CHAPTER XX
JAMES BARCLAY COMES TO GRIEF
“Get out yourself!” retorted Mrs. Hogan, as with undaunted mien she faced the ruffian. “What are you doin’ to old Jerry?”
“Mind your business, woman, and leave the room, if you don’t want to get hurt!”
James Barclay still retained his grip upon the old man as he spoke.
He was as bold as his father was timid, and did not mean to be frightened away by a woman.
“I’m no more a woman than yourself,” said Mrs. Hogan, angrily, who preferred to be addressed as a lady.
“Well, you’re dressed like one, any way,” rejoined Barclay, with a smile of amusement. “My father and I have a little business together, and you’re not wanted.”
“Is he your son, Jerry?” asked Mrs. Hogan, not certain whether the statement was true.
“Yes,” answered Jerry, feebly, “but he wants to rob me. Take him away, Mrs. Hogan.”
“Ain’t you ashamed of yourself to trate your old father so manely?” demanded Mrs. Hogan, indignantly.
“Give me the money, father, and I’ll go,” said Barclay, thinking it politic to get away as soon as possible.
“Take him away!” said old Jerry, feebly.
“I’ll do it!” responded Mrs. Hogan. “I’ll tache him, the murtherin’ thafe!”
She suited the action to the word, and dashed the scalding hot water into the face of James Barclay.
He uttered a hoarse cry of mingled rage and pain, and, leaving his father, dashed after his bold assailant.
He was partially blinded, however, by the pain, and she easily escaped.
Scarcely knowing where he went, he ran against an athletic, broad shouldered man, who was bringing up a basket of coal.
“O, that’s your game, is it?” said the newcomer, fancying the assault intentional. “I don’t know who you are, but I’ll give ye all ye want. No man can hit Dennis O’Brien widout gettin’ as good as he gives.”
In a trice the two men were grappling, and, losing their balance, tumbled down the stairs, receiving some hard knocks on the way. The result was that both were arrested by a passing policeman, and locked up.
James Barclay, whose burns were severe, was sent to the hospital on the Island, and it was thirty days before he was free to pursue his plans again.
Old Jerry, picking himself up after his narrow escape, carefully counted his gold pieces, and to his great relief found that none were missing.
He breathed a sigh of relief when he learned that his son had been arrested, and determined to deposit his gold in the savings bank, so as to guard against future robbery.
It was about this time that Paul, called up town by some errand, was crossing Madison Square, when he heard his name called.
Looking up he recognized, with no little pleasure the smiling face of Jennie Cunningham.
She was accompanied by a boy of about Paul’s size, fashionably dressed, and wearing an expression of high self appreciation on his rather narrow face.
“How are you, Paul? It’s an age since I saw you,” said the young heiress, cordially, offering her hand.
“I am glad to see you, Miss Jennie,” responded Paul.
“Why haven’t you been up to see us? I have been expecting you for a long time.”
“I wasn’t sure I wouldn’t be intruding.”
“Then I’ll tell you once for all, you needn’t be a bit afraid. I want to beat you at dominoes. You beat me last time, didn’t you?”
“I believe so,” said Paul.
“Then I want my revenge. When will you come?”
“Whenever I am invited,” said Paul, smiling.
“That reminds me – how stupid I was to forget it – that I am to have a fancy dress party of young people next Wednesday evening. You’ll come, won’t you?”
“I am afraid I have no clothes fit to wear at a party.”
“O, you are to come in costume. Come as a telegraph boy. That will be the very thing. You’ll act the character naturally, you know, and no one will know that you are a real telegraph boy.”
“I should like very much to come, if I can come in my uniform.”
“That’s just what I want. Mind, then, Wednesday evening, at eight o’clock. What is the number of your office?”
“No. – Broadway.”
“I will send you a regular card of invitation. Then you will be treated just like the rest.”
She was about to turn away when a thought struck her.
“O, I forgot to introduce you to my cousin, Mark Sterling. Mark, this is Paul Parton, the boy who drove off the burglar when papa was gone to Washington. You’ve heard me speak of him?”
“O, yes, I’ve heard of him,” said Mark, coldly. “He behaved in a very creditable way – for a telegraph boy,” he continued, in a patronizing tone.
“Or for any other boy!” rejoined Jennie, quickly. “Really, I look upon Paul quite as a hero.”
“I am afraid I am not entitled to such high praise,” said Paul, modestly.
