Horatio Alger - Adventures of a Telegraph Boy or 'Number 91'

“No, Mrs. Cunningham. The burglar won’t feel like coming back.”

“What’s that?” asked Jennie, pointing to some article on the floor.

“It is the burglar’s jimmy,” said Paul, stooping to pick it up. “He left in such a hurry that he forgot to take it with him. I will carry it into my room, and take care of it.”

Paul bade the two visitors good night and threw himself once more on the bed. The remainder of the night passed quietly. The midnight visitor did not reappear.

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.”