“So he’s a telegraph boy!” said Barclay, musingly. “I should like to see him, especially as you speak so well of him. He has a number, hasn’t he? I notice the boys have a number on their caps.”
“Yes, sir. Paul is Number 91.”
“Number 91?” returned Barclay, briskly. “I think I can remember that. I’m much obliged to you, my good lady.”
“Shure, and you’re a very polite gintleman,” said Mrs. O’Connor, who was flattered at being called a lady.
“Why shouldn’t I be polite to a lady like you?” said Barclay. “Perhaps you can give me a little more information.”
“Shure, and I will if I can, sir.”
“At what office can I find this Paul—Number 91, as you call him? I should like to speak to him about my aged relative.”
“I can’t just recollect the number, sir, but the office where Paul goes is on Broadway, same side as the St. Nicholas Hotel, and not far away from it.”
“Thank you very much. You are really the most obliging lady I have met for a long time.”