Adventures of a Telegraph Boy or 'Number 91'

Should he go at once to call on his father? By the City Hall clock it lacked a quarter of ten. There was no hurry, for he had his address, and could find him any time. He wanted to make another call first, and decided to do so. What this call was, is not essential to my story. It is sufficient to say that it occupied him two hours, and that it was a little past twelve when he reached the new residence of his father in Ludlow Street.

There was a woman standing at the door.

“Is there an old man and a telegraph boy living here?” asked Barclay.

“Yes,” answered the woman. “Head of the stairs on the third floor.”

“Thank you, ma’am. I’m much obliged.”

James Barclay ascended the stairs, smiling to himself all the way.

CHAPTER XIX

OLD JERRY RECEIVES A VISIT

Though old Jerry was more sensible than some misers in resisting the temptation of keeping all his money at home, where he might feast his eyes in the contemplation of it, he had a little hoard of gold pieces which he secreted in his room, and which from time to time he took out and counted with gloating eyes.

This very day he had taken them from their place of concealment, and, spreading them on the bed, was counting them over with trembling fingers when his son quietly opened the door, and entered the room.

The old man looked around, pale and alarmed, and clutched at the gold in the hope of hiding it before the intruder, whoever it might be, could catch a glimpse of it. But he was nervous, and had only thrust a part of the gold hurriedly into his pocket when James entered.

Over the old man’s face there crept an expression of dire dismay. There was no one in the world whom he less wished to see than his son.

The latter’s keen glance detected his father’s employment, and did not fail to observe the half dozen gold pieces still remaining on the bed spread, though old Jerry, as quickly as possible, gathered them up, and thrust them into his pocket.

“Good morning, dad!” said James, in a jocular tone. “I am afraid you are not glad to see me.”

Old Jerry stared at him in mute consternation.

“Considering that I am your only son, you might give me a better welcome,” said James, carefully closing the door, and sinking into a chair.

“Go away, go away!” said the old man, hoarsely. “You – you are a bold, bad man, and I don’t want to see you.”

“Come, dad, that is unkind!” said James Barclay, in a bantering tone. “You mustn’t forget that I am your son.”

“I wish I could forget it,” muttered the old man.

“I am not so bad as you think I am, father. Seeing that we are all that is left of the family, it’s only right that we should live friendly. I’m glad to see you are not so poor as you pretend.”

“You – you are mistaken, James,” whined old Jerry. “I am very poor.”

“That don’t go down, dad. What were you doing when I came in?”

Old Jerry looked confused.

“How many gold pieces have you got there? Let me count them.”

“Three – or four,” stammered Jerry, unable to deny the statement entirely.

“Three or four!” repeated James, mockingly. “Thirty or forty, more likely.”

“You – you are quite wrong, James,” said Jerry, in nervous alarm. “It’s – it’s all I have in the world.”

“Perhaps it is, and perhaps it isn’t. When I was here before, you pretended you didn’t have any money at all. What are you going to do with it?”

“I am keeping it to – to bury me,” answered Jerry.

“Then you’d better give it to me. You can’t bury yourself, you know. I’ll see you buried all right when the time comes.”

“I couldn’t do it, James. I must keep it as long as I live. When I die – ”

“It comes to me, I suppose.”

“Ye – es.”

“Then I might as well have it now, don’t you think so, dad?”

“Go away! I don’t feel well. I want to be left alone,” stammered Jerry, with a terrified look at the stout, broad shouldered visitor, whom he could hardly believe to be his son, so great was the difference between the burly strength of the one, and the shrinking weakness of the other.

“Look here, dad, you ain’t treating me well. You don’t seem to consider that I am your only son. Are you saving up your money for that young telegraph brat that lives with you?”

“Paul is a good boy,” mumbled Jerry. “He doesn’t scare and trouble me like you, James.”

“That isn’t answering my question. Are you going to leave him all your money?”

“I – I have very little – to leave, James,” returned the old man, lapsing into his usual whine. “There won’t be anything left when my funeral expenses are paid.”

“What there is will go to me, will it?”

“I – I suppose so,” faltered Jerry.

“Then I think you’d better make your will and say so. Otherwise that boy will claim all.”

“Paul is a good boy. I – I should starve but for what he brings me every week.”

“You look half starved as it is. Come, are you willing to make your will in my favor?”

“I – I’ll think of it, James.”

“And give it to me to keep.”

“It – it won’t do you any good, I – I am so poor.”

“I’ll take the chance of that. You’ve got more money in your pocket than would bury you five times over.”

“No – no,” protested the old man in alarm. “You – you frighten me, James. I don’t feel well. Won’t you go away?”

“There is no need to be scared, dad. I don’t want your money.”