The life of a telegraph boy is full of variety and excitement. He
never knows when he goes to the office in the morning on what errands
he may be sent, or what duties he may be called upon to discharge. He
may be sent to Brooklyn, or Jersey City, with a message--sometimes
even farther away. He may be detained to supply the place of an absent
office boy, or sent up town to go out and walk with a child. In the
evening he may be directed to accompany a lady to the theater as
escort. These are a few of the uses to which telegraph messenger boys
are put.
Of course Paul had had his share of varied commissions. But the day
after that on which our story opens, a new duty awaited him.
It was about five o’clock that the superintendent called “Number 91.”
“Yes, sir,” answered Paul, promptly.
“You are to go up to No. ----, West Fifty First Street, to spend the
night.”
Paul looked surprised.
“To spend the night?” he repeated.
“Yes, the head of the household has been called away for a day or two,
and there is no man in the house. Mrs. Cunningham is timid, and has
sent for a boy to protect the house against possible burglars.”
The superintendent smiled, and so did Paul.
“I guess I can do it,” he said.
“Very well, you will report at the house about seven o’clock.”
“Can I go home and tell grandfather? He might be alarmed if I didn’t
come home.”
“Yes; I will give you an extra half hour for supper.”
At seven o’clock Paul rang the bell of a handsome brown stone mansion
on West Fifty First Street.
The door was opened by a servant girl.
“I was sent for by Mrs. Cunningham,” said Paul.
“Yes, the missis is expecting you. Come right in!”
Paul observed, as he followed the girl upstairs into a sitting room on
the second floor, that the house was very handsomely furnished--and
came to the natural conclusion that the occupants were rich.
“Just take a seat, and I’ll tell the missis,” said the girl.
Paul sat down in a plush covered arm chair, and looked about him
admiringly. “I wonder how it must seem to live in such a house as
this,” he reflected. And then his thoughts went back to the miserable
tenement house in which he and his grandfather lived, and he felt more
disgusted with it than ever, after the sight of this splendor.
His reflections were interrupted by the entrance of a pleasant faced
lady.
“Are you the boy I sent for?” she asked, with a smile.
“Yes, ma’am,” answered Paul, respectfully, rising as he spoke.
“I suppose you know why I want you,” proceeded the lady.
“Yes, ma’am; I was told there were only ladies in the house, and you
wanted a man to sleep here.”
“I am afraid you can hardly be called a man,” said the lady with
another smile. “Still you are not a woman or girl, and I shall feel
safer for having you here. I am afraid I am a sad coward. What is your
name?”
“Paul--Paul Parton.”
“That is a nice name.”
“My husband has been called to Washington,” she added, after a pause,
“and will be absent possibly ten nights. Knowing my timidity, he
recommended my sending for a messenger boy. I may say, however, that
I have some reason for alarm. Two houses in this block have been
entered at night within a month. Besides, through a thieving servant,
who was probably a confederate of thieves, it has become known that
we keep some valuables in a safe in the library, and this may prove a
temptation.”
At this moment an extremely pretty girl of fourteen entered the room,
and looked inquiringly at Paul.
“Jennie,” said Mrs. Cunningham, “this is Paul Parton, who is to protect
and defend us tonight, if necessary.”
Jennie regarded Paul with a smile.
“Won’t you be afraid?” she asked.
“No, miss,” answered Paul, who was instantly impressed in favor of the
pretty girl whose acquaintance he was just making.
“I’m not easily frightened,” he answered.
“Then you’re different from mamma and me. We are regular
scarecrows--no, that isn’t the word. I mean we are regular cowards.
Still, with a brave and strong man in the house,” she added, with an
arch smile, “we shall feel safe.”
“I hope you will be,” said Paul
“It is still early,” said Mrs. Cunningham. “Have you had your supper,
Paul?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“We shall not retire before ten--Jennie, you can entertain this young
gentleman, if you like.”
“All right, mamma--if I can--that is, if he isn’t hard to entertain. Do
you play dominoes, Paul?”
“Yes, miss.”
“O, don’t call me miss--I don’t mind your calling me Jennie.”
The two sat down to a game of dominoes, and were soon on the
friendliest possible terms.
After a while, seeing a piano in the room, Paul asked the young lady if
she played.
“Yes; would you like to hear me?”
“If you please.”
After three or four pieces, she asked--“Don’t you sing?”
“Not much,” answered Paul, bashfully.
“Sing me something, won’t you?”
Paul blushed, and tried to excuse himself.
“I don’t sing any but common songs,” he said.
“That’s what I want to hear.”
After a while Paul mustered courage enough to sing “Baby Mine,” and
another song which he had heard at Harry Miner’s.
They were not classical, but the young lady seemed to enjoy them
immensely. They were quite unlike what she had been accustomed to hear,
and perhaps for that reason she enjoyed them the more.
“I think you sing splendidly,” she said.
Of course Paul blushed, and put in a modest disclaimer. Still he felt
pleased, and decided that Jennie Cunningham was the nicest girl he had
ever met.
“But what would she say,” he thought, “if she could see the miserable
place I live in?” and the perspiration gathered on his face at the mere
thought.
At ten o’clock Mrs. Cunningham suggested that it was time to go to bed.
“Paul, you will sleep in a little bedroom adjoining the library,” she
said.
“All right, ma’am.”
“Come with me and I will show you your bedroom.”
It was a pleasant room, though small, and seemed to Paul the height of
luxury.
“Shall I leave with you my husband’s revolver?” asked the lady.
“Yes, ma’am, I would like it.”
“Do you understand the use of revolvers?”
“Yes; I have practiced some with them in a shooting gallery.”
“I hope there will be no occasion to use it. I don’t think there will.
But it is best to be prepared.”
Paul threw himself on the bed in his uniform in order to be better
prepared to meet any midnight intruder.
“It won’t do to sleep too sound,” he thought, “or the house might be
robbed without my knowing it.”
He was soon fast asleep. It might have been because he had the matter
on his mind that about midnight he woke up. A faint light had been left
burning in the chandelier in the library. Was it imagination on Paul’s
part that he thought he heard a noise in the adjoining room? Instantly
he was on the alert.
“It may be a burglar!” he thought, with a thrill of excitement.
He got up softly, reached for the revolver, and with a stealthy step
advanced to the door that opened into the library.
What he saw was certainly startling.
A man, tall and broad shouldered, was on his knees before the safe,
preparing to open it.
“What are you doing there?” demanded the telegraph boy, firmly.
[Illustration: THE INTERRUPTED BURGLAR.--See page 27.]
The man sprang to his feet, and confronted Paul standing with a
revolver in his hand pointed in his direction.
“O, it’s a kid!” he said, contemptuously.
“What are you doing there?” repeated Paul.
“None of yer business! Go back to bed!”
“Leave this house or I fire!”
The man thought of springing upon the boy, but there was something in
his firm tone that made him think it best to parley. A revolver, even
in a boy’s hand, might prove formidable.
“Go to bed, or I’ll kill you!” said the burglar, with an ugly frown.
“I will give you two minutes to leave this room and the house!” said
Paul. “If you are here at the end of that time I fire!”
There was an expression of baffled rage on the face of the low browed
ruffian as he stood bending forward, as if ready to spring upon the
undaunted boy.