Kitobni o'qish: «Adventures of a Telegraph Boy or 'Number 91'», sahifa 4
CHAPTER X
PAUL LOSES HIS BANK BOOK
Old Jerry felt outraged at Paul’s withholding money from him for deposit in the savings bank.
“The – the thieving young rascal!” he muttered to himself, indignantly. “He is putting my money into the bank, and letting me starve at home, while he lives on the fat of the land, and lays up money. Me that have taken care of him ever since he was a little boy, and – and cared for him like a father.”
Jerry had a curious idea of the way fathers care for their children, judging from his words. When Paul was only six years old, he had been sent into the streets to sell matches and papers, and, being a bright, winning boy, had earned considerably more, even at that tender age, than many older boys.
At times Jerry had induced him to beg, but it was only for a short time. Paul had a natural pride and independence that made him shrink from asking alms, as soon as he was old enough to understand the humiliation of it. So there was never a time when he had not earned his own living, and more besides. But Jerry chose to forget this, and to charge Paul with ingratitude, when he discovered that he had a private fund of his own.
“I must get hold of that money,” thought Jerry. “I wonder how much Paul has got.”
There was no way of finding out, unless he got hold of the book, or inquired at the bank. He decided to do the latter. Accordingly he went over to the bank, and entering it walked up to the receiving teller.
“Was there a boy named Paul Parton here just now?” he asked.
“Yes; what of it?”
“Did he put some money into the bank?”
“Yes.”
“How much was it?”
“We don’t give information about our depositors,” said the teller. “Is he your grandson?”
“Yes; that is, he lives with me.”
“You are a depositor also, are you not? I seem to remember your face.”
“Yes.”
“What is your name?”
“Jeremiah Barclay.”
“I remember now. Why do you want to know about this boy?”
“He ought to have given me the money, instead of putting it into the bank.”
“We have nothing to do with that. He did not steal it from you, I presume.”
“No,” answered Jerry, reluctantly. It occurred to him for an instant to claim that Paul had robbed him, but he was rather afraid that the telegraph boy would in that case become angry and leave him, and the sum he had in bank would not pay him for that.
The miser did not suspect that Paul had over five dollars laid up, having no knowledge of the handsome gift he had received from Mrs. Cunningham. But even if it were only five dollars, it was sufficient to excite Jerry’s cupidity, and he decided that he must manage to get possession of it.
“Then you won’t tell me how much money Paul has in the bank?”
“It is against our rules.”
Jerry felt that he was dismissed, and stumbled out of the bank, forgetting, in his thoughts about Paul, the business of his own which had brought him there.
But there was other business for Jerry to attend to that morning. We are about to let the reader into a secret, which he had hitherto kept from Paul.
Not far away was a small tenement house which Jerry hired and sublet to tenants. Every month he called to collect his rents, and the difference between the rent he paid for the whole building, and the rents he collected from the tenants, gave him a handsome profit.
It was not rent day, but there were two of the tenants in arrears. One was a laborer, temporarily out of work, and the other was a poor widow who went out scrubbing, but was now taken down with rheumatism, and therefore not able to work.
The old man ascended with painful toil to the third floor, and called on the widow first.
She turned pale when she saw him enter, for she knew his errand, and how little chance there was of softening him.
“I hope you have got the rent for me this morning, Mrs. O’Connor,” said Jerry, harshly.
“And where would I get it, Mr. Barclay?” she asked. “It’s very little work I can do on account of the sharp pains I have.”
“That’s none of my business,” said Jerry, in a harsh tone. “You will have to go, then.”
“And would you put me on the street, me and my poor childer?” said the poor woman, with a troubled look. “I’m afraid it’s the hard heart you have, Mr. Barclay.”
“Don’t talk nonsense, Mrs. O’Connor,” said Jerry, sharply. “I can’t let you stay here for nothing. I – I’m very poor myself,” he added, with his customary whine.
“You poor!” repeated the widow, bitterly. “I’ve heard that you’re rolling in riches, Mr. Barclay.”
“Who – who says so?” asked Jerry, alarmed.
“Everybody says so.”
