“Get out yourself!” retorted Mrs. Hogan, as with undaunted mien she
faced the ruffian. “What are you doin’ to old Jerry?”
“Mind your business, woman, and leave the room, if you don’t want to
get hurt!”
James Barclay still retained his grip upon the old man as he spoke.
He was as bold as his father was timid, and did not mean to be
frightened away by a woman.
“I’m no more a woman than yourself,” said Mrs. Hogan, angrily, who
preferred to be addressed as a lady.
“Well, you’re dressed like one, any way,” rejoined Barclay, with a
smile of amusement. “My father and I have a little business together,
and you’re not wanted.”
“Is he your son, Jerry?” asked Mrs. Hogan, not certain whether the
statement was true.
“Yes,” answered Jerry, feebly, “but he wants to rob me. Take him away,
Mrs. Hogan.”
“Ain’t you ashamed of yourself to trate your old father so manely?”
demanded Mrs. Hogan, indignantly.
“Give me the money, father, and I’ll go,” said Barclay, thinking it
politic to get away as soon as possible.
“Take him away!” said old Jerry, feebly.
“I’ll do it!” responded Mrs. Hogan. “I’ll tache him, the murtherin’
thafe!”
She suited the action to the word, and dashed the scalding hot water
into the face of James Barclay.
He uttered a hoarse cry of mingled rage and pain, and, leaving his
father, dashed after his bold assailant.
He was partially blinded, however, by the pain, and she easily escaped.
Scarcely knowing where he went, he ran against an athletic, broad
shouldered man, who was bringing up a basket of coal.
“O, that’s your game, is it?” said the newcomer, fancying the assault
intentional. “I don’t know who you are, but I’ll give ye all ye want.
No man can hit Dennis O’Brien widout gettin’ as good as he gives.”
In a trice the two men were grappling, and, losing their balance,
tumbled down the stairs, receiving some hard knocks on the way. The
result was that both were arrested by a passing policeman, and locked
up.
James Barclay, whose burns were severe, was sent to the hospital on the
Island, and it was thirty days before he was free to pursue his plans
again.
Old Jerry, picking himself up after his narrow escape, carefully
counted his gold pieces, and to his great relief found that none were
missing.
He breathed a sigh of relief when he learned that his son had been
arrested, and determined to deposit his gold in the savings bank, so as
to guard against future robbery.
It was about this time that Paul, called up town by some errand, was
crossing Madison Square, when he heard his name called.
Looking up he recognized, with no little pleasure the smiling face of
Jennie Cunningham.
She was accompanied by a boy of about Paul’s size, fashionably dressed,
and wearing an expression of high self appreciation on his rather
narrow face.
“How are you, Paul? It’s an age since I saw you,” said the young
heiress, cordially, offering her hand.
“I am glad to see you, Miss Jennie,” responded Paul.
“Why haven’t you been up to see us? I have been expecting you for a
long time.”
“I wasn’t sure I wouldn’t be intruding.”
“Then I’ll tell you once for all, you needn’t be a bit afraid. I want
to beat you at dominoes. You beat me last time, didn’t you?”
“I believe so,” said Paul.
“Then I want my revenge. When will you come?”
“Whenever I am invited,” said Paul, smiling.
“That reminds me--how stupid I was to forget it--that I am to have a
fancy dress party of young people next Wednesday evening. You’ll come,
won’t you?”
“I am afraid I have no clothes fit to wear at a party.”
“O, you are to come in costume. Come as a telegraph boy. That will be
the very thing. You’ll act the character naturally, you know, and no
one will know that you are a real telegraph boy.”
“I should like very much to come, if I can come in my uniform.”
“That’s just what I want. Mind, then, Wednesday evening, at eight
o’clock. What is the number of your office?”
“No. ---- Broadway.”
“I will send you a regular card of invitation. Then you will be treated
just like the rest.”
She was about to turn away when a thought struck her.
“O, I forgot to introduce you to my cousin, Mark Sterling. Mark, this
is Paul Parton, the boy who drove off the burglar when papa was gone to
Washington. You’ve heard me speak of him?”
“O, yes, I’ve heard of him,” said Mark, coldly. “He behaved in a very
creditable way--for a telegraph boy,” he continued, in a patronizing
tone.
“Or for any other boy!” rejoined Jennie, quickly. “Really, I look upon
Paul quite as a hero.”
“I am afraid I am not entitled to such high praise,” said Paul,
modestly.
“You must make allowances for my Cousin Jennie,” said Mark. “She is a
girl, and girls are all apt to gush.”
“This particular girl isn’t, Mark,” said his cousin, indignantly. “Have
you ever seen the burglar since, Paul?”
“Yes.”
“O, tell me where.”
“On Broadway.”
“Why didn’t you have him arrested?”
“There was no policeman at hand. Besides, I told him that night that if
he would go peaceably I would not molest him.”
“Such a promise doesn’t count,” said Mark, in a tone of authority. “You
should have called a policeman.”
“My promise always counts!” said Paul, firmly.
“Even if given to a burglar?” said Mark, with a sneer.
“Yes, even if given to a burglar.”
Mark took off his hat mockingly.
“Really, I wasn’t prepared to find such a lofty sense of honor--in a
telegraph boy!” he said, with a satirical smile.
“I am afraid you are not very well acquainted with telegraph boys,”
said Paul, good naturedly.
He quite understood that Mark meant to sneer at him, but being
confident of Jennie Cunningham’s favor, he felt quite indifferent to
the opinion of her cousin.
“No,” said Mark, significantly; “I have never had the honor of
associating much with that class of--persons.”
“Come, Mark, don’t make yourself so disagreeable,” said Jennie,
unceremoniously. “Remember that Paul is a particular friend of mine.”
“Thank you, Miss Jennie,” said Paul, gratefully.
“I was not aware of that,” said Mark, stiffly.
“I am afraid I must be going; my time is not my own,” said Paul. “Good
morning, Miss Jennie; good morning, Mr. Sterling.”
Jennie Cunningham responded cordially, but Mark affected not to hear
the telegraph boy’s farewell. He was not in the best of humor, having
a partiality for his pretty cousin, and being disposed to regard with
jealousy any kindness bestowed by her upon other boys. He was foolish
enough to venture upon a remonstrance, without reflecting that this was
the poorest possible way of recommending himself to the favor of his
companion.
“Jennie,” he commenced, “I am very much surprised at the notice you
take of that low telegraph boy.”
“Do you mean Paul Parton?”
“Yes, if that is the fellow’s name.”
“Then I wish you to understand that he is not a low boy.”
“What do you know of him? What do you know of his family?”
“Nothing, except that he has neither father nor mother living.”
“Probably they were low persons.”
“Why probably?”
“You know well enough that nice boys don’t become telegraph messengers.”
“Paul is a nice boy,” asserted Jennie, with spirit.
“You seem to be infatuated with him,” said Mark, shrugging his
shoulders.
“Because I treat him with common politeness?”
“Didn’t you invite him to your party next Wednesday?”
“Suppose I did?”
“Do you think it suitable to have a boy like that among your guests?”
“Yes, I do.”
“I don’t believe your mother will approve of it.”
“My mother invited Paul to spend the evening whenever he had time.”
This rather took Mark by surprise. He could not very well say anything
in condemnation of his aunt, though he chose to lecture his cousin.
“I hope you won’t expect me to take any notice of him,” he said, with
dignity.
“O, I don’t think he will insist upon it. I will take care that he
feels himself at home.”
Mark did not venture to say more, but walked beside his cousin in a
disgusted frame of mind. I am afraid he was really jealous of Paul,
whom, against his will, he was forced to admit to be a very good
looking boy.