[CHAPTER III.
OLD JERRY THE MISER.]
At six o’clock every other day Paul was let off from the office, other days he stayed much later.
On this particular day he was dismissed at six, and bent his steps homeward. He paused in front of a tall, shabby brick tenement house, unsightly in its surroundings, and abounding inside in unsavory smells, and took his way up the creaking staircase to a room on the fourth floor. He opened the door and entered.
The room was bare and cheerless in the extreme. The floor was uncarpeted, and if it had ever been painted it retained no vestiges of it. Two chairs, one broken, a small table which would have been dear at fifty cents, a low bedstead in one corner with a dirty covering—there were no sheets—and a small cot bed which Paul occupied—these were about all that could claim the name of furniture. There was, however, a wooden chest, originally a sailor’s, probably, which the telegraph boy used to hold the few extra clothes he possessed.
Old Jerry was sitting on one side of the bedstead.
“Good evening, grandfather,” said Paul, cheerfully.
“It isn’t a good ev’ning,” answered the old man, querulously. “I—I haven’t made a cent today.”
“I thought you got ten cents by begging,” said Paul.
“I—I forgot that. I might have got more if you hadn’t interfered. You are very hard on your poor old grandfather, Paul.”