“You are very liberal,” said Paul earnestly, “and I heartily thank you. You can imagine that a hundred dollars is a large sum to a poor telegraph boy.”
“Now,” said the young man, smiling, “let me give you a piece of advice, suggested by my own experience. Don’t drop into any drinking saloon on your way home, or you may fall into the hands of a sharper, as I did.”
“I will remember your caution, sir,” said Paul, smiling.
“It may be safer for you to ride home, as the hour is late.”
“I will do so, sir. Good night and thank you.”
“It seems to me that you are born under a lucky star, No. 91,” said Paul to himself. “In a single evening I have received a sum of money equal to half a year’s wages. If old Jerry only knew it, I should not dare to fall asleep in the same room with him.”
He took the green car whose terminus was the Grand Street Ferry, and in less than half an hour he reached the door of his humble lodging.
He went upstairs and entered the bed chamber—which contrasted so strongly with the handsomely furnished hotel room which he had just left. He expected to find old Jerry fast asleep, but he was mistaken. The old man was lying on his poor bed in a cramped position, his eyes open, moaning piteously.
“What is the matter, Jerry?” he asked, approaching the bed.
“I am sick, Paul,” said the old man. “I—I am feeling very miserable! Do you think I am going to die?”