“I believe you’re doing this, you young rascal, keeping me and the old man apart, so you can get hold of his money yourself.” “You are welcome to think what you like, Mr. Barclay,” said Paul, with spirit. “Good morning!” “Curse the kid!” muttered Barclay, following the telegraph boy with a vindictive glance. “That’s what I say, too, boss!” Barclay turned quickly, and found the speaker to be a bootblack, a boy about Paul’s size. It was Tom Rafferty, a boy introduced in the first chapter, with whose attempted imposition upon a smaller boy in the same line of business Paul had forcibly interfered. “So you know the kid?” he said, inquiringly. “I’d ought to,” answered Tom. “Shine yer boots, boss?” “Yes, I’ll have a shine,” answered Barclay, thinking he might make this boy of service. “So you don’t like Number 91?” “No, I don’t,” was the emphatic reply. “What’s the matter with him?” “He thinks himself above me, jest because he is a telegraph boy, and I am a bootblack.” “Have you known him long?” “Ever since he was so high,” said Tom, indicating the height of a boy of six. “Do you know the old man he lives with?” “Know old Jerry? Of course I do. Used to live in the same house, when dad was livin’.” “So the boy has always lived with him?” “Ever since I knowed him.” “Humph! Where do they live now?” “Round in Pearl Street.” “No, they don’t. They’ve moved.” “I didn’t know it. Must ’ave moved lately.” “Yes, it was. Now, boy--what’s your name?” “Tom Rafferty.” “Then, Tom, would you like a job?” “Wouldn’t I!” “I want to find out where the boy and the old man live. I’ve got some business with the old man, but he don’t want to see me.” “Wouldn’t Paul tell you?” “No.” “What’s it worth, boss?” asked Tom, with an eye to business. “It depends on how soon you can find out. How can you find out?” “I’ll foller Paul when he goes home from the office.” “That’ll do. Do you think you can find out for me tonight, so as to let me know tomorrow morning?” “I reckon I can, boss.” “Meet me here tomorrow morning, and tell me where they live, and I’ll give you a dollar.” Tom had not been expecting more than a quarter, and was very well pleased with Barclay’s liberality. “I’ll do it, boss!” he said, striking the box, to indicate that the shine was completed. Apart from the money that was promised him, he was glad to thwart Paul, who didn’t want his customer to ascertain the address. “I’ll meet you here about nine o’clock, and have another shine,” said Barclay, as he slipped ten cents--double pay--into Tom’s hand. “You’ll find me on hand, and right side up with care,” said Tom. “You’re a gentleman I like to fall in with.” James Barclay walked away, well pleased with the arrangement he had made.