CHAPTER XXIII
THE PICKPOCKET
Such a sight as this is by no means uncommon in a large city, and of course Paul had witnessed it many times. But for one circumstance, he would have given the young man a passing glance, and gone on. But he observed that the young man was followed. The person following was also a young man, rather flashily attired, and, as Paul thought, of suspicious appearance. It seemed to him clear that he had designs upon the first young man, whose condition was likely to make him an easy prey to an unscrupulous acquaintance.
“Where have I seen that man before?” thought Paul.
He was puzzled for a moment, and then he remembered that he had strayed one day into a court room, and seen him as a prisoner at the bar, charged with picking a pocket.
“That’s what he’s after now,” thought Paul. “I will prevent him if I can.”
The telegraph boy moderated his pace, so as not to attract the attention of the man in the rear, but kept a close watch over him.
Finally the pickpocket came to a sudden resolution, and quickening his pace came up with the man he was following.
“Excuse me, my friend,” he said, smoothly, “but I see you are in need of assistance. Won’t you take my arm? I’ll take you home, if you wish.”
“You’re very good,” said the stranger. “I’ve been drinking more than is good for me, I’m afraid.”
“We all do that sometimes,” said his new acquaintance. “I’ve been there myself. Where are you staying?”
“At the Albemarle Hotel. Am I going the right way? I’ve got turned round, I think.”
“Yes, you are on the right track. I live close by your hotel myself, so I can go along with you just as well as not.”
“Thanks; you are really very kind.”
“O, don’t mention it.”
The other made no objection to the pickpocket passing his arm through his, and the two walked on together.
“He means to rob him,” thought Paul. “What can I do to prevent it?”
He didn’t quite like to make an accusation, though he remembered the thief’s face perfectly, till he had some ground for warning the intended victim. It might be that the pickpocket was merely taking the part of the good Samaritan, though it was by no means probable.
The two men became sociable, and Paul was near enough to hear fragments of the conversation. He gathered that the stranger was from St. Louis – that he was visiting New York on a business errand, representing a firm, of which his father was the head.
The pickpocket, who had been waiting only till he could gain the stranger’s confidence, now felt that it was time to be carrying out his plans. With dexterous fingers he managed to explore the pocket of his companion, and Paul caught sight, quick as he was, of his appropriation of his victim’s wallet.
“I shall have to leave you here,” said he, abruptly, having no further motive for continuing the companionship. “Good night!”
“Good night!” said the stranger. “Sorry to lose your company!”
Paul was excited, as he might well be, for he saw that on him alone depended the frustration of the thief’s plans.
“Stop thief!” he exclaimed, in a loud voice.
The thief looked startled, and turning into Thirty Seventh Street ran towards Fifth Avenue.
Paul followed in close pursuit.
“Drop that wallet, or it will be worse for you!” exclaimed the undaunted boy.
Had the night been dark, the thief would have taken the chances, and retained his booty. But he was sure to attract attention, and might any minute run into the arms of a policeman. The risk was too great.
“There, curse you!” he muttered, throwing down the wallet. “Now stop following me!”
Paul picked up the pocketbook, and ceased the pursuit. He had accomplished all he intended, and was willing to let the thief go free, now that he had restored his plunder.
He retraced his steps to Sixth Avenue, where he found the stranger waiting for him.
“Here is your pocketbook,” he said. “You have had a narrow escape.”
“By Jove! I should think I had,” answered the young man. “How much money do you think there is in that wallet?”
“Is it a large sum?” asked Paul, his curiosity aroused.
“Fifteen hundred dollars – perhaps a little more. You’re a brave boy. But for you I should have lost it.”
“I am very glad to have been of such service,” said Paul. “If the thief only knew what a purse he had lost he would feel like murdering me.”
“What made you suspect him? You must have sharp eyes.”
“I believe I have,” answered Paul, “but I was watching him closely as I walked behind. I knew him to be a pickpocket.”
“How was that?” asked the young man.
“I once saw him in the court room at the Tombs, being tried for theft. I have not seen him since, but I recognized him at once. I saw him join you, and I suspected his motive at once.”