“You must make allowances for my Cousin Jennie,” said Mark. “She is a girl, and girls are all apt to gush.”
“This particular girl isn’t, Mark,” said his cousin, indignantly. “Have you ever seen the burglar since, Paul?”
“Yes.”
“O, tell me where.”
“On Broadway.”
“Why didn’t you have him arrested?”
“There was no policeman at hand. Besides, I told him that night that if he would go peaceably I would not molest him.”
“Such a promise doesn’t count,” said Mark, in a tone of authority. “You should have called a policeman.”
“My promise always counts!” said Paul, firmly.
“Even if given to a burglar?” said Mark, with a sneer.
“Yes, even if given to a burglar.”
Mark took off his hat mockingly.
“Really, I wasn’t prepared to find such a lofty sense of honor – in a telegraph boy!” he said, with a satirical smile.
“I am afraid you are not very well acquainted with telegraph boys,” said Paul, good naturedly.
He quite understood that Mark meant to sneer at him, but being confident of Jennie Cunningham’s favor, he felt quite indifferent to the opinion of her cousin.
“No,” said Mark, significantly; “I have never had the honor of associating much with that class of – persons.”
“Come, Mark, don’t make yourself so disagreeable,” said Jennie, unceremoniously. “Remember that Paul is a particular friend of mine.”
“Thank you, Miss Jennie,” said Paul, gratefully.
“I was not aware of that,” said Mark, stiffly.
“I am afraid I must be going; my time is not my own,” said Paul. “Good morning, Miss Jennie; good morning, Mr. Sterling.”
Jennie Cunningham responded cordially, but Mark affected not to hear the telegraph boy’s farewell. He was not in the best of humor, having a partiality for his pretty cousin, and being disposed to regard with jealousy any kindness bestowed by her upon other boys. He was foolish enough to venture upon a remonstrance, without reflecting that this was the poorest possible way of recommending himself to the favor of his companion.
“Jennie,” he commenced, “I am very much surprised at the notice you take of that low telegraph boy.”
“Do you mean Paul Parton?”
“Yes, if that is the fellow’s name.”
“Then I wish you to understand that he is not a low boy.”
“What do you know of him? What do you know of his family?”
“Nothing, except that he has neither father nor mother living.”
“Probably they were low persons.”
“Why probably?”
“You know well enough that nice boys don’t become telegraph messengers.”
“Paul is a nice boy,” asserted Jennie, with spirit.
“You seem to be infatuated with him,” said Mark, shrugging his shoulders.
“Because I treat him with common politeness?”
“Didn’t you invite him to your party next Wednesday?”
“Suppose I did?”
“Do you think it suitable to have a boy like that among your guests?”
“Yes, I do.”
“I don’t believe your mother will approve of it.”
“My mother invited Paul to spend the evening whenever he had time.”
This rather took Mark by surprise. He could not very well say anything in condemnation of his aunt, though he chose to lecture his cousin.
“I hope you won’t expect me to take any notice of him,” he said, with dignity.
“O, I don’t think he will insist upon it. I will take care that he feels himself at home.”
Mark did not venture to say more, but walked beside his cousin in a disgusted frame of mind. I am afraid he was really jealous of Paul, whom, against his will, he was forced to admit to be a very good looking boy.
CHAPTER XXI
THE FANCY DRESS PARTY
Paul might have hesitated about accepting the invitation to attend a fashionable party if he had not been on such cordial and friendly terms with his young hostess and her family. He was sure to be kindly treated by them and by the majority of the guests who very properly follow the lead of their entertainers. He foresaw that Mark would snub him if he had an opportunity, but for this he cared little. It was clear that Mark was foolishly puffed up with an idea of his own consequence, and had been accustomed to look with scorn upon all who were not on the same social plane as himself.
Paul had for some time been thinking of ordering another and newer uniform, and thought it good policy to do so at once, that he might have the new suit to wear for the first time at Jennie Cunningham’s party. It is the custom for boys to obtain them from the company, paying by installments, or regular weekly deductions from their pay.
The next morning some surprise was excited at the office by the receipt of a square envelope, of perfumed French paper, directed to
PAUL PARTON, A. D. T., No. 91
“A love letter, I suppose,” said the chief, with a smile, as he handed the note to Paul.
Paul opened it, and, having no reason for secrecy, passed it to the superintendent.
“An invitation to a fancy dress party!” said that official, in surprise. “You seem to be pretty thick with the Cunninghams, Number 91.”
