“Then I wish he’d move out of it. Cops are no company for decent people.” It is small wonder that James Barclay did not enjoy the company of a class of men who, first and last, had given him considerable trouble. His wife did not reply, but picked up the rumpled dress and began to smooth it. “Now, Ellen,” said Barclay, changing his tone out of policy, “I’ll make a bargain with you. I want to go over to New York, and hunt up that telegraph boy. Through him I can track my father and get some money. See, this is all I have in the world,” and he drew out four pennies from his pocket. “But the children, James.” “The children can get along on half of it. Give me fifty cents, and I will give you ten dollars as soon as I make a raise. That’s pretty good interest, hey, old woman?” Mrs. Barclay drew from her pocket two silver quarters and handed them to her husband. “There, take them, James,” she said, “and don’t forget your promise. I made that money by hard work.” “It will be all right, Ellen,” said Barclay, thrusting the money carelessly into his vest pocket. “You can’t raise a crop without seed, you know.” He put on his hat and left the house whistling. Arrived in New York, James Barclay lost no time in returning to his father’s old lodgings. Mrs. O’Connor, one of the tenants, chanced to be just coming out of the house with a bundle of clean clothes, which she was about to carry to a customer. “Excuse me, ma’am,” said Barclay, politely, for he could be polite when he saw fit, “I believe you knew an old man who moved away from here recently?” “Old Jerry? Yes, I knew him well. He lived here ever since I did, and what took him away so sudden I can’t tell.” “I am sorry not to find him, for I know of something to his advantage.” “He didn’t leave word where he was going, more’s the pity. I wish he had, for I’d like to have called to see him and the bye some time.” “There was a boy, then, who lived with him? I believe I have heard him mentioned before.” “Yes, sir, and a nice bye he was, and a smart one. He was rale kind to the old man, Paul was, and I don’t think old Jerry could have got along without him.” “He was employed in a store, wasn’t he?” asked Barclay, assuming less knowledge than he possessed. “No, indade. Paul is a telegraph bye, and has been for ’most two years. He’s a favorite with the company, I’m thinkin’, as he ought to be, for he always attinds to his duties, and is up early and late.” “So he’s a telegraph boy!” said Barclay, musingly. “I should like to see him, especially as you speak so well of him. He has a number, hasn’t he? I notice the boys have a number on their caps.” “Yes, sir. Paul is Number 91.” “Number 91?” returned Barclay, briskly. “I think I can remember that. I’m much obliged to you, my good lady.” “Shure, and you’re a very polite gintleman,” said Mrs. O’Connor, who was flattered at being called a lady.