“I was walking along the Bowery one day on an errand, when, as I was passing the bank, I saw grandfather going up the steps. That made me curious, and I beckoned to a friend of mine, Johnny Woods, and asked him to go in and see what the old man’s business appeared to be. I met Johnny that evening and he told me that he saw grandfather write out a deposit check and pay in money. I couldn’t find out how much it was, but Johnny said there were several bills in the sum.” “Then your grandfather, as you call him, is a miser.” “Yes, sir, that’s about what it comes to.” “In what way does he live?” “We have a poor, miserable room in a tenement on Pearl Street that costs us four dollars a month. Grandfather is always groaning about having to pay so much.” “I suppose he doesn’t live very luxuriously?” “Dry bread, and sometimes a little cheese, is what he lives on. Sometimes Mrs. O’Connor, an Irish washerwoman, living in the room below, brings up a plate of meat out of charity.” Paul uttered the last word bitterly, as if he felt keenly the mortification of the confession. “But how can you look so well and strong on such fare?” asked the old farmer, gazing not unadmiringly at the red cheeks and healthy complexion of the young telegraph boy. “I don’t take my meals with grandfather. He wanted me to hand in all my money, and share his meals, but I told him I should die in a week if I had to live like him, so he agreed to let me pay him two dollars and a half a week, and use the rest for myself. I generally eat at some restaurant on the Bowery.” “But that must cost you more than a dollar and a half a week.” “So it does, sir, but I get a dollar or two extra on fees from parties that employ me.” “Even then, at the prices I paid at the New England Hotel, I shouldn’t think you could buy three meals a day.” “What do you take me for, Mr. Meacham--a Vanderbilt or an Astor?” asked Paul, smiling. “I might as well go to Delmonico’s or the Fifth Avenue Hotel as to the New England House.” “Where do you eat, then?” “Generally at the Jim Fisk restaurant on Chatham Street.” “Is that a cheap restaurant?” “I can get a good breakfast there for eight cents, and a good dinner for eleven.” Mr. Meacham looked surprised. “What on earth can you get for those prices?” he asked. “I can get a cup of coffee, eggs, fish balls, or mutton stew, with bread and butter, for eight cents,” said Paul. “The coffee costs three cents, the other five. Then, for dinner, all kinds of meat cost eight cents a plate, and bread and butter thrown in.” “That’s cheap enough certainly. Is it good?” “It’ll do,” said Paul, briefly. “Last Sunday I got roast turkey. That cost twelve cents.” “Great Scott!” ejaculated the farmer. “I never dreamed of how people live here in this great city.” “You see we can’t all of us eat at Delmonico’s.” “Did your grandfather ever eat at your restaurant?”