“They are very polite and kind,” said Paul.
“I suppose you are trying to ingratiate yourself with the young lady.”
“I am too young to think of that,” answered the telegraph boy, very sensibly.
“Shall you accept the invitation?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You must go in fancy dress.”
“I have already decided to go as a telegraph boy.”
“Then you knew of this before?”
“I met Miss Jennie yesterday in Madison Square, and was told she meant to invite me.”
“You are a lucky boy.”
“So I think, sir.”
From that time Paul was treated with greater consideration in the office, the chief regarding him as a protege of the Cunninghams. This was an advantage, for he was now employed on the most agreeable and desirable commissions that came to the office.
On Wednesday morning Paul said to old Jerry: “I shall be home late tonight, Jerry.”
“Why, Paul? Will you be kept at the office?”
“No; I am to attend a party.”
Jerry opened his eyes.
“A party! Where, Paul?”
“In Fifty First Street. It is a fancy dress party.”
“But how came they to invite you?”
“They employed me on one occasion, and have treated me in a friendly way since.”
“I don’t understand it, Paul. Is it a – a rich family?”
“Yes, Jerry.”
The old man’s eyes lighted up hopefully.
“And they are good friends of yours, Paul?” he asked.
“Yes, grand – yes, Jerry.”
“Then, Paul, you can do me a great favor. You will, won’t you?” pleaded the old man, coaxingly.
“What is it?” inquired Paul, suspiciously.
“Tell them how poor I am, Paul, and ask them if they won’t help me. It would be nothing to rich folks to send an old man ten dollars, or twenty, and would do me a sight of good.”
“You must be crazy to ask me such a thing,” answered Paul, sternly. “Have you no shame, or do you think I have none, to beg money of strangers?”
“But I am so poor, Paul,” whined the miser.
“I am tired of hearing of that, Jerry,” said the boy, with an expression of disgust on his face. “It was bad enough when I believed you to be really poor, but now that I know you to have plenty of money, and are very likely rich, it makes me sick to hear you tell such falsehoods.”
“Is this the way you talk to a poor old man who has brought you up?” whined old Jerry.
Paul was in no wise moved by this appeal. He knew too well the extent of his obligations to the old miser.
“I have always paid my way, Jerry,” he said, coldly. “Even when I was only six years old, I earned all I cost you. If you think I am any expense to you, I am willing to leave you any time.”
“No, no, Paul,” said old Jerry in alarm. “I can’t spare you. I am getting old, and I don’t want to be left alone.”
“Then don’t ask me to do what I am ashamed of, Jerry.”
Paul arrived at the party about twenty minutes after eight. He did not care to be among the first in attendance. He was shown upstairs to the gentlemen’s reception room, and, having adjusted his toilet, went downstairs. Jennie and her mother stood at one end of the drawing room.
Paul made his way towards her, and, following the example of other guests, shook hands, and offered congratulations, for it was Jennie’s birthday.
“I am glad to see you, Paul,” said Jennie, with a smile, and her mother echoed the welcome.
Turning away, Paul met the eyes of Mark Sterling, bent upon him with a satirical look.
“Good evening,” said Paul, politely.
“So you’re on hand!” said Mark, not over courteously.
“As you see,” answered Paul, coolly. “That is a fine costume of yours.”
Mark sustained the character of a young Highland chieftain, his dress being quite costly.
“Yes,” he answered, his vanity gratified, even by a compliment from a telegraph boy. “You’ve got a new suit, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“It is a pity you went to such an expense. No one is likely to take much notice of a telegraph boy.”
“O, I shall use it on duty,” answered Paul. “You are very considerate for me.”
“Paul, let me introduce you to Miss Grace De Vere,” said Mrs. Cunningham.
Paul bowed politely to a pretty brunette of fourteen, dressed as a flower girl.
“Shall we promenade?” asked Paul, observing that many of the guests were walking in couples.
“Yes, if you like. I suppose it is very appropriate for a telegraph boy and a flower girl to walk together,” said Grace, laughing. “What a very natural telegraph boy you make! Where did you get the uniform? Did you borrow it of a real telegraph boy?”
“No,” answered Paul, “I had it made expressly for me.”
“I suppose that is better. I hired my suit of a costumer.”
As Paul and Grace were promenading, they met Mark escorting a pale, sallow girl with a long nose, but very expensively dressed as a maid of honor. Mark turned up his nose, but looked rather envious, nevertheless, for Grace De Vere was not only pretty, but of high family. He said something to his companion, and both stared impertinently at Paul.
