At noon Paul went home. The tenement house seemed still more miserable and squalid, as he clambered up the rickety staircase. He mentally contrasted it with the elegant mansion in which he had spent the night, and it disgusted him still more with the wretched surroundings of the place he called home. He was about to open the door of old Jerry’s room, when he was arrested by the sound of voices. Jerry’s, high pitched and quavering, was familiar enough to him, but there seemed something familiar, also, in the voice of the other, and yet he could not identify it with any of Jerry’s acquaintances. There was a round hole in the door, the origin of which was uncertain, and Paul, knowing that he was at liberty to enter, did not think it wrong to reconnoiter through it before doing so. To his intense surprise, the face of the visitor, visible to him through the opening, was that of the burglar whom he had confronted the night before. “What can he have to do with Jerry?” Paul asked himself, in bewilderment. Just then the man spoke. “The fact is, father, I am hard pressed, and must have some money.” Paul’s amazement increased. Was this burglar the son of old Jerry? He remembered now having heard Jerry refer to a son who had left him many years ago, and who had never since been heard of. “I have no money, James,” whined the old man. “I am poor--very poor.” “I’ve heard that talk before,” said the son, contemptuously; “and I know what it means.” “But I am poor,” repeated old Jerry, eagerly. “I don’t get enough to eat. All I can afford is bread and water.” “How much money have you got in the bank?” asked James. “Wh--what makes you ask that?” asked the old man, in an agitated voice. “Ha! I have hit the nail on the head,” said the visitor with an unpleasant laugh. “You see how poor I am,” said the old man. “Does this poor room look as if I had money?” “No, it doesn’t, but I know you of old, father. I suppose you are the same old miser you used to be. I shouldn’t wonder if you could raise thousands of dollars if you chose.” “Hear him talk!” ejaculated the old man, raising his feeble arm in despairing protest. “I--I haven’t got any money except a few cents that Paul brought me yesterday.” “And who is Paul?” asked the son, quickly. “He is a boy I took years ago when he was very small. I--I took him out of charity.” “Very likely. That’s so like you,” sneered the son. “I warrant you have got more out of him than he cost you.” This was true enough, as Paul could testify. He was only six when he came under the old man’s care, but even at that tender age he was sent out on the street to sell papers and matches, and old Jerry tried to induce him to beg; but that was something the boy had always steadfastly refused to do.