“I know both boys, sir. Little Jack is the son of a widow, who sews for a living, and she can’t make enough to support the family, and he has to go out and earn what he can by shines. He is small and weak, and the big boys impose upon him.” “I’m glad he has some friends; Number 91, you’re a brave boy.” “I don’t know about that, sir. But I can’t stand still and see a little kid like that imposed upon by a big brute like Tom Rafferty.” They crossed Broadway, and presently neared Cortlandt Street. Just at the corner stood an old man, with bent form and white hair, dressed with extreme shabbiness. His hand was extended, and he was silently asking for alms. Paul’s cheek flushed, and an expression of mortification swept over his face. “Grandfather!” he said, reproachfully. “Please go home! Don’t beg in the streets. You make me ashamed!” CHAPTER II. THE CORTLANDT STREET FERRY. The old man turned, and, recognizing Paul, looked somewhat ashamed. “I--I couldn’t help it,” he whined. “I’m so poor.” “There is no need for you to beg. I’ll bring you some money tonight.” “Just for a little while. See, a kind gentleman gave me that,” and he displayed a silver dime. Paul looked very much annoyed. “If you don’t stop begging, grandfather,” he said, “I won’t come home at all. I’ll go and sleep at the Newsboys’ Lodge.” The old man looked frightened. Paul turned in every week two dollars and a half of his wages, and old Jerry had no wish to lose so considerable a sum. “I’ll go--I’ll go right away,” he said, hastily. “Be sure you do. If you don’t I shall hear of it, and you won’t see me any more.” Just then a policeman of the Broadway squad, whose business it was to pilot passengers across through the maze of vehicles, took the old man in tow, and led him carefully across the great thoroughfare. Mr. Meacham had watched in attentive silence this interview between Paul and the old man. “So that is your grandfather,” he said. “I call him so,” answered Paul, slowly. “You call him so!” repeated his companion, puzzled. “Isn’t he really your grandfather?” “No, sir; but as I have lived with him ever since I was very small, I have got into the habit of calling him so.” “When did your father die?” “When I was about six years old. He only left a hundred dollars or so, which Jerry took charge of, and took me to live with him. We were living in the same tenement house, and that’s how it came about.” “Is he so very poor?” “I used to think so,” answered Paul, “till one day I found out that he got a monthly pension from some quarter in the city. I don’t know how much it is, but I know he has money deposited in the Bowery Savings Bank.” “How did you find that out, Number 91?”