Paul Parton, for this was his name, did not need any further directions. He was perfectly acquainted with the city, especially in the lower part, where he had lived for years. He crossed Broadway, and, taking an easterly course, made his way to the Bowery, on which, at the corner of Bayard Street, the New England Hotel stands. This is a very respectable inn, and by its fair accommodations and moderate prices attracts a large number of patrons. Entering, Paul advanced to the desk. “Is Mr. D. L. Meacham in?” he asked, referring to the card given him by the superintendent. “Here he is!” replied, not the clerk to whom the question was addressed, but a tall, elderly man with gray hair, clad in a rusty suit, evidently a gentleman from the rural districts. “Are you the telegraph boy?” he asked. “Yes, sir.” “I want to go down to the ferry to take the train to Philadelphia.” “All right, sir. Is this your valise?” asked Paul, pointing to a shabby traveling bag that might, from its appearance, have been used by Noah when he was on board the ark. “Yes, that’s mine.” “Do you want to start now, Mr. Meacham?” “Well, I might as well. I hain’t got nothing to keep me here. How fur is it?” “About a mile. Perhaps a little more.” Paul took the valise in his hand, and went out of the hotel, followed by the old man. “Do you know the way all round here, sonny?” he asked. “Yes, sir.” “Well, it beats me. I get turned round, and don’t know where I am. If it wasn’t for that, I could have gone to the ferry alone. But land’s sake! I might wander all round till tomorrow morning without finding it.” “Then I guess it’s better to have a boy with you,” said Paul, laughingly. “You look like a smart boy,” said the old man, attentively examining Number 91. “Do you like your business?” “Pretty well,” answered Paul. “Is the pay pretty good?” “I get four dollars a week.” “That’s more than I got when I was your age, sonny.” “It doesn’t go very far in the city, when you have your board and clothes to pay for,” replied the young telegraph messenger. “That’s so. I didn’t think of that. I was reared on a farm, where they didn’t make much account of the victuals you ate.” “We have to make account of it here, sir.” “So you don’t have much left out of your four dollars?” “No, sir; but I get rather more than four dollars. Sometimes the gentlemen I am working for give me a little extra for myself.” “How much does that come to--in a week?” “Well, sometimes I make a dollar or two extra. It depends a good deal on whether I fall in with liberal gentlemen or not. I don’t mean this as a hint, sir,” added Paul, smiling. “I am not entitled to anything extra, but, of course, when it is offered I take it.” Paul had a motive in saying this. He abhorred the idea of seeming to beg for a gratuity. Besides, judging from the appearance and rusty attire of the old man, he decided that he was poor, and could not afford to pay anything over the regular charges.