“You saw my condition?”
“Yes, I saw that you were not yourself.”
“I had been making a fool of myself by drinking too much. I hope you don’t drink?”
“No, sir, never.”
“You are wise. Will you walk with me to my hotel?”
“Yes, sir, where are you staying?”
“At the Albemarle. Do you know where it is?”
“O, yes,” answered Paul, smiling. He felt that he would hardly have been fit for a telegraph boy if he had not known the location of a hotel so well known.
“I have been spending the evening with a few friends who live in an apartment house near the park. The punch was remarkably good, and I drank more than was good for me. I suppose you wonder why I didn’t ride home, instead of walking?”
“It would have been safer, at any rate.”
“I had a headache and thought I might walk it off. At any rate, I should feel better for being in the open air. But I found some difficulty in steering straight, as I dare say you noticed.”
“Yes, sir, I observed it.”
“Then this fellow came along. He offered to accompany me home, and I never suspected that he was a thief. I am afraid you will think me rather green.”
“O, no; the man’s appearance might easily deceive you.”
“It did not deceive you.”
“No, for I had seen him before. But will you pardon me for saying that you were imprudent in carrying around so large a sum of money at this late hour?”
“You are quite right. I was a fool, and I am willing to admit it.”
It was not long before Paul and his new friend reached the hotel, which is in the block above the Fifth Avenue.
“Come upstairs with me,” said the young man.
“If you wish it,” answered Paul.
“I do; I have some business with you, but I won’t keep you long.”
Paul followed his new acquaintance into a handsomely furnished chamber on the third floor. He involuntarily thought of the poor tenement house room in which he and old Jerry made their home, and he wondered whether it would ever be his fortune to be as well lodged as the traveler from Missouri.
“Why not?” asked Paul, hopefully.
“Sit down,” said the stranger, pointing to a chair. “I won’t keep you long.”
CHAPTER XXIV
A ROOM AT THE ALBEMARLE HOTEL
The stranger was tall and well formed. He had certainly showed moral weakness in yielding to the fascinations of drink, but he looked like a smart man of business.
“Wait a minute,” he said, “and I will talk to you.”
He went to a stationary washtub, and bathed his head freely.
“There,” he said, after he had rubbed his face vigorously with a towel. “I feel fifty per cent better. There is nothing like cold water after all.”
“Inside as well as outside,” added Paul, with a smile.
“That’s where you are right, my boy. Evidently your head is level. You say you are a telegraph boy?”
“Yes sir.”
“How do you like it?”
“Fairly well – for the present.”
“You wouldn’t like to follow it permanently, eh?”
“No, sir; by the time I got to be fifty or sixty, I might like to change to something else.”
“You might be able to retire on a fortune.”
“It would be a very small one, judging from my weekly pay.”
“I think myself, unless you are wedded to the business, you might pass your time more profitably. What do you think you would like?”
“To enter some business house where I could rise step by step as I deserved it,” answered Paul, with animation.
“You have the right idea. Now let me tell you why I inquire. In the fall my father will establish a branch house here, with myself at the head of it. I don’t mind telling you that if I had lost the money I have with me, it is doubtful whether he would have trusted me so far. Now, thanks to your prompt assistance, I have been spared the natural result of my folly, and my father will never know the risk I have run. So you see that you have rendered me an important service.”
“I am sincerely glad of it, sir.”
“I mean that you shall be, and on your account. If I establish myself here, I shall want a young assistant on whose intelligence and fidelity I can rely. Do you know any such person?”
“I hope you mean me,” said Paul eagerly. “It is just the opening I have been looking for, for a long time.”
“I do mean you. Have you a father or mother?”
“No, sir; unhappily not.”
“Have you no one belonging to you, then?” asked the young man with a look of sympathy.
“No, sir, I can’t say that I have. I live with an old man who is not related to me. It is better than being alone.”
“Doesn’t he rely upon you to contribute to his support?”
“He does, but he need not. He is a miser and has money deposited in the Bowery Savings Bank, and elsewhere, I expect. I think he has enough to carry him through to the end of his life.”