“Then you can tell ’em they’re very much mistaken.”
“What do you do with all the rent you get from this building, then?”
“I pay it away, that is, almost all of it. I don’t own the building. I – I hire it, and some months, on account of losses, I don’t make a cent,” asseverated Jerry. “I – I think I’m a little out take the year together.”
“Then why don’t you give it up if you don’t make any money out of it?”
“That – that is nothing to the purpose. Once more, Mrs. O’Connor, will you pay me my rent?”
“How can I when I have no money?”
“Then you must borrow it. I’ll give you till tomorrow, and not a day longer. Remember that, Mrs. O’Connor, will you not?”
Next Jerry visited the other tenant with rather better success, for he collected one dollar on account.
He waited eagerly for Paul to come home. He had made up his mind to explore Paul’s pockets after he was asleep and get possession of his bank book. With that, as he thought, he would go to the bank and draw the money that stood in Paul’s name. It would be a theft, but Jerry did not look at it in that light. He persuaded himself that he had a perfect right to take the property of the boy who was living under his guardianship, though, to speak properly, it was rather Paul that took care of him.
It was rather late in the evening when Paul got home, for every other evening he was employed. The old man was awake, but pretended to be asleep. Paul took off his coat and vest, and threw himself on the lounge, covering himself up with a quilt. His clothes he put on a chair alongside.
It was not long before he was sound asleep, being much fatigued with the labors of the day.
Old Jerry got up cautiously from the bed. He, too, was dressed, for he seldom took the trouble to undress, and cautiously drew near the lounge. He took up Paul’s coat, and threw his claw-like fingers into an inside pocket. His eyes sparkled with delight as he drew out the telegraph boy’s bank book.
“I’ve got it!” he muttered, gleefully. “Paul isn’t any match for the old man! I – I wonder how much money he has saved up!”
Paul slept on, unaware of the cunning old man’s treachery, and of the danger to which his little treasure was exposed.
CHAPTER XI
AT THE SAVINGS BANK
Old Jerry laid down Paul’s coat, and opened the bank book, of which he had just obtained possession. He was eager to ascertain how much Paul had saved up.
“Forty dollars!”
He could hardly believe his eyes.
How in the world could Paul have managed to save up forty dollars?
“Forty dollars!” exclaimed old Jerry, gleefully. “I’m in luck for once. Of course it belongs to me. I am Paul’s guardian, and have a right to his earnings. He shouldn’t have kept it from me. I – I will go to the bank and draw it all tomorrow. Then I will put it in in my own name. That will make it all right.” And old Jerry rubbed his hands joyfully.
After this theft, for it can be called by no other name, Jerry did not sleep much. He was too much excited by the unexpected magnitude of his discovery, and by his delight at adding so much to his own hoards. Then, again, he was afraid Paul might wake up, and, discovering his loss, demand from him the restitution of the book.
Generally Paul rose at six o’clock, as this enabled him to get his breakfast and get round to the telegraph company at seven. He generally waked about fifteen minutes before the hour, such was the force of habit.
This morning he woke at the usual time, but old Jerry had got up softly and left the room twenty minutes before.
Turning over, Paul glanced toward the bed in the corner, and was surprised to see no signs of the old man.
“Jerry gone out already!” he said to himself, in amazement “I wonder what’s come over him. I hope he isn’t sick.”
Paul didn’t however borrow any trouble, for he concluded that Jerry had got tired of his bed, and gone out for a morning walk.
He lay till seven, and then, throwing off the quilt, rose from the lounge. He was already partly dressed, and only needed to put on his coat. Then, with a cheerful smile, he felt for his bank book, which he had placed in the inside pocket of his coat.
It was not there!
He started, and turned pale.
“Where is my bank book?” he asked himself in alarm.
Then it flashed upon him.
“Old Jerry has taken it!” he said, sternly, “and has slunk off with it before I am up. That’s why he got up so early. But I’ll put a spoke in his wheel. I’ll go to the bank and give notice that my book has been stolen. He shan’t draw the money on it, if I can prevent it.”
