“That’s more than I got when I was your age, sonny.”
“It doesn’t go very far in the city, when you have your board and clothes to pay for,” replied the young telegraph messenger.
“That’s so. I didn’t think of that. I was reared on a farm, where they didn’t make much account of the victuals you ate.”
“We have to make account of it here, sir.”
“So you don’t have much left out of your four dollars?”
“No, sir; but I get rather more than four dollars. Sometimes the gentlemen I am working for give me a little extra for myself.”
“How much does that come to—in a week?”
“Well, sometimes I make a dollar or two extra. It depends a good deal on whether I fall in with liberal gentlemen or not. I don’t mean this as a hint, sir,” added Paul, smiling. “I am not entitled to anything extra, but, of course, when it is offered I take it.”
Paul had a motive in saying this. He abhorred the idea of seeming to beg for a gratuity. Besides, judging from the appearance and rusty attire of the old man, he decided that he was poor, and could not afford to pay anything over the regular charges.
“I see,” said the old farmer, as Paul supposed him to be, with a responsive smile. “You’re right there, sonny. If you’re offered a little extra money, it’s all right to take it.”