“If he is a miser you probably don’t live very luxuriously.”
“We live in a poor room in an east side tenement house, sir,” answered Paul.
“You are not contented with that, I take it.”
“No, sir; when I compare it with the place where I spent this evening, it makes me mortified and ashamed.”
“You were at a party, you said?”
“Yes, sir, in a fine brown stone mansion up town.”
“Isn’t it a little unusual for a telegraph boy living in a tenement house to be invited to a fashionable party?”
“Yes, sir, but these are very kind friends of mine, who overlook my poor social position, and notice me as much as if I lived in a house as good as their own.”
“I think they must be uncommon people, but I approve them for all that. ‘A man’s a man for a’ that,’ as Robert Burns says in his poem. That is, it makes no difference whether he is rich or poor, whether he lives in a palace or a hovel, if there is good stuff in him, he deserves honor.”
“I would like to see the whole poem,” said Paul. “I think Burns is right.”
“So do I, but I must not forget that it is late, and I am keeping you from your bed. I have not told you my name yet.”
“No, sir.”
“It is Eliot Wade. The firm name is William O. Wade & Co., of St Louis. We have a wholesale clothing house, and propose to establish a similar one in New York. Now, when this arrangement is effected, how can I communicate with you?”
“If you will write to Paul Parton, A. D. T., No. – Broadway, I shall receive the letter. If I leave the telegraph service before, I will tell them where to send any letter which is received.”
“And in case both fail, you will be sure to learn our place from the advertising columns of the newspapers. In that case, call and inquire for me.”
“Thank you, sir. I will be sure to do so.”
“You will be likely to find it to your advantage.”
Paul, concluding that there was nothing more to be said, rose to go.
“Good night, Mr. Wade,” he said. “I consider myself lucky in having met you.”
“I can return the compliment. But I have not yet got through with you.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Paul, resuming his seat.
“You don’t suppose I would send you away without an immediate acknowledgment of the service you have done me tonight?”
“The future employment which you promised me I consider a very valuable acknowledgment.”
“That will, I hope, prove so, but there is nothing like a bird in the hand.”
As Eliot Wade spoke, he produced the wallet which had been saved to him by the intrepidity and presence of mind of Paul, and drew therefrom a bank note, which he tendered to Number 91.
“Accept that with my thanks added,” he said.
Paul looked at the bill and his face expressed the amazement he felt.
It was a hundred dollar bill!
“You don’t mean to give me so much as this, Mr. Wade,” he ejaculated.
“Why not?” asked the young man, with a smile.
“It is a good deal too much.”
“On the other hand, it is about fifty dollars too little. Ten per cent on the sum saved would be one hundred and fifty dollars, and it is worth that. However, I will reserve that for a future occasion. Consider me fifty dollars in your debt.”
“You are very liberal,” said Paul earnestly, “and I heartily thank you. You can imagine that a hundred dollars is a large sum to a poor telegraph boy.”
“Now,” said the young man, smiling, “let me give you a piece of advice, suggested by my own experience. Don’t drop into any drinking saloon on your way home, or you may fall into the hands of a sharper, as I did.”
“I will remember your caution, sir,” said Paul, smiling.
“It may be safer for you to ride home, as the hour is late.”
“I will do so, sir. Good night and thank you.”
“It seems to me that you are born under a lucky star, No. 91,” said Paul to himself. “In a single evening I have received a sum of money equal to half a year’s wages. If old Jerry only knew it, I should not dare to fall asleep in the same room with him.”
He took the green car whose terminus was the Grand Street Ferry, and in less than half an hour he reached the door of his humble lodging.
He went upstairs and entered the bed chamber – which contrasted so strongly with the handsomely furnished hotel room which he had just left. He expected to find old Jerry fast asleep, but he was mistaken. The old man was lying on his poor bed in a cramped position, his eyes open, moaning piteously.
“What is the matter, Jerry?” he asked, approaching the bed.
“I am sick, Paul,” said the old man. “I – I am feeling very miserable! Do you think I am going to die?”