But Paul was unable to carry out his intention of calling at the bank at the hour of opening, in order to give notice of his loss. On reporting for duty at the telegraph office, he was sent over to Jersey City, where he was detained until eleven o’clock. He felt uneasy, and thought of asking to have some other boy assigned to the duty, but it so happened that the superintendent was not in an amiable frame of mind, and he knew that his request would not be granted.
Meanwhile, about five minutes after the bank was opened, old Jerry shambled in, and, sitting down at a table, wrote out an order for forty dollars in favor of Book No. 251,610 signing it “Paul Parton.”
This he took to the desk of the cashier.
“Please give me the money on this,” he said.
The cashier eyed him sharply.
“Are you Paul Parton?” he demanded.
“N-no,” faltered the old man; “I am Paul’s guardian.”
“Did you put in this money for him?”
“N-no.”
“Did he write this order?”
Old Jerry would have had no scruples about asserting that it was written by Paul, but he knew that the statement would at once be recognized as false, as he had himself written it in the presence of the cashier.
“N-no,” he admitted, reluctantly; “but it makes no difference; Paul is busy, and can’t come. He’s a telegraph boy. H-he wanted me to draw it for him.”
It will be seen that old Jerry’s conscience was elastic, and that he had no scruple about lying.
“That won’t answer,” replied the cashier, eying the old man suspiciously. “It is not according to our rules.”
“I – I want to use the money – that is, Paul does,” remonstrated old Jerry, disappointed.
“That makes no difference.”
“I – I’ll get Paul to write an order,” said Jerry, as he left the bank.
“That old man stole the boy’s book,” thought the cashier. “Now he is going home to forge an order in the boy’s name.”
That is exactly what old Jerry meant to do. He thought it best however, to wait till afternoon.
Meanwhile, at twelve o’clock, Paul, then for the first time able to get away, hurried into the bank, breathless.
“I want to give notice that my bank book has been taken,” he said, panting.
“Your name, please?”
“Paul Parton.”
“Number of book?”
“No. 251,610.”
“Your book was presented two hours since by an old man, who handed in an order for all the money.”
The perspiration gathered on Paul’s brow.
“Did you give it to him?”
“No; it is not according to our rules to pay, except to the written order of the depositor.”
“I am glad of that,” said Paul. “Don’t pay it if he comes again.”
“We will not,” replied the cashier; and Paul left the building feeling greatly relieved.
Old Jerry ought to have known that there was very little chance of a forged order being honored, for the bank possessed Paul’s autograph signature on its books, making the fact of the forgery evident at once, but it sometimes happens that men sharp in some matters are very obtuse in others. This was the case with old Jerry in the present instance.
About two o’clock he entered the bank once more. Paul had not come home at the noon hour – he seldom did, being in the habit of dining at a restaurant, and the old man thought him still ignorant of the theft. He was anxious to draw the money before the telegraph boy learned that his book had been appropriated.
He had prepared an order, having taken one with him in blank, and made it out for forty dollars, signing it “Paul Parton.”
Armed with this, he walked up to the cashier’s window, and without a word presented it in the book.
The cashier recognized him instantly.
“Well,” he said, “what do you want?”
“The money,” answered the old man, his features working with cupidity.
“You were here this morning?”
“Y – yes.”
“I told you you could not draw out the money on your own order.”
“This is Paul’s order,” returned Jerry, with unblushing falsehood.
“Did he write it?”
“Y – yes.”
“I thought you said he was occupied by business.”
“He – he came home at noon, and wrote the order.”
“That is false!” said the cashier, sternly. “The boy has been here to report that his book has been stolen, and forbade us to pay out any money on it.”
The old man’s face was the picture of dismay.
“The – there’s some mistake,” he managed to mutter. “It must be some other boy. Paul asked me to draw the money. Besides, it isn’t his money at all. It – it rightfully belongs to me.”
“You can draw no money on the order which you have forged,” said the cashier, sternly.
“Then give me back the book,” said Jerry, beginning to get frightened.
“I shall retain the book for the rightful owner,” said the official. “And now let me advise you never to come here again on any such errand, or I shall feel it my duty to hand you over to the police.”
