Adventures of a Telegraph Boy or 'Number 91'

“No, indade. Paul is a telegraph bye, and has been for ’most two years. He’s a favorite with the company, I’m thinkin’, as he ought to be, for he always attinds to his duties, and is up early and late.”

“So he’s a telegraph boy!” said Barclay, musingly. “I should like to see him, especially as you speak so well of him. He has a number, hasn’t he? I notice the boys have a number on their caps.”

“Yes, sir. Paul is Number 91.”

“Number 91?” returned Barclay, briskly. “I think I can remember that. I’m much obliged to you, my good lady.”

“Shure, and you’re a very polite gintleman,” said Mrs. O’Connor, who was flattered at being called a lady.

“Why shouldn’t I be polite to a lady like you?” said Barclay. “Perhaps you can give me a little more information.”

“Shure, and I will if I can, sir.”

“At what office can I find this Paul – Number 91, as you call him? I should like to speak to him about my aged relative.”

“I can’t just recollect the number, sir, but the office where Paul goes is on Broadway, same side as the St. Nicholas Hotel, and not far away from it.”

“Thank you very much. You are really the most obliging lady I have met for a long time.”

“Shure, sir, you flatter me. You must have kissed the blarney stone, I’m a thinkin’!”

“No, ma’am, I haven’t; but I hope I know enough to be polite to a lady. You don’t seem like a stranger to me, for you are the image of a lady I used to know on the other side of the water, the Countess of Galway.”

Mrs. O’Connor smiled and simpered, for she had never before been compared to a countess.

“And can I do any more for you, sir?” she said.

“No, thank you. You have given me all the information I require. Good day!”

As Barclay walked away, Mrs. O’Connor followed him with her eyes.

“He isn’t dressed very nice,” she said to herself, “but in his manners he’s a perfect gintleman. I’d like to see that Countess of Galway, that I look so much like.”

CHAPTER XV

BARCLAY GETS INTO BUSINESS

“You’re getting on finely, old fellow,” said James Barclay to himself, as he left the tenement house, and steered toward Broadway. “I managed that old woman skillfully, and got all the information I want. I think, Jerry Barclay, you won’t long elude me. I shall have no trouble now in finding the telegraph boy, and then I shall soon be face to face with the old man.”

Arrived at Printing House Square, he struck across the City Hall Park, the other side of which is skirted by Broadway.

Sitting on one of the benches was a man rather showily dressed, with a red blotched face, and an indefinable expression that stamped him as one who lived by his wits, rather than by honest toil. As Barclay’s glance rested upon him, he uttered an exclamation of surprise.

“Bill Slocum, is that you?” he said.

“Jim Barclay, as I’m a sinner,” said the other, rising and extending a rough hand, on one of whose fingers sparkled a ring, set with what might have been a diamond, but was probably paste. “And how is the world using you, old pal?”

“Rough,” answered Barclay. “The old man’s gone back on me, and my own wife made a great fuss because I wanted to borrow a dollar. Sometimes I think I was better off in our old boarding place up the river.”

Bill Slocum was one of his fellow boarders up at Sing Sing.

“The world owes you a living, Barclay,” said his friend.

“So it does, but how’s a chap going to collect his claim? That’s what I’d like to know.”

“O, well, there’s ways if you only know how,” said Slocum, rather enigmatically.

“How are you makin’ it yourself?” asked Barclay, curiously.

“I get enough to eat and drink and wear. I ain’t in no anxiety about livin’.”

“How do you do it?”

“Just look at that!”

Bill Slocum drew from his pocket a roll of bills, and held it up for his companion to see. It was a thick roll, and amounted to a fair sum, even if the denominations were small.

“How’d you get all that?” asked Barclay.

“There’s more where they come from,” answered Slocum.

“Are there any for me?” asked Barclay, eagerly.

“Yes, if I introduce you.”

“You’ll do it, Slocum, won’t you?”

“Yes, if you want me to. But, first, a word in your ear.”

He rose from his seat, and withdrew to a place where he would not be heard.

“They’re flimsies,” he said, briefly.

“Oh!” ejaculated Barclay, looking a trifle disappointed.

He understood that they were not genuine bills, but counterfeit.

“Well, and what if they are?” said Slocum, reading his expression.

“There’s a risk about it.”

“Nothin’ venture, nothin’ have, as my old grandmother used to say. Just be foxy, and you won’t get caught. I’m making a good living off of it, myself.”

“What commission do you get for passing them?”

“Fifty cents on a dollar. That’s liberal, isn’t it?”

“Yes, that is liberal,” Barclay admitted. “Have you made anything today?”