Adventures of a Telegraph Boy or 'Number 91'

“You saw – James?” he faltered.

“Yes.”

“Did he know you lived with me?”

“Yes, but I don’t know how he found out. Perhaps he asked at our former lodgings.”

“What – what did he say?”

“He asked where you had moved.”

“You didn’t tell him?” said Jerry, in alarm.

“No, I said I could not without your permission.”

“Good boy, Paul. Don’t tell him – ever. He – he would come here and ask for money. It would be very foolish, for I am wretchedly poor. Why didn’t you tell him that Paul?”

“I don’t think he would believe me if I did. But you are mistaken, he says, about his wanting money. He showed me a roll of bills, and said he had a good position.”

“He asked me for fifty dollars when he came to see me. He is a bold, bad man!”

“Now he says he is willing to give you money. He says if you will give him five dollars back he will give you a ten dollar bill.”

“Did he say that?” asked old Jerry, eagerly.

“He told me to tell you that.”

Old Jerry’s face wore a look of perplexity. He hated to give up a chance of five dollars, but at the same time he felt afraid of his son. He could not believe him to be in earnest, for such liberality was by no means characteristic of him.

“Did he – seem to be in earnest?” he asked Paul.

“Yes, he seemed to be, but you know him better than I do. He said he wanted to have a chat with you, as he had not seen you for so many years. What shall I say to him?”

Old Jerry didn’t immediately reply. Avarice and greed struggled in his mind with an instinctive fear of his son.

“I – I’ll think of it,” he answered. “I can’t tell just yet.”

“Shall I say that to him?”

“Yes – and – Paul – ”

“Well.”

“Don’t let him follow you home and find me out. He’ll try to do it. He is a – a bad man, as he was a bad boy.”

“I will do as you say, Jerry.”

Paul was not sorry to carry back this message, for he, too, mistrusted James Barclay, and felt that his desire to see his father covered some sinister design.

CHAPTER XVII

A QUEER COMPACT

James Barclay was very much in earnest in wishing to find his father’s new habitation, for he was convinced that the old man possessed a moderate fortune, and he felt that, sooner or later, it would come to him. If in any way he could persuade old Jerry to put it in his hands now, he would be handsomely provided for.

He was not to see Paul until the next morning. He secured lodgings at a low hotel on the Bowery, where twenty five cents per night was charged. The accommodation corresponded with the price, but Barclay, fresh from Sing Sing, was not inclined to be fastidious, and congratulated himself that again he was a free man.

He was not unmindful of his business, but was on the lookout for a chance to exchange his counterfeit bills for good ones.

He strolled into a drinking saloon, and called for a drink. By his side a man, from the country, apparently, was just paying for a glass of whisky, and in so doing displayed a wallet filled with bills. Barclay felt interested in him at once.

“My friend,” he said, “won’t you drink with me? I hate to drink alone.”

“You’re very polite, stranger, but I – hic – I guess I’m about full.”

“O, you can stand another glass, I am sure.”

“Well, I don’t mind,” hiccoughed the countryman. “You’re a – gen – gentleman.”

“So are you,” said Barclay, with a wink at the barkeeper. “What’ll you have?”

The countryman expressed a wish for whisky straight, and was served with a glass.

Then the two sat down, and engaged in conversation. It was evident from the thick utterance of the gentleman of the rural districts, that he was no longer master of himself.

“By the way,” said Barclay, carelessly, “will you do me a favor?”

“I can’t lend you any money,” answered the other, with a remnant of prudence. “I promised my wife I wouldn’t.”

“O, I don’t want a loan,” said Barclay. “Bless you, I’ve got money enough. But I see you’ve got a number of bills. Couldn’t you change a ten for me?”

The countryman saw no harm in this, and counted out ten dollars in small bills, for which he accepted a nice crisp ten dollar bill, which looked handsome, but, as we know, was not worth the paper it was printed upon.

“Won’t you take another drink in acknowledgment of the favor?” asked Barclay. “It has saved my going to the bank.”

The countryman was already so dizzy, that he had the good sense to refuse, after trying to balance himself on his feet without success.

“Then I’ll bid you good day,” said Barclay, who, for obvious reasons, desired now to terminate the acquaintance.

“Goo’ day,” said the other, in a husky voice.

“That was very well done!” soliloquized Barclay, as he counted the good money and put it by itself in an upper vest pocket. “The fellow’s so drunk that he’ll never know where he got the bad tenner. That’ll do for one day’s work.”

The next morning, a little before the time agreed upon with Paul, he was crossing the City Hall Park, when he unexpectedly met the telegraph boy.

“Good morning, Number 91,” he said. “I was just coming up to the office to look for you.”

“Then you are saved the trouble.”