“Once I invited him, and told him I would pay the bill. He ate a square meal, meat, coffee, and pie, costing sixteen cents. He seemed to relish it very much, but when we were going away he groaned over my extravagance, and predicted that I would die in the poorhouse. I’ve never succeeded in getting him there since.” “Well, well,” said the farmer, “of all the fools on the footstool, I believe the biggest is the man who deprives himself of vittles to save up money for somebody else to spend. I’m too selfish, for my part.” “There isn’t a day that grandfather doesn’t groan over my foolish extravagance,” continued Paul. “Sometimes it makes me laugh, but oftener it makes me ashamed.” “You don’t feel much attachment to him, then?” “No, sir; perhaps I ought, as he has been my guardian so long, but you saw him yourself, sir--a poor, shabby, dirty old man! How can I feel attached to him?” “I confess it must be hard.” “You don’t think me much to blame, do you?” “I don’t think you to blame at all. Affection must be natural, and there seems to be no ground for it in this case. But isn’t that the ferry?” “Yes, sir.” They crossed the street and entered the ticket office of the Cortlandt Street Ferry. Paul set down the valise, while Mr. Meacham secured a ticket. “Now, Number 91,” said the old man, “how much do I owe you?” Paul stated the sum, and Mr. Meacham put it in his hand. “Thank you, sir,” said Paul, touching his cap. “Stop a minute; here is something for yourself,” said his companion, taking out a silver dollar from his purse. Paul regarded the old man with undisguised amazement. “Are you surprised to get so much?” asked the old man with a smile. “Yes, sir; I--” and he hesitated. “You thought me a poor man, perhaps a mean man?” “No, sir, not that; but I thought you not rich.” “Don’t always judge by the clothes a man wears, Number 91. I own a large farm, and fifty thousand dollars in railroad stocks. That is rich for the country.” “I don’t often get so much as this, sir.” “I suppose not. But I have got a good deal of information out of you. I have heard much that surprised me, that I couldn’t have learned in any other way. So you are welcome to the dollar, and I think I have got my money’s worth.” “I am very much obliged to you, sir.” “That’s all right. Now, Number 91--by the way, what is your real name?” “Paul Parton, sir.” “Then, Paul, if you ever come my way, I should like to have you spend a week or a month on my farm, as a visitor. I live in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, about a couple of miles from the city, and I’ll promise to give you enough to eat at less than you have to pay at the Jim Fisk restaurant.” Paul thanked him with a smile, and turned to leave the ferry. In the waiting room was a tall, bearded man, who looked something like a miner, as indeed he was, just returned from a long sojourn in California. “Excuse me, boy,” he said, advancing towards our hero. “Do you mind telling me your name?”