“No, it doesn’t, but I know you of old, father. I suppose you are the same old miser you used to be. I shouldn’t wonder if you could raise thousands of dollars if you chose.”
“Hear him talk!” ejaculated the old man, raising his feeble arm in despairing protest. “I—I haven’t got any money except a few cents that Paul brought me yesterday.”
“And who is Paul?” asked the son, quickly.
“He is a boy I took years ago when he was very small. I—I took him out of charity.”
“Very likely. That’s so like you,” sneered the son. “I warrant you have got more out of him than he cost you.”
This was true enough, as Paul could testify. He was only six when he came under the old man’s care, but even at that tender age he was sent out on the street to sell papers and matches, and old Jerry tried to induce him to beg; but that was something the boy had always steadfastly refused to do.
He had an independent, self respecting spirit, which made him ashamed to beg. He was always willing to work, and to work hard, and he generally had an opportunity to do so. This will relieve Paul from the charge of ingratitude, for he had always paid his own way, and really owed Jerry nothing.
“He—he has cost me a great deal,” whined Jerry, “but I knew his father, and I could not turn him out into the streets.”
“And how old is this boy now?” asked the son.
“I—I think he is about sixteen.”