“I suppose he doesn’t live very luxuriously?”
“Dry bread, and sometimes a little cheese, is what he lives on. Sometimes Mrs. O’Connor, an Irish washerwoman, living in the room below, brings up a plate of meat out of charity.”
Paul uttered the last word bitterly, as if he felt keenly the mortification of the confession.
“But how can you look so well and strong on such fare?” asked the old farmer, gazing not unadmiringly at the red cheeks and healthy complexion of the young telegraph boy.
“I don’t take my meals with grandfather. He wanted me to hand in all my money, and share his meals, but I told him I should die in a week if I had to live like him, so he agreed to let me pay him two dollars and a half a week, and use the rest for myself. I generally eat at some restaurant on the Bowery.”
“But that must cost you more than a dollar and a half a week.”
“So it does, sir, but I get a dollar or two extra on fees from parties that employ me.”
“Even then, at the prices I paid at the New England Hotel, I shouldn’t think you could buy three meals a day.”
“What do you take me for, Mr. Meacham—a Vanderbilt or an Astor?” asked Paul, smiling. “I might as well go to Delmonico’s or the Fifth Avenue Hotel as to the New England House.”
“Where do you eat, then?”