“There’s more’n one way of finding out what you want to know,” he soliloquized. “The old man ain’t sharp, or else he thinks I ain’t. I’ll give him a call when that troublesome telegraph boy is about his business. Me and the old man will have considerable business to discuss. He’s going to give me a share of his money, or I’ll shake the life out of him. It ain’t pleasant to discipline your dad, but when he don’t treat you like he ought, it’s the only way.” Tom Rafferty, towards the close of the afternoon, loitered in the neighborhood of the telegraph office where Paul was employed. When Number 91 left the office and betook himself homeward, he did not notice that he was followed at the distance of a few rods by Tom Rafferty. But such was the case. CHAPTER XVIII. JAMES BARCLAY OBTAINS A CLEW. No commission could have been more congenial to Tom Rafferty than to track Paul and the miser. He had never liked Paul, whom he charged with putting on airs, because he was better dressed than himself, but his aversion had deepened to hatred since the telegraph boy’s forcible interference in favor of little Jack. He saw a way now to annoy Paul, for he was satisfied that James Barclay was no friend of Jerry or Number 91. He hovered round the telegraph office till Paul was dismissed, and then, unobserved by him, sauntered along behind him. At Grand Street, Paul crossed Broadway and proceeded eastward to where Ludlow Street opens out of it, and proceeded in a southerly direction for about five minutes. Had he turned back, he might have suspected Tom’s motive in following him, but he was absorbed in his own thoughts, and never looked behind him. At length he entered an open doorway and went upstairs. Tom carefully noted the number, and then, with a look of triumph, went back to his usual lounging place at the City Hall Park. The next morning, at the hour fixed, James Barclay entered the park and looked about for Tom. Tom, who was also on the lookout for him, put himself in his way. “Shine yer boots, boss?” he asked, with a grin. “Oh, you’re the boy I saw yesterday,” said Barclay, recognizing him. “Well, what luck have you had?” “I follered him, and found out where he lives, boss.” “Good!” said Barclay, brightening up. “Where is it?” “Where’s the dollar you was to give me?” asked Tom, cautiously. “Here it is!” said Barclay, producing a silver dollar. “Give it here, boss.” “First tell me where my--where the telegraph boy lives.” “If I should, you might put it back in your pocket,” said Tom, cunningly. Barclay did not resent this imputation upon his good faith, for his sense of honor was not very keen, and he would only have regarded such a trick as smart. In this case, however, he was so anxious to learn where his father lived that he had no idea of cheating his confidential messenger. “No, boy, I’m on the square,” he answered. “Here, take the money and tell me the number.”