Without another word old Jerry shambled out of the bank, with a scared look on his face. This reference to the police startled him. It had not occurred to him that he was doing anything of which the law could take cognizance. His exultation of the morning had quite passed away. He had flattered himself that his hoard would increase by forty dollars. Now he had found himself foiled in the attempt to convert Paul’s savings to his own use.
About six o’clock Paul returned to the humble home. Old Jerry was resting on the bed in the corner. He looked up nervously as the telegraph boy entered, and saw at once by the expression on Paul’s face that he knew all.
“Jerry,” said Paul, “why did you take my bank book?”
“I – I’m so poor, Paul,” whined Jerry, “I – I needed the money.”
“So you turned thief,” returned the boy, indignantly.
“The money was mine by right – you shouldn’t have kept it from me.”
“I deny it!” said Paul, with emphasis. “Have you got the book with you?”
“N – no; they wouldn’t give it back to me,” complained Jerry.
“And they did right. If you ever play such a trick on me again, robbing me in my sleep, I’ll leave you. Suppose I should get hold of your bank book – ”
“I – I haven’t any money in the bank. I’m so poor!” ejaculated the miser, panic stricken.
“I have reason to believe you have the bank book in your pocket at this moment.”
“You – you wouldn’t rob me, Paul?” implored Jerry.
“How can I if you have no bank book? But you can rest easy. I am not in the habit of stealing.”
He went out to supper, leaving Jerry utterly discomposed. Not only had his plan failed, but his secret had been discovered.
CHAPTER XII
JAMES BARCLAY’S DISAPPOINTMENT
Though he is a very unworthy specimen of humanity, the reader may feel interested to know something more about James Barclay, whose acquaintance we made while he was attempting to commit a burglary.
It was mere accident that made him acquainted with the fact that his father was living in New York. To him it seemed a most fortunate discovery. Knowing old Jerry’s miserly habits, he had no doubt that the old man was worth some thousands of dollars, and upon this sum he felt that he had a right to draw. His father was timid, and he depended upon terrifying him into complying with his demands.
The first visit terminated as well as he expected. He didn’t suppose that Jerry kept much money in his room. Hence his arrangement to come back the next day.
As he left the poor tenement house he chuckled to himself, “I’ll scare the old man into giving me all the money I want. It will be like drawing a tooth, and I’ve no doubt he’ll make a great fuss, but there’s no escape for him. He can live on little or nothing and enjoy it. It won’t do him any real harm to let me have, say half of his miserly hoard. Egad, James Barclay, you’re in luck at last. I thought when that telegraph kid foiled me last night that nothing would go well with me, but things seem turning. If I ever meet that boy again I must give him a lesson. He’s a bold young rascal, though, and would be a credit to my line of business.”
It is doubted whether Paul would have considered this a compliment if he had heard it. His ambitions did not run in the direction of becoming a successful burglar.
It was a question with James Barclay where to spend the intervening time, as he was not to call on his father till the next day. He was about at the end of his resources, having less than a dollar in silver in his possession. He might have tried to hatch up some dishonest scheme for filling his pockets but for the chance discovery of his father. That afforded a chance quite as promising, and far less perilous, and he decided not to make any illegal ventures till he had made all he could out of old Jerry.
“I’d rather be honest,” he said to himself in a glow of virtuous feeling; “but, confound it, a man must live, and as the world owes me a living, I must get it one way or another.”
It did not seem to occur to James Barclay that the same chance existed for him as for the majority of his fellow men – a chance of earning a living by honest work. Labor and industry he abhorred. They might do for others, but not for him.
“Tomorrow I’ll be in funds,” he said to himself complacently. “Now, what shall I do with myself today? A man can’t do much without money.”
It occurred to him that an old acquaintance – rather a shady acquaintance by the way – used to live in Jersey City. He would go over and see him. It would while away the time in a pleasant manner, and he might get news of his other companions, for he had been out of the city himself for several years. In fact, for we need not keep the secret from the reader, he had been passing three years in seclusion at the village of Sing Sing on the Hudson. That accounted for his father having been spared any visits for that length of time.
