“No, sir; perhaps I ought, as he has been my guardian so long, but you saw him yourself, sir – a poor, shabby, dirty old man! How can I feel attached to him?”
“I confess it must be hard.”
“You don’t think me much to blame, do you?”
“I don’t think you to blame at all. Affection must be natural, and there seems to be no ground for it in this case. But isn’t that the ferry?”
“Yes, sir.”
They crossed the street and entered the ticket office of the Cortlandt Street Ferry. Paul set down the valise, while Mr. Meacham secured a ticket.
“Now, Number 91,” said the old man, “how much do I owe you?”
Paul stated the sum, and Mr. Meacham put it in his hand.
“Thank you, sir,” said Paul, touching his cap.
“Stop a minute; here is something for yourself,” said his companion, taking out a silver dollar from his purse.
Paul regarded the old man with undisguised amazement.
“Are you surprised to get so much?” asked the old man with a smile.
“Yes, sir; I – ” and he hesitated.
“You thought me a poor man, perhaps a mean man?”
“No, sir, not that; but I thought you not rich.”
“Don’t always judge by the clothes a man wears, Number 91. I own a large farm, and fifty thousand dollars in railroad stocks. That is rich for the country.”
“I don’t often get so much as this, sir.”
“I suppose not. But I have got a good deal of information out of you. I have heard much that surprised me, that I couldn’t have learned in any other way. So you are welcome to the dollar, and I think I have got my money’s worth.”
“I am very much obliged to you, sir.”
“That’s all right. Now, Number 91 – by the way, what is your real name?”
“Paul Parton, sir.”
“Then, Paul, if you ever come my way, I should like to have you spend a week or a month on my farm, as a visitor. I live in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, about a couple of miles from the city, and I’ll promise to give you enough to eat at less than you have to pay at the Jim Fisk restaurant.”
Paul thanked him with a smile, and turned to leave the ferry.
In the waiting room was a tall, bearded man, who looked something like a miner, as indeed he was, just returned from a long sojourn in California.
“Excuse me, boy,” he said, advancing towards our hero. “Do you mind telling me your name?”
“My name is Paul Parton,” answered the telegraph boy, with a glance of surprise.
“Were you ever in California?”
“Not that I know of, sir.”
“It’s strange!” said the miner, reflectively.
“What is strange, sir?”
“You are the living image of a man I used to know a dozen or fourteen years since in California. Were you born in New York?”
“I think so, sir – I don’t know.”
“Is your father living?”
“No, sir; I live with an old man who is not related to me.”
“Was your father ever in California?”
“He may have been, sir; but I was so young when he died that I don’t know much about his history.”
“What is that number on your cap?”
“I am Number 91, and work for the District Telegraph Company.”
“Number 91? Well, my boy, I hope you’ll excuse the liberty I took in addressing you. The California miners are rather unceremonious. I suppose you think it strange?”
“No, sir, not at all,” returned Paul, politely. “I am glad to have made your acquaintance.”
As he left the ferry, and lost sight of his questioner, he regretted that he had not at least inquired his name.
“He may have known my father,” thought Paul, “and I should be glad to meet some of his friends. I don’t think old Jerry knows much about him. I am getting tired of living with the old man, and should like to meet some relative or friend of whom I need not be ashamed.”
CHAPTER III
OLD JERRY THE MISER
At six o’clock every other day Paul was let off from the office, other days he stayed much later.
On this particular day he was dismissed at six, and bent his steps homeward. He paused in front of a tall, shabby brick tenement house, unsightly in its surroundings, and abounding inside in unsavory smells, and took his way up the creaking staircase to a room on the fourth floor. He opened the door and entered.
The room was bare and cheerless in the extreme. The floor was uncarpeted, and if it had ever been painted it retained no vestiges of it. Two chairs, one broken, a small table which would have been dear at fifty cents, a low bedstead in one corner with a dirty covering – there were no sheets – and a small cot bed which Paul occupied – these were about all that could claim the name of furniture. There was, however, a wooden chest, originally a sailor’s, probably, which the telegraph boy used to hold the few extra clothes he possessed.
Old Jerry was sitting on one side of the bedstead.
“Good evening, grandfather,” said Paul, cheerfully.
“It isn’t a good ev’ning,” answered the old man, querulously. “I – I haven’t made a cent today.”
“I thought you got ten cents by begging,” said Paul.
“I – I forgot that. I might have got more if you hadn’t interfered. You are very hard on your poor old grandfather, Paul.”
“I can’t bear to have you beg,” said Paul, his brows contracting. “I don’t want to have it said that I live with a beggar.”
“It isn’t my fault that I am very poor, Paul.”
“Are you so very poor?” asked Paul, pointedly.
“I – of course I am. What do you mean, Paul?” asked the old man, his manner indicating alarm. “Don’t you know I am very poor?”
“I know you say so.”
“Of course I am. Did any one ever tell you I wasn’t?”
“This room looks like it at any rate,” answered Paul, looking about with ill concealed disgust.
He didn’t choose to say anything of the discovery he had made, through his friend Johnny Woods, of old Jerry’s deposit in the Bowery Savings Bank.
“Yes, yes, and it is more than I can afford. Four dollars a month is an awful price. I have often thought I must find a cheaper room.”
“You couldn’t easily find a poorer one,” said Paul, moodily. “Well, grandfather, have you had your supper?”
“Yes, I have eaten a piece of bread.”
“That isn’t enough for you, grandfather. If you will come out with me I will get you some supper at the Jim Fisk restaurant.”
“No, no, Paul; I can’t afford it. It is sinful extravagance.”
“I can get you a cup of tea and some corn beef hash for eight cents. That isn’t much. Don’t you think you would enjoy a cup of tea?”
“Yes, Paul, it would do me good, if I could afford it.”
“But I will pay for it.”
“Oh, Paul, you will die in the poorhouse