CHAPTER XXV
OLD JERRY’S WEALTH
Old Jerry certainly did look weak and miserable. His face seemed thinner and paler than usual; his thin gray hair looked quite disordered, and there were dark rings around his eyes.
“You look sick,” answered Paul, pityingly.
“Do you think I am going to die?” asked the old man, tremulously.
“Oh, no, not yet awhile,” answered Paul, in a cheering voice. “But you must have a doctor.”
“No, no; I can’t afford it,” said Jerry, in alarm. “Doctors charge so much. They – they seem to think a man is made of money.”
“Would you rather die,” Paul exclaimed, impatiently, “than pay for a doctor’s attendance? What good will your money do you if you die?”
“You – you might ask the druggist for some medicine to help me. That would be much cheaper.”
“That won’t do you; you need a doctor. If you don’t have one, you may die before morning.”
Jerry was thoroughly frightened now. He made no further resistance, and Paul summoned a doctor having an office on Grand Street.
When he saw Jerry, and felt his pulse, he looked grave.
“I think he is going to have a low fever,” he said.
“Is it catching?” asked Mrs. Hogan, nervously, for Paul had waked her up, and asked her to come in.
The doctor smiled.
“O, no,” he said. “Don’t be alarmed. Pardon me for asking,” he said, turning to Paul, “but does your grandfather – I suppose he is your grandfather – eat regularly and sufficiently?”
“I am afraid not, sir.”
“He has lowered his system, I should judge, by lack of nourishing food, and at present his vitality is very low.”
“I can easily believe it, doctor,” said Paul. “I will speak to you on the subject later. Do you think he is going to have a fever?”
“Yes, a low fever, as I said – the revenge of outraged nature for a violation of her rules.”
“Am I going to die?” asked Jerry, his parchment skin assuming a greenish hue. “I – I want to live; I am not ready to die.”
“That depends on whether you follow my rules.”
“I will if – if you don’t make me spend too much money; I am poor – miserably poor.”
“I will see that your rules are followed, doctor,” said Paul, finding it hard to hide the disgust he felt at this characteristic manifestation of the old man’s miserly disposition.
“I see you are a sensible boy,” said the doctor, approvingly. “Perhaps I had better speak to you privately.”
“Very well, doctor. As we have no other room, will you step into the entry?”
The doctor followed Paul out.
“Before you give your instructions,” said the telegraph boy, “I want to say that Jerry – he is not my grandfather – is a miser, and has deliberately deprived himself of the necessaries of life.”
“Has he money?”
“He has enough, I am sure, to pay what is needful, but it will be hard to get him to spend it.”
“He must have nourishing food, and stimulating medicines, or he cannot recover. His life is at stake.”
“Will he need a nurse?”
“I suppose you can’t attend to him?”
“No; I prefer to attend to my regular business, and hire some one.”
“Then do so, for the old man will require some weeks, at least, to recover from the low point to which he has brought himself.”
“I think I can get Mrs. Hogan to take care of him. You may give her your directions.”
First, however, Paul made the proposal to the good woman. “I’ll see that you are paid,” he said. “If I can’t get the money out of Jerry, I will pay it myself.”
“But, Paul, dear, I wouldn’t want to take the little you have. You’ve no more than enough for yourself.”
“I will show you something, Mrs. Hogan, if you won’t let Jerry know.”
“Shure I won’t.”
Paul produced the hundred dollar bill, and filled the soul of Mrs. Hogan with amazement.
“Where did you get it?” she asked, in wonder.
“It was given me by a gentleman whom I saved from being robbed of a good deal more,” he answered. “You see, Mrs. Hogan, I am not so poor as you suppose. I will pay you seven dollars a week, if that will satisfy you, for your care of Jerry, but I will try to get him to repay me the money, for his life depends on what we are able to do for him.”
The doctor, upon Mrs. Hogan’s acceptance of the office of nurse, gave her instructions. To begin with, though late, he directed that some tea and oatmeal should be prepared and administered to his patient to reinforce his failing strength.
It was nearly one o’clock when Paul threw himself down on the lounge with his clothes on, and fell into a sound sleep.
