The next morning Mrs. Cunningham insisted on Paul’s taking breakfast
with her before he returned to the telegraph office. Though it was a
new experience to Paul sitting down at a luxuriously furnished table,
in a refined family, he was possessed of a natural good breeding, which
enabled him to appear to advantage.
He was flattered by the cordial manner in which Mrs. Cunningham and
her daughter treated him, and he was tempted to ask himself whether he
was the same boy that had lived for years in a squalid tenement house,
under the guardianship of a ragged and miserly old man. Being gifted
with a “healthy appetite,” Paul did not fail to appreciate the dainty
rolls, tender meat, and delicious coffee with which he was served.
“I can’t get such a breakfast as this at the ‘Jim Fisk’ restaurant,”
thought Paul. “Still, that is a good deal better than I could get at
home.”
“I am not sure whether I shall need you tonight, Paul,” said Mrs.
Cunningham, as they rose from the breakfast table. “It is not certain
whether Mr. Cunningham will be at home or be detained over another
night at Washington.”
“I shall be glad to come if you need me,” said Paul.
“I think I will have you come up, at any rate, about seven o’clock,”
said the lady. “I will write a line to the superintendent to that
effect.”
“Very well, ma’am.”
When Paul presented himself at the office he was the bearer of a note
to the superintendent.
That official showed some surprise as he read it.
“So you drove away a burglar, Number 91?” he said.
“I believe I frightened him away,” answered Paul.
“Humph! Was he a little fellow?”
“No, a large man.”
“And he was afraid of you?” continued the superintendent, surprised.
“He was afraid of my revolver,” amended Paul.
The superintendent asked more questions, being apparently interested in
the matter.
“The lady wishes you to go up again tonight,” he said.
“Yes, sir, so she told me, but it is not certain that I shall have to
stay all night.”
“Of course you are to go.”
As the telegraph office would receive a good round sum for Paul’s
services, the superintendent was very willing to send him up.
At noon Paul went home.
The tenement house seemed still more miserable and squalid, as he
clambered up the rickety staircase. He mentally contrasted it with the
elegant mansion in which he had spent the night, and it disgusted him
still more with the wretched surroundings of the place he called home.
He was about to open the door of old Jerry’s room, when he was arrested
by the sound of voices. Jerry’s, high pitched and quavering, was
familiar enough to him, but there seemed something familiar, also, in
the voice of the other, and yet he could not identify it with any of
Jerry’s acquaintances.
There was a round hole in the door, the origin of which was uncertain,
and Paul, knowing that he was at liberty to enter, did not think it
wrong to reconnoiter through it before doing so.
To his intense surprise, the face of the visitor, visible to him
through the opening, was that of the burglar whom he had confronted the
night before.
“What can he have to do with Jerry?” Paul asked himself, in
bewilderment.
Just then the man spoke.
“The fact is, father, I am hard pressed, and must have some money.”
Paul’s amazement increased. Was this burglar the son of old Jerry? He
remembered now having heard Jerry refer to a son who had left him many
years ago, and who had never since been heard of.
“I have no money, James,” whined the old man. “I am poor--very poor.”
“I’ve heard that talk before,” said the son, contemptuously; “and I
know what it means.”
“But I am poor,” repeated old Jerry, eagerly. “I don’t get enough to
eat. All I can afford is bread and water.”
“How much money have you got in the bank?” asked James.
“Wh--what makes you ask that?” asked the old man, in an agitated voice.
“Ha! I have hit the nail on the head,” said the visitor with an
unpleasant laugh.
“You see how poor I am,” said the old man. “Does this poor room look as
if I had money?”
“No, it doesn’t, but I know you of old, father. I suppose you are the
same old miser you used to be. I shouldn’t wonder if you could raise
thousands of dollars if you chose.”
“Hear him talk!” ejaculated the old man, raising his feeble arm in
despairing protest. “I--I haven’t got any money except a few cents
that Paul brought me yesterday.”
“And who is Paul?” asked the son, quickly.
“He is a boy I took years ago when he was very small. I--I took him out
of charity.”
“Very likely. That’s so like you,” sneered the son. “I warrant you have
got more out of him than he cost you.”
This was true enough, as Paul could testify. He was only six when he
came under the old man’s care, but even at that tender age he was
sent out on the street to sell papers and matches, and old Jerry
tried to induce him to beg; but that was something the boy had always
steadfastly refused to do.
He had an independent, self respecting spirit, which made him ashamed
to beg. He was always willing to work, and to work hard, and he
generally had an opportunity to do so. This will relieve Paul from the
charge of ingratitude, for he had always paid his own way, and really
owed Jerry nothing.
“He--he has cost me a great deal,” whined Jerry, “but I knew his
father, and I could not turn him out into the streets.”
“And how old is this boy now?” asked the son.
“I--I think he is about sixteen.”
“He ought to be able to earn something. What does he do?”
“He is a telegraph boy.”
“Ha!” exclaimed the burglar with a scowl, for the word provoked
disagreeable memories of the previous night. “I hate telegraph boys.”
“Paul is a good boy--a pretty good boy, but he eats a sight.”
The son indulged in a short laugh.
“How does he like your boarding house?” he asked.
“He doesn’t eat here; he goes to a restaurant. He spends piles of
money!” groaned the old man.
“Telegraph boys are not generally supposed to revel in riches,” said
the son in a sarcastic tone. “It’s so much out of your pocket, eh?”
“Yes,” groaned the old man. “If he would give me all his wages I should
be very comfortable.”
“But he wouldn’t. From what I know of your table, father, I think he
would starve to death in a month. I haven’t forgotten how you starved
me when I was a kid.”
“You look strong and well now,” said old Jerry.
“Yes, but no thanks to you! But to business! How much money have you
got?”
“Very little, James. I have eleven cents that Paul gave me yesterday.”
“Bah! You are deceiving me. Where is your bank book?”
“I have none. What makes you ask such questions?” demanded the old man,
querulously. “I wish you would go away.”
“That is a pretty way to treat a son you haven’t seen for twelve years.
Do you know what I am?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll tell you; for years I have been a burglar.”
Old Jerry looked frightened.
“You’re not in earnest, James?”
“Yes, I am. I ain’t proud of the business, but you drove me to it.”
“No, no,” protested the old man.
“You made me work hard, and half starved me when I was a boy, you gave
me no chance of education, and all to swell your paltry hoards. If I
have gone to the bad, you are responsible. But let that drop. I’ve been
unfortunate, and I want money.”
“I told you I had none, James.”
“And I don’t believe you. Hark you! I will come back tomorrow,” he
said, with a threatening gesture. “In the meanwhile, get fifty dollars
from the bank, and have it ready for me. Do you hear?”
“You must be mad, James!” said old Jerry, regarding his son with a look
of fear.
“I shall be, unless you have the money. I will go now, but I shall be
back tomorrow.”
Paul ran downstairs hastily, as he heard the man’s heavy step
approaching the door. He didn’t care to be recognized by his unpleasant
acquaintance of the night previous.