Adventures of a Telegraph Boy or 'Number 91'. Horatio Alger Jr.

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      Adventures of a Telegraph Boy or 'Number 91'

      CHAPTER I

      PAUL, THE TELEGRAPH BOY

      On Broadway, not far from the St. Nicholas Hotel, is an office of the American District Telegraph. Let us enter.

      A part of the office is railed off, within which the superintendent has a desk, and receives orders for boys to be sent to different parts of the city. On benches in the back part of the office are sitting perhaps a dozen boys varying in age from fifteen to eighteen, clad in the well known blue uniform prescribed by the company. Each wears a cap on which may be read the initials of the company, with the boy’s number.

      At the end of the benches sat a stout, well made boy, apparently sixteen years of age. He had a warm, expressive face, and would generally be considered good looking.

      On his cap we read this inscription:

      Some of the boys were smaller, two or three larger than Number 91. But among them all, he was the most attractive in appearance. The boys sat on the benches in patience waiting for a call from the superintendent. They were usually selected in turn, but sometimes the fitness of a particular boy for the errand required was taken into consideration.

      “Number 87!” called the superintendent.

      A small boy of fifteen, but not looking over thirteen, left his seat and advanced to the desk.

      “No, I don’t think you’ll do,” said the superintendent “There’s a man at the New England Hotel who wants a boy to go down with him to the Cortlandt Street Ferry, and carry his valise. A larger boy will be required.”

      He glanced at the boys in waiting and called:

      “Number 91!”

      The boy of whom we have spoken rose with alacrity, and stepped up to the desk. He had been sitting on the bench for an hour, and was glad of an opportunity to go out on an errand.

      The superintendent wrote on a card the name “D. L. Meacham, New England Hotel,” and handed it to the boy.

      “Go at once to the New England Hotel, and call for that gentleman,” he said. “If he is not in, wait for him.”

      “Yes, sir.”

      Paul Parton, for this was his name, did not need any further directions. He was perfectly acquainted with the city, especially in the lower part, where he had lived for years. He crossed Broadway, and, taking an easterly course, made his way to the Bowery, on which, at the corner of Bayard Street, the New England Hotel stands. This is a very respectable inn, and by its fair accommodations and moderate prices attracts a large number of patrons.

      Entering, Paul advanced to the desk.

      “Is Mr. D. L. Meacham in?” he asked, referring to the card given him by the superintendent.

      “Here he is!” replied, not the clerk to whom the question was addressed, but a tall, elderly man with gray hair, clad in a rusty suit, evidently a gentleman from the rural districts.

      “Are you the telegraph boy?” he asked.

      “Yes, sir.”

      “I want to go down to the ferry to take the train to Philadelphia.”

      “All right, sir. Is this your valise?” asked Paul, pointing to a shabby traveling bag that might, from its appearance, have been used by Noah when he was on board the ark.

      “Yes, that’s mine.”

      “Do you want to start now, Mr. Meacham?”

      “Well, I might as well. I hain’t got nothing to keep me here. How fur is it?”

      “About a mile. Perhaps a little more.”

      Paul took the valise in his hand, and went out of the hotel, followed by the old man.

      “Do you know the way all round here, sonny?” he asked.

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Well, it beats me. I get turned round, and don’t know where I am. If it wasn’t for that, I could have gone to the ferry alone. But land’s sake! I might wander all round till tomorrow morning without finding it.”

      “Then I guess it’s better to have a boy with you,” said Paul, laughingly.

      “You look like a smart boy,” said the old man, attentively examining Number 91. “Do you like your business?”

      “Pretty well,” answered Paul.

      “Is the pay pretty good?”

      “I get four dollars a week.”

      “That’s more than I got when I was your age, sonny.”

      “It doesn’t go very far in the city, when you have your board and clothes to pay for,” replied the young telegraph messenger.

      “That’s so. I didn’t think of that. I was reared on a farm, where they didn’t make much account of the victuals you ate.”

      “We have to make account of it here, sir.”

      “So you don’t have much left out of your four dollars?”

      “No, sir; but I get rather more than four dollars. Sometimes the gentlemen I am working for give me a little extra for myself.”

      “How much does that come to – in a week?”

      “Well, sometimes I make a dollar or two extra. It depends a good deal on whether I fall in with liberal gentlemen or not. I don’t mean this as a hint, sir,” added Paul, smiling. “I am not entitled to anything extra, but, of course, when it is offered I take it.”

      Paul had a motive in saying this. He abhorred the idea of seeming to beg for a gratuity. Besides, judging from the appearance and rusty attire of the old man, he decided that he was poor, and could not afford to pay anything over the regular charges.

      “I see,” said the old farmer, as Paul supposed him to be, with a responsive smile. “You’re right there, sonny. If you’re offered a little extra money, it’s all right to take it.”

      By this time they had reached the City Hall Park, and were crossing it. Then, as now, the Park swarmed with bootblacks of all sizes, provided with the implements of their trade.

      Frequently, in the rivalry which results from active competition, the little fellows are pushed aside, and the bigger and stronger boys take possession of the customers they have secured. There was a case of this sort which fell under the attention of Paul and his elderly companion.

      A pale, delicate looking boy of twelve was signaled by a gentleman, a rod or two from the City Hall. He hastened eagerly to secure a job, but unhappily the signal had also been seen by a bigger boy, larger, if anything, than Paul, and he, too, ran to get in ahead of the smaller boy. Without ceremony, he put out his foot and tripped little Jack, and with a triumphant laugh sped on to the expectant customer. The little boy, who had been bruised by the fall, rose crying and disappointed.

      “That’s mean, Tom Rafferty,” he said. “The gentleman called me.”

      Tom only responded by another laugh. СКАЧАТЬ