Adventures of a Telegraph Boy or 'Number 91'

Paul had a motive in saying this. He abhorred the idea of seeming to beg for a gratuity. Besides, judging from the appearance and rusty attire of the old man, he decided that he was poor, and could not afford to pay anything over the regular charges.

“I see,” said the old farmer, as Paul supposed him to be, with a responsive smile. “You’re right there, sonny. If you’re offered a little extra money, it’s all right to take it.”

By this time they had reached the City Hall Park, and were crossing it. Then, as now, the Park swarmed with bootblacks of all sizes, provided with the implements of their trade.

Frequently, in the rivalry which results from active competition, the little fellows are pushed aside, and the bigger and stronger boys take possession of the customers they have secured. There was a case of this sort which fell under the attention of Paul and his elderly companion.

A pale, delicate looking boy of twelve was signaled by a gentleman, a rod or two from the City Hall. He hastened eagerly to secure a job, but unhappily the signal had also been seen by a bigger boy, larger, if anything, than Paul, and he, too, ran to get in ahead of the smaller boy. Without ceremony, he put out his foot and tripped little Jack, and with a triumphant laugh sped on to the expectant customer. The little boy, who had been bruised by the fall, rose crying and disappointed.

“That’s mean, Tom Rafferty,” he said. “The gentleman called me.”

Tom only responded by another laugh. With him, might made right, and the dominating law was the will of the stronger.

“Oh, you’ll get another soon,” he said.

He got down on his knees, and placed his box in position. But all was not to be as smooth sailing as he expected. Paul, with a blaze of honest indignation, had seen the outrage. He was not surprised, for he knew both boys.

“Never mind, Jack,” he said. “I’ll fix it all right.

“Please mind the valise a minute, sir,” he added, and rather to the surprise of Mr. Meacham, he left him standing in the park, while he darted forward, seized Tom Rafferty by the collar, pulled him over backwards, and called, “Now, Jack!”

The little boy, emboldened by this unexpected help, ran up, and took Tom’s place at the foot of the customer.

“I’m the boy you called, sir,” he said.

“That’s true, my boy. Go ahead! Only be quick!” said the gentleman.

Tom Rafferty was furious.

“Don’t you know any better, you overgrown bully, than to get away little boys’ jobs?” asked Paul, indignantly.

“I’ll mash yer!” roared Tom.

“You mean if you can,” said the undaunted Paul.

“You think you’re a gentleman, just because you’re a telegraph boy. I could be a telegraph boy myself if I wanted ter.”

“Go ahead – I have no objection.”

“I’ll give that little kid the worst lickin’ he ever had, soon as he gets through, see ef I don’t.”

“Do it if you dare!” said Paul, his eyes flashing. “If you do, I’ll thrash you.”

“You dassn’t.”

“Remember what I say, Tom Rafferty. Now, Mr. Meacham, we’ll go on. I hope you’ll excuse me for keeping you waiting.”

“Yes, I will, sonny. It did me good to see you pitching into that young bully. I’d like to have done it myself.”

“I know both boys, sir. Little Jack is the son of a widow, who sews for a living, and she can’t make enough to support the family, and he has to go out and earn what he can by shines. He is small and weak, and the big boys impose upon him.”

“I’m glad he has some friends; Number 91, you’re a brave boy.”

“I don’t know about that, sir. But I can’t stand still and see a little kid like that imposed upon by a big brute like Tom Rafferty.”

They crossed Broadway, and presently neared Cortlandt Street. Just at the corner stood an old man, with bent form and white hair, dressed with extreme shabbiness. His hand was extended, and he was silently asking for alms.

Paul’s cheek flushed, and an expression of mortification swept over his face.

“Grandfather!” he said, reproachfully. “Please go home! Don’t beg in the streets. You make me ashamed!”

CHAPTER II

THE CORTLANDT STREET FERRY

The old man turned, and, recognizing Paul, looked somewhat ashamed.

“I – I couldn’t help it,” he whined. “I’m so poor.”

“There is no need for you to beg. I’ll bring you some money tonight.”

“Just for a little while. See, a kind gentleman gave me that,” and he displayed a silver dime.

Paul looked very much annoyed.

“If you don’t stop begging, grandfather,” he said, “I won’t come home at all. I’ll go and sleep at the Newsboys’ Lodge.”

The old man looked frightened. Paul turned in every week two dollars and a half of his wages, and old Jerry had no wish to lose so considerable a sum.

“I’ll go – I’ll go right away,” he said, hastily.

“Be sure you do. If you don’t I shall hear of it, and you won’t see me any more.”

Just then a policeman of the Broadway squad, whose business it was to pilot passengers across through the maze of vehicles, took the old man in tow, and led him carefully across the great thoroughfare.

Mr. Meacham had watched in attentive silence this interview between Paul and the old man.

“So that is your grandfather,” he said.

“I call him so,” answered Paul, slowly.

“You call him so!” repeated his companion, puzzled. “Isn’t he really your grandfather?”

“No, sir; but as I have lived with him ever since I was very small, I have got into the habit of calling him so.”

“When did your father die?”

“When I was about six years old. He only left a hundred dollars or so, which Jerry took charge of, and took me to live with him. We were living in the same tenement house, and that’s how it came about.”