Adventures of a Telegraph Boy or 'Number 91'

“Yes, he has a sweet voice.”

“That’s a matter of opinion.”

“I do believe you’re jealous of him, Mark. You don’t like it because Jennie didn’t ask you to take the part.”

This was really true, for Mark fancied himself a singer, though his voice was thin and shrill. Had he taken Paul’s part the effect would have been ludicrous, but, of course, he had no idea of this.

It so happened that he knew the three songs which had been sung, and he was very much annoyed to have been passed over in what was the pronounced success of the evening, and to see a mere telegraph boy selected instead of him.

“Jealous of a telegraph boy!” repeated Mark, with a scornful inflection. “I am not sunk quite so low as that.”

About eleven o’clock the party broke up. Being a juvenile party, it was not kept up as late as if it had been attended by older persons. Paul took his leave with the rest, feeling that he had enjoyed himself uncommonly well.

“I must thank you for a pleasant evening, Miss Jennie,” he said, as he said adieu to his youthful hostess.

“You did your part towards making it so, Paul.”

“Thank you for the opportunity.”

“Don’t forget to come soon to see us,” said Jennie, giving her hand to Paul.

Paul bowed his thanks, and left the house with three or four others in his company. Among them was Mark Sterling.

“Where do you live?” asked Mark, abruptly.

“Down town,” answered Paul, shortly. He felt reluctant to say that he lived in Ludlow Street, although he conjectured rightly that Mark would have no idea where it was situated.

“I thought, perhaps, you might live on Fifth Avenue.”

“Not at present; that may come later.”

Mark laughed disdainfully.

“When you give a party, I hope you will do us all the honor to send an invitation.”

“Would you accept?”

“Yes, I think I would.”

“I will bear it in mind. Now, let me bid you all good night.”

Mark was disappointed to find that not one of his companions would join in his sarcasms against the telegraph boy. All thought him very agreeable and very handsome, and Mark was at last obliged to give up his attack, and lapse into sullenness.

Paul walked to Sixth Avenue, though that was not the most direct route homewards, and in place of taking a car, walked slowly down the avenue. It was a pleasant night, and he felt broad awake, and by no means fatigued. It seemed to him pleasanter to walk part of the way at least. As he walked he fell into serious thought. He had left an elegant house, crowded with a gay and fashionable company, and he was going – where? To a miserable tenement house, in which he shared a poor and ill furnished room with a squalid and miserly old man, in appearance not above a tramp. Certainly the contrast was a startling one. As he dwelt upon it, Paul felt more and more disgusted with his home and surroundings.

“Why can’t I live in a refined house, among refined people?” he asked himself. “I feel much more at home with them than with old Jerry. Must I always live a beggar?”

Paul’s mental answer was an emphatic “No!” He was young and hopeful. The world was before him. He was poor, but other poor boys had raised themselves from poverty as great, and he felt that there was an equal chance for him.

His reflections were interrupted by the sight of a tall young man, not far in advance, whose unsteady gait showed that he was under the influence of liquor.

CHAPTER XXIII

THE PICKPOCKET

Such a sight as this is by no means uncommon in a large city, and of course Paul had witnessed it many times. But for one circumstance, he would have given the young man a passing glance, and gone on. But he observed that the young man was followed. The person following was also a young man, rather flashily attired, and, as Paul thought, of suspicious appearance. It seemed to him clear that he had designs upon the first young man, whose condition was likely to make him an easy prey to an unscrupulous acquaintance.

“Where have I seen that man before?” thought Paul.

He was puzzled for a moment, and then he remembered that he had strayed one day into a court room, and seen him as a prisoner at the bar, charged with picking a pocket.

“That’s what he’s after now,” thought Paul. “I will prevent him if I can.”

The telegraph boy moderated his pace, so as not to attract the attention of the man in the rear, but kept a close watch over him.

Finally the pickpocket came to a sudden resolution, and quickening his pace came up with the man he was following.

“Excuse me, my friend,” he said, smoothly, “but I see you are in need of assistance. Won’t you take my arm? I’ll take you home, if you wish.”

“You’re very good,” said the stranger. “I’ve been drinking more than is good for me, I’m afraid.”

“We all do that sometimes,” said his new acquaintance. “I’ve been there myself. Where are you staying?”

“At the Albemarle Hotel. Am I going the right way? I’ve got turned round, I think.”

“Yes, you are on the right track. I live close by your hotel myself, so I can go along with you just as well as not.”

“Thanks; you are really very kind.”

“O, don’t mention it.”

The other made no objection to the pickpocket passing his arm through his, and the two walked on together.

“He means to rob him,” thought Paul. “What can I do to prevent it?”

He didn’t quite like to make an accusation, though he remembered the thief’s face perfectly, till he had some ground for warning the intended victim. It might be that the pickpocket was merely taking the part of the good Samaritan, though it was by no means probable.

The two men became sociable, and Paul was near enough to hear fragments of the conversation. He gathered that the stranger was from St. Louis – that he was visiting New York on a business errand, representing a firm, of which his father was the head.

The pickpocket, who had been waiting only till he could gain the stranger’s confidence, now felt that it was time to be carrying out his plans. With dexterous fingers he managed to explore the pocket of his companion, and Paul caught sight, quick as he was, of his appropriation of his victim’s wallet.

“I shall have to leave you here,” said he, abruptly, having no further motive for continuing the companionship. “Good night!”

“Good night!” said the stranger. “Sorry to lose your company!”

Paul was excited, as he might well be, for he saw that on him alone depended the frustration of the thief’s plans.

“Stop thief!” he exclaimed, in a loud voice.