Adventures of a Telegraph Boy or 'Number 91'

Horatio Alger

Horatio Alger, Jr.

Adventures of a Telegraph Boy or 'Number 91'

CHAPTER I

PAUL, THE TELEGRAPH BOY

On Broadway, not far from the St. Nicholas Hotel, is an office of the American District Telegraph. Let us enter.

A part of the office is railed off, within which the superintendent has a desk, and receives orders for boys to be sent to different parts of the city. On benches in the back part of the office are sitting perhaps a dozen boys varying in age from fifteen to eighteen, clad in the well known blue uniform prescribed by the company. Each wears a cap on which may be read the initials of the company, with the boy’s number.

At the end of the benches sat a stout, well made boy, apparently sixteen years of age. He had a warm, expressive face, and would generally be considered good looking.

On his cap we read this inscription:

A. D. T

91

Some of the boys were smaller, two or three larger than Number 91. But among them all, he was the most attractive in appearance. The boys sat on the benches in patience waiting for a call from the superintendent. They were usually selected in turn, but sometimes the fitness of a particular boy for the errand required was taken into consideration.

“Number 87!” called the superintendent.

A small boy of fifteen, but not looking over thirteen, left his seat and advanced to the desk.

“No, I don’t think you’ll do,” said the superintendent “There’s a man at the New England Hotel who wants a boy to go down with him to the Cortlandt Street Ferry, and carry his valise. A larger boy will be required.”

He glanced at the boys in waiting and called:

“Number 91!”

The boy of whom we have spoken rose with alacrity, and stepped up to the desk. He had been sitting on the bench for an hour, and was glad of an opportunity to go out on an errand.

The superintendent wrote on a card the name “D. L. Meacham, New England Hotel,” and handed it to the boy.

“Go at once to the New England Hotel, and call for that gentleman,” he said. “If he is not in, wait for him.”

“Yes, sir.”

Paul Parton, for this was his name, did not need any further directions. He was perfectly acquainted with the city, especially in the lower part, where he had lived for years. He crossed Broadway, and, taking an easterly course, made his way to the Bowery, on which, at the corner of Bayard Street, the New England Hotel stands. This is a very respectable inn, and by its fair accommodations and moderate prices attracts a large number of patrons.

Entering, Paul advanced to the desk.

“Is Mr. D. L. Meacham in?” he asked, referring to the card given him by the superintendent.

“Here he is!” replied, not the clerk to whom the question was addressed, but a tall, elderly man with gray hair, clad in a rusty suit, evidently a gentleman from the rural districts.

“Are you the telegraph boy?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“I want to go down to the ferry to take the train to Philadelphia.”

“All right, sir. Is this your valise?” asked Paul, pointing to a shabby traveling bag that might, from its appearance, have been used by Noah when he was on board the ark.

“Yes, that’s mine.”

“Do you want to start now, Mr. Meacham?”

“Well, I might as well. I hain’t got nothing to keep me here. How fur is it?”

“About a mile. Perhaps a little more.”

Paul took the valise in his hand, and went out of the hotel, followed by the old man.

“Do you know the way all round here, sonny?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, it beats me. I get turned round, and don’t know where I am. If it wasn’t for that, I could have gone to the ferry alone. But land’s sake! I might wander all round till tomorrow morning without finding it.”

“Then I guess it’s better to have a boy with you,” said Paul, laughingly.

“You look like a smart boy,” said the old man, attentively examining Number 91. “Do you like your busines