“He ought to be able to earn something. What does he do?”
“He is a telegraph boy.”
“Ha!” exclaimed the burglar with a scowl, for the word provoked disagreeable memories of the previous night. “I hate telegraph boys.”
“Paul is a good boy—a pretty good boy, but he eats a sight.”
The son indulged in a short laugh.
“How does he like your boarding house?” he asked.
“He doesn’t eat here; he goes to a restaurant. He spends piles of money!” groaned the old man.
“Telegraph boys are not generally supposed to revel in riches,” said the son in a sarcastic tone. “It’s so much out of your pocket, eh?”
“Yes,” groaned the old man. “If he would give me all his wages I should be very comfortable.”