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

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СКАЧАТЬ then, at the prices I paid at the New England Hotel, I shouldn’t think you could buy three meals a day.”

      “What do you take me for, Mr. Meacham – a Vanderbilt or an Astor?” asked Paul, smiling. “I might as well go to Delmonico’s or the Fifth Avenue Hotel as to the New England House.”

      “Where do you eat, then?”

      “Generally at the Jim Fisk restaurant on Chatham Street.”

      “Is that a cheap restaurant?”

      “I can get a good breakfast there for eight cents, and a good dinner for eleven.”

      Mr. Meacham looked surprised.

      “What on earth can you get for those prices?” he asked.

      “I can get a cup of coffee, eggs, fish balls, or mutton stew, with bread and butter, for eight cents,” said Paul. “The coffee costs three cents, the other five. Then, for dinner, all kinds of meat cost eight cents a plate, and bread and butter thrown in.”

      “That’s cheap enough certainly. Is it good?”

      “It’ll do,” said Paul, briefly. “Last Sunday I got roast turkey. That cost twelve cents.”

      “Great Scott!” ejaculated the farmer. “I never dreamed of how people live here in this great city.”

      “You see we can’t all of us eat at Delmonico’s.”

      “Did your grandfather ever eat at your restaurant?”

      “Once I invited him, and told him I would pay the bill. He ate a square meal, meat, coffee, and pie, costing sixteen cents. He seemed to relish it very much, but when we were going away he groaned over my extravagance, and predicted that I would die in the poorhouse. I’ve never succeeded in getting him there since.”

      “Well, well,” said the farmer, “of all the fools on the footstool, I believe the biggest is the man who deprives himself of vittles to save up money for somebody else to spend. I’m too selfish, for my part.”

      “There isn’t a day that grandfather doesn’t groan over my foolish extravagance,” continued Paul. “Sometimes it makes me laugh, but oftener it makes me ashamed.”

      “You don’t feel much attachment to him, then?”

      “No, sir; perhaps I ought, as he has been my guardian so long, but you saw him yourself, sir – a poor, shabby, dirty old man! How can I feel attached to him?”

      “I confess it must be hard.”

      “You don’t think me much to blame, do you?”

      “I don’t think you to blame at all. Affection must be natural, and there seems to be no ground for it in this case. But isn’t that the ferry?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      They crossed the street and entered the ticket office of the Cortlandt Street Ferry. Paul set down the valise, while Mr. Meacham secured a ticket.

      “Now, Number 91,” said the old man, “how much do I owe you?”

      Paul stated the sum, and Mr. Meacham put it in his hand.

      “Thank you, sir,” said Paul, touching his cap.

      “Stop a minute; here is something for yourself,” said his companion, taking out a silver dollar from his purse.

      Paul regarded the old man with undisguised amazement.

      “Are you surprised to get so much?” asked the old man with a smile.

      “Yes, sir; I – ” and he hesitated.

      “You thought me a poor man, perhaps a mean man?”

      “No, sir, not that; but I thought you not rich.”

      “Don’t always judge by the clothes a man wears, Number 91. I own a large farm, and fifty thousand dollars in railroad stocks. That is rich for the country.”

      “I don’t often get so much as this, sir.”

      “I suppose not. But I have got a good deal of information out of you. I have heard much that surprised me, that I couldn’t have learned in any other way. So you are welcome to the dollar, and I think I have got my money’s worth.”

      “I am very much obliged to you, sir.”

      “That’s all right. Now, Number 91 – by the way, what is your real name?”

      “Paul Parton, sir.”

      “Then, Paul, if you ever come my way, I should like to have you spend a week or a month on my farm, as a visitor. I live in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, about a couple of miles from the city, and I’ll promise to give you enough to eat at less than you have to pay at the Jim Fisk restaurant.”

      Paul thanked him with a smile, and turned to leave the ferry.

      In the waiting room was a tall, bearded man, who looked something like a miner, as indeed he was, just returned from a long sojourn in California.

      “Excuse me, boy,” he said, advancing towards our hero. “Do you mind telling me your name?”

      “My name is Paul Parton,” answered the telegraph boy, with a glance of surprise.

      “Were you ever in California?”

      “Not that I know of, sir.”

      “It’s strange!” said the miner, reflectively.

      “What is strange, sir?”

      “You are the living image of a man I used to know a dozen or fourteen years since in California. Were you born in New York?”

      “I think so, sir – I don’t know.”

      “Is your father living?”

      “No, sir; I live with an old man who is not related to me.”

      “Was your father ever in California?”

      “He may have been, sir; but I was so young when he died that I don’t know much about his history.”

      “What is that number on your cap?”

      “I am Number 91, and work for the District Telegraph Company.”

      “Number 91? Well, my boy, I hope you’ll excuse the liberty I took in addressing you. The California miners are rather unceremonious. I suppose you think it strange?”

      “No, sir, not at all,” returned Paul, politely. “I am glad to have made your acquaintance.”

      As he left the ferry, and lost sight of his questioner, he regretted that he had not at least inquired his name.

      “He may have known my father,” thought Paul, “and I should be glad to meet some of his friends. I don’t think old Jerry knows much about him. I am getting tired of living with the old man, and should like to meet some relative or friend of СКАЧАТЬ