Transcriber’s Notes:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
Additional Transcriber’s Notes are at the end.
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Adventures of a Telegraph Boy
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[Illustration: “FORTY DOLLARS!” EXCLAIMED OLD JERRY. “I’M IN LUCK FOR
ONCE.”]
Adventures of a Telegraph Boy OR “Number 91”
By Horatio Alger, Jr.
Author of “Tom Tracy,” “Ned Newton,” “Walter Griffith,” etc.
[Illustration]
New York and Boston
H. M. Caldwell Company
Publishers
* * * * *
_Copyright, 1889_
BY FRANK H. LOVELL & CO.
_Copyright, 1900_
BY STREET & SMITH
Adventures of a Telegraph Boy
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ADVENTURES OF A NEW YORK TELEGRAPH BOY.
CHAPTER I. PAUL, THE TELEGRAPH BOY.
On Broadway, not far from the St. Nicholas Hotel, is an office of the
American District Telegraph. Let us enter.
A part of the office is railed off, within which the superintendent has
a desk, and receives orders for boys to be sent to different parts of
the city. On benches in the back part of the office are sitting perhaps
a dozen boys varying in age from fifteen to eighteen, clad in the well
known blue uniform prescribed by the company. Each wears a cap on which
may be read the initials of the company, with the boy’s number.
At the end of the benches sat a stout, well made boy, apparently
sixteen years of age. He had a warm, expressive face, and would
generally be considered good looking.
On his cap we read this inscription:
A. D. T.
91.
Some of the boys were smaller, two or three larger than Number 91. But
among them all, he was the most attractive in appearance. The boys sat
on the benches in patience waiting for a call from the superintendent.
They were usually selected in turn, but sometimes the fitness of a
particular boy for the errand required was taken into consideration.
“Number 87!” called the superintendent.
A small boy of fifteen, but not looking over thirteen, left his seat
and advanced to the desk.
“No, I don’t think you’ll do,” said the superintendent “There’s a man
at the New England Hotel who wants a boy to go down with him to the
Cortlandt Street Ferry, and carry his valise. A larger boy will be
required.”
He glanced at the boys in waiting and called:
“Number 91!”
The boy of whom we have spoken rose with alacrity, and stepped up to
the desk. He had been sitting on the bench for an hour, and was glad of
an opportunity to go out on an errand.
The superintendent wrote on a card the name “D. L. Meacham, New England
Hotel,” and handed it to the boy.
“Go at once to the New England Hotel, and call for that gentleman,” he
said. “If he is not in, wait for him.”
“Yes, sir.”
Paul Parton, for this was his name, did not need any further
directions. He was perfectly acquainted with the city, especially in
the lower part, where he had lived for years. He crossed Broadway, and,
taking an easterly course, made his way to the Bowery, on which, at the
corner of Bayard Street, the New England Hotel stands. This is a very
respectable inn, and by its fair accommodations and moderate prices
attracts a large number of patrons.
Entering, Paul advanced to the desk.
“Is Mr. D. L. Meacham in?” he asked, referring to the card given him by
the superintendent.
“Here he is!” replied, not the clerk to whom the question was
addressed, but a tall, elderly man with gray hair, clad in a rusty
suit, evidently a gentleman from the rural districts.
“Are you the telegraph boy?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“I want to go down to the ferry to take the train to Philadelphia.”
“All right, sir. Is this your valise?” asked Paul, pointing to a shabby
traveling bag that might, from its appearance, have been used by Noah
when he was on board the ark.
“Yes, that’s mine.”
“Do you want to start now, Mr. Meacham?”
“Well, I might as well. I hain’t got nothing to keep me here. How fur
is it?”
“About a mile. Perhaps a little more.”
Paul took the valise in his hand, and went out of the hotel, followed
by the old man.
“Do you know the way all round here, sonny?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, it beats me. I get turned round, and don’t know where I am. If
it wasn’t for that, I could have gone to the ferry alone. But land’s
sake! I might wander all round till tomorrow morning without finding
it.”
“Then I guess it’s better to have a boy with you,” said Paul,
laughingly.
“You look like a smart boy,” said the old man, attentively examining
Number 91. “Do you like your business?”
“Pretty well,” answered Paul.
“Is the pay pretty good?”
“I get four dollars a week.”
“That’s more than I got when I was your age, sonny.”
“It doesn’t go very far in the city, when you have your board and
clothes to pay for,” replied the young telegraph messenger.