James Barclay turned down Cortlandt Street, and made his way to the ferry at the foot of the street. He invested three cents in a ferry ticket, and in a few minutes set foot in Jersey City.
“It’s a long time since I have been here,” he reflected. “Ten to one Jack isn’t hanging out at the old place. However, I can see.”
He made his way to the former abode of his old friend, Jack Cratts, who was much such a character as himself, but, being more prudent, less apt to get into trouble.
He only met with disappointment. Another family occupied the room once tenanted by Jack, and he could obtain no information as to the whereabouts of his friend.
James Barclay was disappointed. The time was hanging heavily on his hands. He made his way slowly toward the ferry, when he encountered a poorly dressed woman of about thirty, carrying a heavy basket of clothes. She was evidently a laundress.
His face lighted up with instant recognition.
“Is it you, Ellen?” he said.
The woman turned pale, and nearly dropped the basket she was carrying.
“James!” she ejaculated, faintly.
“Yes, Ellen, it is your poor, unfortunate husband. Egad, I’m glad to see you.”
It was now over three years since James Barclay and his wife had met. She had never been very happy with him, after the first few months of married life, and she did not know now whether to be glad or sorry she had met him. She had not lost all love for him – wives seldom do under any provocation – but she knew him too well to believe that he had changed materially. He was likely still to prove a disturbing element in her life. Yet she felt a momentary pleasure, lonely as she was, in meeting the man who, ten years before, had captured her affections.
“Are you glad to see me, Ellen?” asked Barclay, in an unusually pleasant tone.
“Yes,” she answered, slowly.
“How are the children? I don’t suppose I should know them.”
“They are well. Jimmy and Mary are going to school. Jimmy sells papers evenings to help me along.”
“How old is the young rascal?”
“Eight years old.”
“Is he a chip of the old block, eh, Ellen?”
“I hope not,” said the woman, heartily. Then, with a half frightened look, she added, “Don’t be offended with me, James, but I don’t want him to follow in your steps.”
“No offense, Ellen,” said Barclay, laughingly. “I don’t pretend to be an angel, and I hope the kid will be more of one than I. And how are you yourself, old woman?”
“I’ve had to work very hard, James,” sighed the woman. “It’s been all I can do to earn a poor living for the children.”
“I wish I could help you, and perhaps I may. I’m expecting some money tomorrow, and I’m hanged if I don’t give you ten dollars of it.”
“It would be a great help to me, James,” said his wife, with a momentary look of pleasure.
“Are you going home now?”
“Yes, James.”
“I’ll go along, too, and see what sort of a crib you’ve got. Can you let me have some dinner?”
“Yes, James, though it’ll be a poor one.”
“O, I shan’t mind. Here, give me that basket. I’m stronger than you.”
“Has he really reformed and become better?” thought Ellen, puzzled. She had never been used to such marks of attention from her husband. But he was in an amiable frame of mind. He had found a place of refuge till the next day, and then he would draw fifty dollars from his father – the first of many forced loans he promised himself.
He lounged away the rest of the day at his wife’s poor room. When the children came home from school he received them with boisterous good nature. They seemed afraid of him, remembering his severity in earlier days, but this only seemed to amuse him.
“That’s a pretty way to receive your loving father,” he said, laughingly. “Come here and sit on my knee, Mary.”
The little girl obeyed with scared face, because she did not dare to refuse lest she should anger her father. So the day passed. James Barclay lay in bed late next morning, but about eleven o’clock started for New York, to meet the appointment with his father.
A little before noon he ascended the staircase, and opened the door of the room which he had visited the day before.
It was empty!
His face darkened, and an unpleasant misgiving entered his mind.
He knocked at the door of the opposite room, which was opened by a woman.
“What has become of the old man who occupied the room opposite?” he asked.
“He has moved,” answered Mrs. Duane.
“Moved! When did he move?”
“This morning, I believe.”
“Where has he gone to?”
“He didn’t leave word.”
“The old fox!” muttered James Barclay. “He has gone to get rid of me. But I’ll follow him up, and sooner or later I’ll find him.”
