“Number 87!” called the superintendent.
A small boy of fifteen, but not looking over thirteen, left his seat and advanced to the desk.
“No, I don’t think you’ll do,” said the superintendent “There’s a man at the New England Hotel who wants a boy to go down with him to the Cortlandt Street Ferry, and carry his valise. A larger boy will be required.”
He glanced at the boys in waiting and called:
“Number 91!”
The boy of whom we have spoken rose with alacrity, and stepped up to the desk. He had been sitting on the bench for an hour, and was glad of an opportunity to go out on an errand.
The superintendent wrote on a card the name “D. L. Meacham, New England Hotel,” and handed it to the boy.
“Go at once to the New England Hotel, and call for that gentleman,” he said. “If he is not in, wait for him.”
“Yes, sir.”
Paul Parton, for this was his name, did not need any further directions. He was perfectly acquainted with the city, especially in the lower part, where he had lived for years. He crossed Broadway, and, taking an easterly course, made his way to the Bowery, on which, at the corner of Bayard Street, the New England Hotel stands. This is a very respectable inn, and by its fair accommodations and moderate prices attracts a large number of patrons.