Tom took the dollar, chucked it in the air, catching it dexterously as it came down, and then pocketed it with an air of satisfaction. He was neither provident nor industrious, and it was rare that he found himself in possession of so large a sum. “No. 105 Ludlow Street,” he said. “That’s the number.” “Are you sure of that? Did you see the old man?” demanded Barclay, eagerly. “No, I didn’t see him, but I knowed he was there, for he and Paul live together,” answered Tom. “That’s near Grand Street, isn’t it?” “You’ve hit it boss. Shine yer boots?” “Go ahead!” While this operation was being performed, Tom, whose curiosity was excited, began to question in his turn. “You ain’t no relation to Paul, be you?” he asked. “What business is it of yours?” demanded Barclay, frowning. “Didn’t know yer wanted to keep it secret,” said Tom, abashed. “Have you known the old man long?” “I’ve knowed old Jerry ever since I was a small kid.” “How does he make his living?” “He begs in the streets, when he can get away from Paul. Number 91 is so proud he won’t let him when he knows it.” “I should think he would rather have the old man beg, so he wouldn’t have to give him so much money.” “So should I. I wouldn’t mind. Old Jerry could make enough begging to support himself, easy.” “Evidently you are a different chap from this telegraph boy,” observed Barclay, not without sarcasm. “I hope so,” said Tom Rafferty. “I don’t put on no airs.” “And he does?” “You’d better believe it. And after all he’s only a telegraph boy. I could go on the telegraph myself, if I wanted to.” “Why don’t you?” “I’d rather have my liberty, and be my own boss. I guess I make as much money, any way.” “You could dress better, and be cleaner,” suggested Barclay, surveying the ragged costume and soiled face and hands of the bootblack. “What’s the use of being clean?” asked Tom, with calm philosophy. “You don’t feel no better. Besides, you’re sure to get dirty again. It’s all foolishness.” “Right you are, my boy,” said Barclay, with a smile. “There isn’t much of that foolishness about you.” Here the boy struck the box smartly with his brush, as a sign that the job was completed. Barclay put down his foot and prepared to go. “You haven’t paid, boss,” said the bootblack. “I gave you a dollar.” “That was for something else. You haven’t paid for the shine.” “You ought to throw that in,” said Barclay. “Don’t do business that way, boss.” “Here’s your money, then,” said Barclay, throwing a nickel on the ground at his feet. He had intended all the time to give it, but amused himself by teasing the boy. “Supposing I should want you again, shall I find you here?” “Yes, boss; this is my office,” answered Tom, humorously. “If it’s more convenient, you kin call at my house on Fifth Avenue.”