Adventures of a Telegraph Boy or 'Number 91'

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.”