"Where's Tom Brady?" asked Frank, looking about him. "Is he out on an errand?"
"Tom's sick," said the superintendent. "He's got a fever."
"It's bad for him," said Johnny, "for his mother and sister depended on Tom's wages. Poor Tom felt bad because he had to give up work."
"Where does he live?" asked Frank, with quick sympathy.
"No. — East Fourteenth street," answered Johnny. "I know, because I live in the same block."
"I'll go and see him."
Frank's heart was not hardened by his own prosperity. He knew what it was to be poor, and could enter into the feelings of the unfortunate telegraph boy.
Half an hour found him in front of a large tenement-house, in front of which were playing children of all ages, most of them showing in their faces that unhealthy pallor which so generally marks a tenement-house population.
"Do you know where Mrs. Brady lives?" asked Frank of a girl of twelve.
"Which Brady is it?" asked the girl. "There's three lives here."