“Give it here, boss.”
“First tell me where my—where the telegraph boy lives.”
“If I should, you might put it back in your pocket,” said Tom, cunningly.
Barclay did not resent this imputation upon his good faith, for his sense of honor was not very keen, and he would only have regarded such a trick as smart. In this case, however, he was so anxious to learn where his father lived that he had no idea of cheating his confidential messenger.
“No, boy, I’m on the square,” he answered. “Here, take the money and tell me the number.”
Tom took the dollar, chucked it in the air, catching it dexterously as it came down, and then pocketed it with an air of satisfaction. He was neither provident nor industrious, and it was rare that he found himself in possession of so large a sum.
“No. 105 Ludlow Street,” he said. “That’s the number.”
“Are you sure of that? Did you see the old man?” demanded Barclay, eagerly.
“No, I didn’t see him, but I knowed he was there, for he and Paul live together,” answered Tom.
“That’s near Grand Street, isn’t it?”