“Do you know Mark Sterling?” asked Grace.
“Only a little.”
“I don’t like him at all. He is awfully disagreeable. He looks as if he didn’t like you.”
“I don’t think he does. Can you tell me the name of the young lady with him?”
“It is Irene Braddon. Do you admire her?”
“I prefer my present partner,” said Paul.
“Thank you; you are very gallant. Still, it isn’t much of a compliment. Irene belongs to a rich family, but she is disagreeable, and few like her.”
“Is Mark an admirer of hers?”
“He likes to be seen with her because she is of a rich and prominent family. But he likes his cousin, Jennie Cunningham, best. He is jealous of every boy who pays her any attention. But I want to ask you a question. Why have I never met you before at any parties? I am sure I should have remembered you.”
“This is the first party I ever attended.”
“Indeed! How can that be?”
“Because I am really what I represent, a telegraph boy.”
Paul watched the face of his young companion closely, fearing that this revelation would cut him off from her favor.
“You don’t mean to say that you are the telegraph boy that frightened away the burglar?” inquired Grace, eagerly.
“I believe I am.”
“Why, you are quite a hero!” exclaimed Grace, enthusiastically.
“O, no,” answered Paul, modestly. “It didn’t take much courage.”
Grace asked Paul a great many questions, and did not seem at all shocked to learn that she was escorted by a common telegraph boy.
“Come, Grace,” said Jennie, after a while, “we can’t have you two monopolize each other. My cousin, Mark, solicits the honor of escorting you. Paul, if you are a very good boy, you may walk with me.”
“Did you know, Miss Grace,” said Mark, “that you were walking with a real telegraph boy?”
“Yes, he told me so.”
“I am surprised that my Cousin Jennie should have invited him here.”
“I am not at all. I think him the handsomest boy at the party.”
“There is no accounting for taste,” rejoined Mark, very much disgusted at this laudation of a boy he despised.
“He is so agreeable, too,” added Grace, with malicious pleasure at her companion’s discomfiture.
“He has plenty of cheek!” said Mark. “He tries to make himself very conspicuous. It would be better taste to stand quietly in a corner.”
Later in the evening, Paul became more conspicuous, and Mark became still more disgusted with him.
CHAPTER XXII
THE YOUNG MINSTRELS
About half past nine Jennie beckoned Paul to come into the back parlor, which was comparatively deserted.
“I am going to ask a favor of you,” she said.
“I shall be glad to do anything you wish,” said Paul, earnestly.
“I am preparing a surprise for the company – something not down in the programme. I ask you to help me because you can sing.”
Paul blushed.
“I don’t call it singing,” he said, modestly.
“I am sure you have a very nice voice, Paul. Now I will tell you what I want. You and I are to dress as Italian street singers – I have a harp on which I can play a little. We will come in as soon as we are ready and surprise the company.”
“Will it be necessary to sing in Italian?” asked Paul, with a smile. “I have forgotten all mine.”
“You know as much as I do. We will sing some of the popular ballads. Here is a list which I have written down. Do you know them?”
Paul looked over the list and selected three which he felt able to sing.
“Very well,” said Jennie, with satisfaction. “You will find your suit ready in your dressing room. I have spoken to one of the boys – Arthur Constable – to go up and assist you. Now, will you be ready in fifteen minutes?”
“Yes,” answered Paul, confidently.
“I wonder what Jennie and the telegraph boy are talking about so earnestly!” thought Mark, with a scowl, for he had just noticed their conversation. “I never suspected that Jennie had such low tastes.”
An unpleasant frown gathered on Mark’s face, which he made no attempt to conceal. He was getting to dislike Paul more and more.
Next the two whose intimacy had provoked his discontent left the room, and his anger increased.
Presently, however, Mr. Cunningham entered the room and said, with a smile:
“Young people, I have engaged the services of two Italian minstrels, who will try to entertain you for a short time.”
Instantly there was a hush of expectation, for the announcement was understood literally.
The door was thrown open, and Paul and Jennie entered. Paul wore a suit of black velvet, and a hat also of velvet, in which it must be admitted he looked very handsome. Jennie was attired also in a characteristic national costume, and carried in her hand a harp.
As they entered together most of the company agreed that they made a very attractive picture.
They advanced, hand in hand, till they reached a position at the head of the room. Then Jennie struck her harp, and the two began to sing a favorite melody, their voices according remarkably well.