Old Jerry did not immediately improve. His strength was so far reduced that it required time to rebuild his enfeebled constitution. Mrs. Hogan proved a good nurse. Indeed, in her younger days she had acted in that capacity, and was not ignorant of the duties.
When Paul came home the next evening, he found the nurse waiting to speak to him.
“The doctor says Jerry must be undressed, and not lay with his clothes on,” she said, “but old Jerry is so obstinate that he won’t agree to it.”
“Jerry, you will feel a great deal better to take off your clothes,” said Paul, in a tone of expostulation.
“No, no!” objected Jerry, in a terrified tone.
“And why not?” asked Mrs. Hogan. “Shure, the doctor knows what’s best for you.”
But Jerry obstinately refused.
“It’s a quare frake the old man has, not to be undressed like a good Christian,” observed Mrs. Hogan.
“I think I know his objection,” said Paul. “We won’t trouble him just now.”
The next day at noon Paul called at the house, having a few minutes to spare. Mrs. Hogan met him with a smile of triumph.
“We’ve took off his clothes,” she said, “and I’ve put a night gown on him, and he’s lying as peaceful as can be.”
“Didn’t he refuse?” asked Paul, in surprise.
“No, and a good reason why. He was out of his head, and so I asked Mr. McQuade, downstairs, to come up and help me. And niver a word the old man spoke, but seemed dazed like.”
“Where are his clothes?” inquired Paul, eagerly.
“Shure there they are!” said the nurse, pointing to a pile of wretched garments on a chair near the bedside.
“I’ll stay here ten minutes, Mrs. Hogan,” said Paul, “and give you a chance to go to your room.”
“Thank you, Paul. I’ll go and make a bit of tay for the old man.”
Paul locked the door after her, and eagerly took up the shabby old suit which had been worn for years by old Jerry. He instituted a careful search, and found himself richly rewarded. In one pocket he found a bank book on the Bowery Savings Bank. His eyes opened with amazement when he found nearly three thousand dollars set down to the old man’s credit. There was another book, marked the Union Dime Savings Bank, a bank in the upper part of the city. On this book deposits were entered to the amount of eight hundred and ninety dollars. Feeling something stiff behind the lining of the coat, Paul hastily ripped it open, and found a certificate of one hundred shares of Erie, then selling at forty eight dollars per share. This appeared to be all, except a few dollars in money.
“It is my duty to take care of them,” reflected Paul. “Mrs. Hogan is no doubt honest, but others might enter the chamber who would not scruple to rob the old man. I will take care of them, and deposit them in a safe place.”
He made a hasty calculation, and found that the two savings bank books contained deposits amounting to three thousand eight hundred dollars. The value of the Erie stock he afterwards ascertained to be four thousand eight hundred, making in all eight thousand six hundred dollars.
“How strange that a man with so much money should be willing to live so miserably!” he thought. “Probably he has shortened his life by this means.”
At this point Mrs. Hogan reentered the room.
Paul had replaced the clothes on the chair, and she did not observe that they had been touched.
“Is there anything you want, Mrs. Hogan?” asked Paul. “If so, I can leave some money with you.”
“I might, maybe, need to send Mike out to the druggist.”
“Here’s a dollar, then.”
“Shure, Paul, you’re very kind to the old craythur, though he’s no kin to you.”
“Oh, I expect to be paid back some time.”
“I’m sure you will. We’ll try to keep life in the craythur, though it’s little he enjoys it.”
“Perhaps he enjoys it as much in his way as you or I.”
“Shure it’s little I’d enjoy if I lived like him.”
“I agree with you, Mrs. Hogan. But I must be going.”
About three o’clock there was a knock at Mrs. Hogan’s door. A woman of thirty presented herself.
“Shure, and it’s I that am glad to see you, Mrs. Barclay,” said the hospitable widow. “I haven’t set eyes on you since you went over to live in Jersey City.”
“No, I don’t often get over here. Today I had to bring clothes to a customer, and thought I’d come and see you.”
The visitor was Ellen Barclay, whom a strange chance – or was it Providence? – had brought unwittingly to the poor home of her husband’s father.