“My name is Paul Parton,” answered the telegraph boy, with a glance of surprise. “Were you ever in California?” “Not that I know of, sir.” “It’s strange!” said the miner, reflectively. “What is strange, sir?” “You are the living image of a man I used to know a dozen or fourteen years since in California. Were you born in New York?” “I think so, sir--I don’t know.” “Is your father living?” “No, sir; I live with an old man who is not related to me.” “Was your father ever in California?” “He may have been, sir; but I was so young when he died that I don’t know much about his history.” “What is that number on your cap?” “I am Number 91, and work for the District Telegraph Company.” “Number 91? Well, my boy, I hope you’ll excuse the liberty I took in addressing you. The California miners are rather unceremonious. I suppose you think it strange?” “No, sir, not at all,” returned Paul, politely. “I am glad to have made your acquaintance.” As he left the ferry, and lost sight of his questioner, he regretted that he had not at least inquired his name. “He may have known my father,” thought Paul, “and I should be glad to meet some of his friends. I don’t think old Jerry knows much about him. I am getting tired of living with the old man, and should like to meet some relative or friend of whom I need not be ashamed.” CHAPTER III. OLD JERRY THE MISER. At six o’clock every other day Paul was let off from the office, other days he stayed much later. On this particular day he was dismissed at six, and bent his steps homeward. He paused in front of a tall, shabby brick tenement house, unsightly in its surroundings, and abounding inside in unsavory smells, and took his way up the creaking staircase to a room on the fourth floor. He opened the door and entered. The room was bare and cheerless in the extreme. The floor was uncarpeted, and if it had ever been painted it retained no vestiges of it. Two chairs, one broken, a small table which would have been dear at fifty cents, a low bedstead in one corner with a dirty covering--there were no sheets--and a small cot bed which Paul occupied--these were about all that could claim the name of furniture. There was, however, a wooden chest, originally a sailor’s, probably, which the telegraph boy used to hold the few extra clothes he possessed. Old Jerry was sitting on one side of the bedstead. “Good evening, grandfather,” said Paul, cheerfully. “It isn’t a good ev’ning,” answered the old man, querulously. “I--I haven’t made a cent today.” “I thought you got ten cents by begging,” said Paul. “I--I forgot that. I might have got more if you hadn’t interfered. You are very hard on your poor old grandfather, Paul.” “I can’t bear to have you beg,” said Paul, his brows contracting. “I don’t want to have it said that I live with a beggar.” “It isn’t my fault that I am very poor, Paul.” “Are you so very poor?” asked Paul, pointedly.