There was a sound of applause at the end of the first song. Paul bowed, and, taking his hat from his head, gravely made the round of the guests. Pennies were dropped by such as had them.
When Paul reached Mark he was tempted to pass him by, for he saw the scornful smile upon his face, but he did not care to make a scene, and held out his cap to him as well as the rest.
Mark dropped in a penny.
“That’s for the monkey,” he said, in a significant tone. “Keep it yourself.”
“Thank you,” said Paul, with unruffled good humor, for he felt that he could afford to be good natured. “Your liberality is unexpected.”
Mark bit his lips, foolishly taking offense at this good natured retort.
Another song was vociferously called for and given. Then a third was demanded, and the two minstrels retired amid a volley of plaudits.
“That was perfectly charming,” said Grace De Vere, enthusiastically. “What a nice looking boy that Paul Parton is! He looked perfectly lovely in his velvet suit.”
The boy to whom this was addressed was Mark Sterling, and it may well be believed that it was far from pleasing him.
“Are you falling in love with him?” he asked, with a sneer.
“I do believe I am!” answered Grace. “Don’t tell him, though!”
“I am not likely to. The fellow is conceited enough already.”
“Now, Mark, you are too bad. To me he seems remarkably modest.”
“He ought to have more sense than to push himself forward so, being only a telegraph boy.”
“I don’t care what he is; he is very nice and very good looking.”
“I suppose you admire his singing, too?”
“Yes, he has a sweet voice.”
“That’s a matter of opinion.”
“I do believe you’re jealous of him, Mark. You don’t like it because Jennie didn’t ask you to take the part.”
This was really true, for Mark fancied himself a singer, though his voice was thin and shrill. Had he taken Paul’s part the effect would have been ludicrous, but, of course, he had no idea of this.
It so happened that he knew the three songs which had been sung, and he was very much annoyed to have been passed over in what was the pronounced success of the evening, and to see a mere telegraph boy selected instead of him.
“Jealous of a telegraph boy!” repeated Mark, with a scornful inflection. “I am not sunk quite so low as that.”
About eleven o’clock the party broke up. Being a juvenile party, it was not kept up as late as if it had been attended by older persons. Paul took his leave with the rest, feeling that he had enjoyed himself uncommonly well.
“I must thank you for a pleasant evening, Miss Jennie,” he said, as he said adieu to his youthful hostess.
“You did your part towards making it so, Paul.”
“Thank you for the opportunity.”
“Don’t forget to come soon to see us,” said Jennie, giving her hand to Paul.
Paul bowed his thanks, and left the house with three or four others in his company. Among them was Mark Sterling.
“Where do you live?” asked Mark, abruptly.
“Down town,” answered Paul, shortly. He felt reluctant to say that he lived in Ludlow Street, although he conjectured rightly that Mark would have no idea where it was situated.
“I thought, perhaps, you might live on Fifth Avenue.”
“Not at present; that may come later.”
Mark laughed disdainfully.
“When you give a party, I hope you will do us all the honor to send an invitation.”
“Would you accept?”
“Yes, I think I would.”
“I will bear it in mind. Now, let me bid you all good night.”
Mark was disappointed to find that not one of his companions would join in his sarcasms against the telegraph boy. All thought him very agreeable and very handsome, and Mark was at last obliged to give up his attack, and lapse into sullenness.
Paul walked to Sixth Avenue, though that was not the most direct route homewards, and in place of taking a car, walked slowly down the avenue. It was a pleasant night, and he felt broad awake, and by no means fatigued. It seemed to him pleasanter to walk part of the way at least. As he walked he fell into serious thought. He had left an elegant house, crowded with a gay and fashionable company, and he was going – where? To a miserable tenement house, in which he shared a poor and ill furnished room with a squalid and miserly old man, in appearance not above a tramp. Certainly the contrast was a startling one. As he dwelt upon it, Paul felt more and more disgusted with his home and surroundings.
“Why can’t I live in a refined house, among refined people?” he asked himself. “I feel much more at home with them than with old Jerry. Must I always live a beggar?”
Paul’s mental answer was an emphatic “No!” He was young and hopeful. The world was before him. He was poor, but other poor boys had raised themselves from poverty as great, and he felt that there was an equal chance for him.
His reflections were interrupted by the sight of a tall young man, not far in advance, whose unsteady gait showed that he was under the influence of liquor.