“That’s so. I didn’t think of that. I was reared on a farm, where they
didn’t make much account of the victuals you ate.”
“We have to make account of it here, sir.”
“So you don’t have much left out of your four dollars?”
“No, sir; but I get rather more than four dollars. Sometimes the
gentlemen I am working for give me a little extra for myself.”
“How much does that come to--in a week?”
“Well, sometimes I make a dollar or two extra. It depends a good deal
on whether I fall in with liberal gentlemen or not. I don’t mean this
as a hint, sir,” added Paul, smiling. “I am not entitled to anything
extra, but, of course, when it is offered I take it.”
Paul had a motive in saying this. He abhorred the idea of seeming to
beg for a gratuity. Besides, judging from the appearance and rusty
attire of the old man, he decided that he was poor, and could not
afford to pay anything over the regular charges.
“I see,” said the old farmer, as Paul supposed him to be, with a
responsive smile. “You’re right there, sonny. If you’re offered a
little extra money, it’s all right to take it.”
By this time they had reached the City Hall Park, and were crossing it.
Then, as now, the Park swarmed with bootblacks of all sizes, provided
with the implements of their trade.
Frequently, in the rivalry which results from active competition, the
little fellows are pushed aside, and the bigger and stronger boys take
possession of the customers they have secured. There was a case of this
sort which fell under the attention of Paul and his elderly companion.
A pale, delicate looking boy of twelve was signaled by a gentleman, a
rod or two from the City Hall. He hastened eagerly to secure a job, but
unhappily the signal had also been seen by a bigger boy, larger, if
anything, than Paul, and he, too, ran to get in ahead of the smaller
boy. Without ceremony, he put out his foot and tripped little Jack, and
with a triumphant laugh sped on to the expectant customer. The little
boy, who had been bruised by the fall, rose crying and disappointed.
“That’s mean, Tom Rafferty,” he said. “The gentleman called me.”
Tom only responded by another laugh. With him, might made right, and
the dominating law was the will of the stronger.
“Oh, you’ll get another soon,” he said.
He got down on his knees, and placed his box in position. But all was
not to be as smooth sailing as he expected. Paul, with a blaze of
honest indignation, had seen the outrage. He was not surprised, for he
knew both boys.
“Never mind, Jack,” he said. “I’ll fix it all right.
“Please mind the valise a minute, sir,” he added, and rather to the
surprise of Mr. Meacham, he left him standing in the park, while he
darted forward, seized Tom Rafferty by the collar, pulled him over
backwards, and called, “Now, Jack!”
The little boy, emboldened by this unexpected help, ran up, and took
Tom’s place at the foot of the customer.
“I’m the boy you called, sir,” he said.
“That’s true, my boy. Go ahead! Only be quick!” said the gentleman.
Tom Rafferty was furious.
“Don’t you know any better, you overgrown bully, than to get away
little boys’ jobs?” asked Paul, indignantly.
“I’ll mash yer!” roared Tom.
“You mean if you can,” said the undaunted Paul.
“You think you’re a gentleman, just because you’re a telegraph boy. I
could be a telegraph boy myself if I wanted ter.”
“Go ahead--I have no objection.”
“I’ll give that little kid the worst lickin’ he ever had, soon as he
gets through, see ef I don’t.”
“Do it if you dare!” said Paul, his eyes flashing. “If you do, I’ll
thrash you.”
“You dassn’t.”
“Remember what I say, Tom Rafferty. Now, Mr. Meacham, we’ll go on. I
hope you’ll excuse me for keeping you waiting.”
“Yes, I will, sonny. It did me good to see you pitching into that young
bully. I’d like to have done it myself.”
“I know both boys, sir. Little Jack is the son of a widow, who sews for
a living, and she can’t make enough to support the family, and he has
to go out and earn what he can by shines. He is small and weak, and the
big boys impose upon him.”
“I’m glad he has some friends; Number 91, you’re a brave boy.”
“I don’t know about that, sir. But I can’t stand still and see a little
kid like that imposed upon by a big brute like Tom Rafferty.”
They crossed Broadway, and presently neared Cortlandt Street. Just at
the corner stood an old man, with bent form and white hair, dressed
with extreme shabbiness. His hand was extended, and he was silently
asking for alms.
Paul’s cheek flushed, and an expression of mortification swept over his
face.
“Grandfather!” he said, reproachfully. “Please go home! Don’t beg in
the streets. You make me ashamed!”