Adventures of a Telegraph Boy or 'Number 91'

“Is that true, James?” said the old man, in a tone of relief. “I have so little it wouldn’t do you any good.”

“Didn’t that boy tell you I wanted to make you a present?”

“Yes, he said so.”

“Yet you hid away from me and wouldn’t let me know where you lived.”

“Did Paul tell you? How did you find me out, James?”

“No, he didn’t tell me, but I found out all the same. Never mind how! Only I warn you it won’t do you any good to hide from me in future. I have ways of finding you out. But let me convince you that I don’t need your money. Do you see that?”

As he spoke he drew out a roll of counterfeit bills and exhibited them to the astonished eyes of old Jerry.

The old man regarded him with new respect as the possessor of such unexpected wealth.

“Are – are they square?” he asked.

“Of course they are,” answered James. “I intended to give you a present if you hadn’t treated me so coolly – ”

“I meant no offense, James,” said the old man, eying the money with a look of greed.

“Well, if you apologize, it’s all right!” said James, with noble magnanimity. “You’ll find you haven’t judged me right. I can do more for you than that telegraph kid. But I want you to trust me, and treat me kind, do hear?”

“Yes,” answered Jerry, meekly.

“To show you that I’m in earnest, I’ll make you a fair offer. Give me two of those five dollar gold pieces, and I’ll give you these two ten dollar bills. If that isn’t a handsome offer, I don’t know what is.”

Jerry was dazzled by this offer. The fact that it was made by such a scapegrace as he knew his son to be should have put him on his guard, but cupidity blinded him.

“Do you mean it, James?” he asked, surveying the bills with avidity.

“Certainly I do. I make the present just to show you that I don’t bear no grudge, and want to live friendly.”

“Let me see the bills, James.”

“There, take them in your hand if you like.”

Old Jerry took the bills, and eyed them at first longingly, but as he marked their new appearance a suspicion entered his mind. If they were counterfeit his son’s unexpected liberal offer would be accounted for. James’s character, too, made it very probable that he would engage in circulating counterfeit bills.

“I – I would rather keep the gold, James,” he said, handing back the bills.

“Then you’re a fool!” said James Barclay roughly. “I see you don’t want to be friendly. I wanted to be on good terms with you, seein’ you’re my father, but now I don’t care. Give me that gold!”

“Go away!” said the old man, in renewed alarm.

James Barclay’s reply was to rise from his seat, and stride over to where his father was sitting on the bed. He seized the old man roughly by the shoulder, and made a motion to search the pocket containing the gold pieces.

“Give it up peaceably or I’ll hurt you!” he said.

Jerry uttered a shrill cry, and tried to make a feeble opposition, but he was like a child in the hands of the burly ruffian.

“Stop your whimpering!” said James, fiercely. “That gold I mean to have, and you’d best give it up.”

Jerry again uttered a cry, which was heard by Mrs. Hogan, an opposite neighbor, who, opening the door, saw, unnoticed by either, the uneven struggle between Jerry and his assailant.

Mrs. Hogan was a brave woman. She dashed back into her own room, and returned in an instant with a dipper of hot water. Armed with this she was prepared for hostilities.

“Let the old man alone, you thafe of the worruld!” she exclaimed, indignantly.

James Barclay turned, and, seeing that it was a woman, replied scornfully, “Get out of here, woman, or it’ll be the worse for you!”

CHAPTER XX

JAMES BARCLAY COMES TO GRIEF

“Get out yourself!” retorted Mrs. Hogan, as with undaunted mien she faced the ruffian. “What are you doin’ to old Jerry?”

“Mind your business, woman, and leave the room, if you don’t want to get hurt!”

James Barclay still retained his grip upon the old man as he spoke.

He was as bold as his father was timid, and did not mean to be frightened away by a woman.

“I’m no more a woman than yourself,” said Mrs. Hogan, angrily, who preferred to be addressed as a lady.

“Well, you’re dressed like one, any way,” rejoined Barclay, with a smile of amusement. “My father and I have a little business together, and you’re not wanted.”

“Is he your son, Jerry?” asked Mrs. Hogan, not certain whether the statement was true.

“Yes,” answered Jerry, feebly, “but he wants to rob me. Take him away, Mrs. Hogan.”

“Ain’t you ashamed of yourself to trate your old father so manely?” demanded Mrs. Hogan, indignantly.

“Give me the money, father, and I’ll go,” said Barclay, thinking it politic to get away as soon as possible.

“Take him away!” said old Jerry, feebly.

“I’ll do it!” responded Mrs. Hogan. “I’ll tache him, the murtherin’ thafe!”

She suited the action to the word, and dashed the scalding hot water into the face of James Barclay.

He uttered a hoarse cry of mingled rage and pain, and, leaving his father, dashed after his bold assailant.

He was partially blinded, however, by the pain, and she easily escaped.

Scarcely knowing where he went, he ran against an athletic, broad shouldered man, who was bringing up a basket of coal.

“O, that’s your game, is it?” said the newcomer, fancying the assault intentional. “I don’t know who you are, but I’ll give ye all ye want. No man can hit Dennis O’Brien widout gettin’ as good as he gives.”