel,” sneered James Barclay. “I say, Number 91, as you seem to have my father’s money, I’ll just mention that I shall want ten dollars tomorrow.”

“I have no money of your father’s, Mr. Barclay, and I shall not be able to advance you the money myself.”

“Well, it’s got to come from some quarter,” said Barclay; “whether he gives it to me, or you, I don’t care, as long as I have it.”

“You ought to earn your own living – you’re big and strong enough,” said Mrs. Hogan, with spirit.

“Thank you; you’re a fine woman,” said James Barclay, mockingly. “If Mrs. Barclay would only be obliging enough to leave me a widower, I might take you for my second wife.”

“And leave me to support you!” retorted Mrs. Hogan. “Thank you for nothing. I’d rather be a widow all the days of my life than to marry you.”

James Barclay laughed.

“And yet some people think me good looking,” he said.

“Then they must be blind; however, it isn’t the way you look, it’s the way you behave that sets me aginst you.”

“That’s a pity; for your sake, my sweet Mrs. Hogan, I might be tempted to turn over a new leaf.”

“Shure, it’s more than one new leaf you’ll need to turn over, I’m thinkin’.”

Paul laughed at this retort, and even the victim of Mrs. Hogan’s sarcasm was forced to laugh, too. Then, greatly to the relief of all present, the unwelcome visitor left the house.

“Shure, I pity you, Mrs. Barclay,” said Mrs. Hogan, sympathetically, “for havin’ such a husband as that. What made you marry him?”

“Because I thought him a different man, but the delusion didn’t last long. Before three months had passed I found that he had married me for a few hundred dollars left me by my aunt. When he had spent them, he treated me with neglect.”

“Shure’s it’s the way wid the men!”

“I hope not with all of them, Mrs. Hogan,” said Paul, smiling.

“No, Paul, I don’t mean you. I wouldn’t mind marrying you if you were old enough.”

“There, I’ve had one offer,” said Paul. “Excuse my blushes!”

CHAPTER XXXVII

JAMES BARCLAY’S SCHEME

James Barclay presented himself the next day, true to his notice, and demanded ten dollars. Paul was not at home, and the only persons to whom he could appeal were his father, his wife, and Mrs. Hogan.

“I haven’t any money, James,” answered Mrs. Barclay, “except seventy five cents, and that I must spend for medicines for your father, and something for his supper.”

“Where did that money come from?” inquired Barclay.

“From Paul.”

“Number 91?”

“Yes.”

“Just as I thought! He’s got my father’s money, and doles it out to you a little at a time.”

“He says it is his own money.”

“That’s a likely story. When could a common telegraph boy get so much money?”

“He isn’t a common telegraph boy! He is a very smart boy.”

“An uncommon telegraph boy, then, if you prefer it. By Jove! I think he is that myself. It isn’t every boy of his age who could so pull the wool over an old man’s eyes as he has.”

“He is a very good boy!” said Mrs. Barclay, who had learned to appreciate Paul, though she was at first inclined to do him injustice.

“So he is – of the kind!” retorted her husband. “If you were not blind you would see that he has got hold of my father’s property, and means to keep the lion’s share of it for himself. When will he be home?”

“Not till six o’clock.”

“And it’s only three. I don’t think I can wait.”

It was fortunate that he did not see the look of satisfaction upon his wife’s face. It would have incensed him, for his temper, as the reader has had occasion to learn, was not of the best.

“Look here!” he said, after a moment’s reflection, “give me the seventy five cents. I’ll make it do till I get a chance to see this telegraph boy.”

“But, James, I really can’t spare it. I need it to buy some supper and medicines for your father.”

“And I need it to buy some supper for myself!” returned her husband, roughly. “There’s plenty more money where that came from.”