No commission could have been more congenial to Tom Rafferty than to
track Paul and the miser. He had never liked Paul, whom he charged
with putting on airs, because he was better dressed than himself, but
his aversion had deepened to hatred since the telegraph boy’s forcible
interference in favor of little Jack. He saw a way now to annoy Paul,
for he was satisfied that James Barclay was no friend of Jerry or
Number 91.
He hovered round the telegraph office till Paul was dismissed, and
then, unobserved by him, sauntered along behind him. At Grand Street,
Paul crossed Broadway and proceeded eastward to where Ludlow Street
opens out of it, and proceeded in a southerly direction for about five
minutes. Had he turned back, he might have suspected Tom’s motive in
following him, but he was absorbed in his own thoughts, and never
looked behind him. At length he entered an open doorway and went
upstairs. Tom carefully noted the number, and then, with a look of
triumph, went back to his usual lounging place at the City Hall Park.
The next morning, at the hour fixed, James Barclay entered the park and
looked about for Tom. Tom, who was also on the lookout for him, put
himself in his way.
“Shine yer boots, boss?” he asked, with a grin.
“Oh, you’re the boy I saw yesterday,” said Barclay, recognizing him.
“Well, what luck have you had?”
“I follered him, and found out where he lives, boss.”
“Good!” said Barclay, brightening up. “Where is it?”
“Where’s the dollar you was to give me?” asked Tom, cautiously.
“Here it is!” said Barclay, producing a silver dollar.
“Give it here, boss.”
“First tell me where my--where the telegraph boy lives.”
“If I should, you might put it back in your pocket,” said Tom,
cunningly.
Barclay did not resent this imputation upon his good faith, for his
sense of honor was not very keen, and he would only have regarded such
a trick as smart. In this case, however, he was so anxious to learn
where his father lived that he had no idea of cheating his confidential
messenger.
“No, boy, I’m on the square,” he answered. “Here, take the money and
tell me the number.”
Tom took the dollar, chucked it in the air, catching it dexterously
as it came down, and then pocketed it with an air of satisfaction. He
was neither provident nor industrious, and it was rare that he found
himself in possession of so large a sum.
“No. 105 Ludlow Street,” he said. “That’s the number.”
“Are you sure of that? Did you see the old man?” demanded Barclay,
eagerly.
“No, I didn’t see him, but I knowed he was there, for he and Paul live
together,” answered Tom.
“That’s near Grand Street, isn’t it?”
“You’ve hit it boss. Shine yer boots?”
“Go ahead!”
While this operation was being performed, Tom, whose curiosity was
excited, began to question in his turn.
“You ain’t no relation to Paul, be you?” he asked.
“What business is it of yours?” demanded Barclay, frowning.
“Didn’t know yer wanted to keep it secret,” said Tom, abashed.
“Have you known the old man long?”
“I’ve knowed old Jerry ever since I was a small kid.”
“How does he make his living?”
“He begs in the streets, when he can get away from Paul. Number 91 is
so proud he won’t let him when he knows it.”
“I should think he would rather have the old man beg, so he wouldn’t
have to give him so much money.”
“So should I. I wouldn’t mind. Old Jerry could make enough begging to
support himself, easy.”
“Evidently you are a different chap from this telegraph boy,” observed
Barclay, not without sarcasm.
“I hope so,” said Tom Rafferty. “I don’t put on no airs.”
“And he does?”
“You’d better believe it. And after all he’s only a telegraph boy. I
could go on the telegraph myself, if I wanted to.”
“Why don’t you?”
“I’d rather have my liberty, and be my own boss. I guess I make as much
money, any way.”
“You could dress better, and be cleaner,” suggested Barclay, surveying
the ragged costume and soiled face and hands of the bootblack.
“What’s the use of being clean?” asked Tom, with calm philosophy. “You
don’t feel no better. Besides, you’re sure to get dirty again. It’s all
foolishness.”
“Right you are, my boy,” said Barclay, with a smile. “There isn’t much
of that foolishness about you.”
Here the boy struck the box smartly with his brush, as a sign that the
job was completed.
Barclay put down his foot and prepared to go.
“You haven’t paid, boss,” said the bootblack.
“I gave you a dollar.”
“That was for something else. You haven’t paid for the shine.”
“You ought to throw that in,” said Barclay.
“Don’t do business that way, boss.”
“Here’s your money, then,” said Barclay, throwing a nickel on the
ground at his feet. He had intended all the time to give it, but amused
himself by teasing the boy. “Supposing I should want you again, shall I
find you here?”
“Yes, boss; this is my office,” answered Tom, humorously. “If it’s more
convenient, you kin call at my house on Fifth Avenue.”
James Barclay left the park in a state of high satisfaction. It was
important to his schemes to find his father, and now there seemed to be
no further difficulty in the way. Then, too, he rather plumed himself
on his success as a detective. Old Jerry, prompted probably by Paul,
had removed his residence with the object of avoiding him and putting
him off the track. But it had all proved useless. Thanks, as he assured
himself, to his remarkable sharpness, he had foiled the old man and
found out what he had attempted to conceal.
“How glum he will look when he sees me coming into his room!” he
chuckled to himself. “It’ll be worth five dollars to see his scared
face. Serves him right, too, for tryin’ to deceive his own flesh and
blood.”
It was no little additional satisfaction that Paul, too, against whom
he had a grudge for his interference with his attempt at burglary,
would be disappointed and discomfited.
Should he go at once to call on his father? By the City Hall clock it
lacked a quarter of ten. There was no hurry, for he had his address,
and could find him any time. He wanted to make another call first, and
decided to do so. What this call was, is not essential to my story. It
is sufficient to say that it occupied him two hours, and that it was a
little past twelve when he reached the new residence of his father in
Ludlow Street.
There was a woman standing at the door.
“Is there an old man and a telegraph boy living here?” asked Barclay.
“Yes,” answered the woman. “Head of the stairs on the third floor.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I’m much obliged.”
James Barclay ascended the stairs, smiling to himself all the way.