“Yes; and now what word from my father? Where can I find him?”
“He does not seem willing to see you,” answered Paul.
James Barclay frowned angrily.
“I believe you’re doing this, you young rascal, keeping me and the old man apart, so you can get hold of his money yourself.”
“You are welcome to think what you like, Mr. Barclay,” said Paul, with spirit. “Good morning!”
“Curse the kid!” muttered Barclay, following the telegraph boy with a vindictive glance.
“That’s what I say, too, boss!”
Barclay turned quickly, and found the speaker to be a bootblack, a boy about Paul’s size. It was Tom Rafferty, a boy introduced in the first chapter, with whose attempted imposition upon a smaller boy in the same line of business Paul had forcibly interfered.
“So you know the kid?” he said, inquiringly.
“I’d ought to,” answered Tom. “Shine yer boots, boss?”