Adventures of a Telegraph Boy or 'Number 91'

Paul looked curious, but didn’t ask what that business was. He concluded that Barclay would tell him if he felt disposed.

“I’m a confidential agent,” continued Barclay, “and it’s likely to pay me well. Where has my father moved to?”

Paul hesitated.

“I see you don’t want to tell me. My father moved to get out of my way, I expect.”

“Yes, he did.”

“I don’t know as I blame him much, being the kind of man he is. I’m his son, but money is his god. I asked for money, and he didn’t want to give it to me.”

“That’s what he said.”

“Well, I was in need of money then. Now I’m not. Do you see that?”

He drew from his vest pocket the roll of counterfeit notes which had been intrusted to him, and showed it to Paul.

“That doesn’t look as if I was in want of money, does it?”

“No, it doesn’t,” Paul admitted. In truth he was surprised at this unexpected wealth on the part of his companion, and it occurred to him to wonder whether he had engaged in another burglary in which he had been more successful.

“No, I didn’t get it in the way you think,” he said, answering Paul’s suspicious thought. “I got it in the way of business. Now will you tell me where my father lives?”

“I can’t without his permission.”

“Then tell him that I don’t want any money from him. I am able to pay my own way now.”

“He says he is poor.”

“Do you believe him, 91?” asked Barclay.

“I think he must have some money,” answered Paul, cautiously.

“So do I, decidedly. But he can keep it. Tell him that. I only want to see him about some family matters. It ain’t strange if a son wants to have a chat with his father after twelve years, is it?”

“No, I should say not.”

“Tell the old man that I am willing to give him five dollars as a sign of good faith. If he will give me five, I’ll hand him ten.”

“I’ll tell him that,” said Paul, rather surprised, and asking himself whether James Barclay was in earnest.

“You couldn’t give me small bills for a ten, could you?” asked Barclay, meaning to push his business by Paul’s help.

“No, I couldn’t. I don’t carry any money about with me except a little silver.”

“Never mind; I’ll get it somewhere else. Will you let me know tomorrow what my father says?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll call at your office about ten o’clock.”

“I may be away, but if I am not you can see me.”

“How long have you been with my father?”

“Ever since I was five or six years old.”

“What made him take you? He isn’t so very charitable.”

“There was some money that went with me, I have heard.”

“I’ve no doubt of it. The old man is keen to look out for Number One. He prefers that to looking out for Number Ninety One.”

Paul laughed at the joke, though he didn’t think it very brilliant.

“Do you expect he will leave you his money?” questioned Barclay, with a sharp glance at Paul.

“No, I have no claims upon him.”

“That’s true, but you might take advantage of his being weak and old.”

“What do you take me for?” asked Paul indignantly.

Barclay laughed.

“I don’t take you for an angel, and a few thousands might be a temptation to you as well as the next man.”

“Do you think your father has as much money as that?”

“Why shouldn’t he? He has been always scrimping and saving and never spending.”

“Well, it’s nothing to me,” said Paul. “If you ask my opinion, I think he’ll never make a will, and whatever he has will go to his natural heir. I suppose that’s you.”

“Yes, it’s me. If I’m dead, I’ve got a wife and two children.”

They had reached Barclay Street, and the Astor House was close at hand.

“I must leave you now,” said Paul. “I go into the hotel.”

“Very well. Don’t forget to tell my father what I told you.”

“I will do so.”

That evening Paul, in redemption of his promise, said to the miser:

“I saw your son, today, Jerry.”

The old man’s face wore a startled expression.