Adventures of a Telegraph Boy or 'Number 91'. Horatio Alger Jr.
and disappeared from sight. Paul did not approach the window, lest his doing so should excite alarm in the rogue. When a sufficient time had elapsed he ran to the window, closed it, and once more breathed freely. The danger was passed, and he began now to feel the tension to which his nerves had been subjected.
“Has anything happened, Paul?” asked a voice. Turning, Paul saw Mrs. Cunningham at the door. She had thrown a wrapper over her, and, attracted by the sound of voices, had entered the library.
“Has any burglar been here?” she asked, nervously, observing Paul with the revolver in his hand.
“Yes,” answered the telegraph boy; “I have just bidden the gentleman good night.”
By this time Jennie, too, made her appearance. “What is it, mamma? What is it, Paul?” she asked. “Why are you standing there with the revolver in your hand?”
Paul told the story as briefly as the circumstances would admit.
“It was a mercy you were awake!” said Mrs. Cunningham. “Did you hear the noise of the man’s entrance?”
“I don’t know how I happened to wake up,” said Paul. “I generally sleep sound. But I opened my eyes, and immediately heard a noise in this room.”
“But did you have time to dress?” asked Jennie.
“I did not need to do so, for I threw myself on the bed with my clothes on.”
“And with your cap on?” inquired Jennie with an arch smile.
“No, but when I rose from the bed I put it on without thinking. I don’t know whether I ought to have let the burglar get off free, but I thought it the easiest way to avoid trouble.”
“You did right. I approve your conduct,” said Mrs. Cunningham. “You seem to have acted with remarkable courage and discretion.”
“I am very glad if you are pleased, madam,” said Paul, gratified at this cordial indorsement.
“Weren’t you awfully scared, Paul?” asked Jennie Cunningham.
“Well, I was a little scared, I admit,” answered Paul, with a smile, “but I didn’t think it wise to show it before the burglar.”
“My hand would have trembled so that I couldn’t hold the pistol,” declared the young lady.
“Of course; you are a girl, you know.”
“Don’t you think girls are brave, then?”
“They are not called upon to be brave in the same way.”
“A good answer,” said Mrs. Cunningham. “And now, Jennie, we had better go back to bed. Will you not be afraid to sleep here the rest of the night after this adventure?” she asked, turning to Paul.
“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.
CHAPTER VI
PAUL MAKES A STRANGE DISCOVERY
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