15192	----	[Illustration] SALOMY JANE BY BRET HARTE WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY HARRISON FISHER AND ARTHUR I. KELLER BOSTON AND NEW YORK HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY THE RIVERSIDE PRESS CAMBRIDGE 1910 COPYRIGHT, 1898, BY BRET HARTE COPYRIGHT, 1900, BY HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO. COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY ALL RIGHTS RESERVED _Published October 1910_ CONTENTS I A KISS AND AN ESCAPE 1 II THE LADY'S REFLECTIONS 19 III THE KISS REPEATED 35 IV ANOTHER ESCAPE 59 A KISS AND AN ESCAPE [Illustration] I Only one shot had been fired. It had gone wide of its mark,--the ringleader of the Vigilantes,--and had left Red Pete, who had fired it, covered by their rifles and at their mercy. For his hand had been cramped by hard riding, and his eye distracted by their sudden onset, and so the inevitable end had come. He submitted sullenly to his captors; his companion fugitive and horse-thief gave up the protracted struggle with a feeling not unlike relief. Even the hot and revengeful victors were content. They had taken their men alive. At any time during the long chase they could have brought them down by a rifle-shot, but it would have been unsportsmanlike, and have ended in a free fight, instead of an example. And, for the matter of that, their doom was already sealed. Their end, by a rope and a tree, although not sanctified by law, would have at least the deliberation of justice. It was the tribute paid by the Vigilantes to that order which they had themselves disregarded in the pursuit and capture. Yet this strange logic of the frontier sufficed them, and gave a certain dignity to the climax. "Ef you've got anything to say to your folks, say it _now_, and say it quick," said the ringleader. Red Pete glanced around him. He had been run to earth at his own cabin in the clearing, whence a few relations and friends, mostly women and children, non-combatants, had outflowed, gazing vacantly at the twenty Vigilantes who surrounded them. All were accustomed to scenes of violence, blood-feud, chase, and hardship; it was only the suddenness of the onset and its quick result that had surprised them. They looked on with dazed curiosity and some disappointment; there had been no fight to speak of--no spectacle! A boy, nephew of Red Pete, got upon the rain-barrel to view the proceedings more comfortably; a tall, handsome, lazy Kentucky girl, a visiting neighbor, leaned against the doorpost, chewing gum. Only a yellow hound was actively perplexed. He could not make out if a hunt were just over or beginning, and ran eagerly backwards and forwards, leaping alternately upon the captives and the captors. The ringleader repeated his challenge. Red Pete gave a reckless laugh and looked at his wife. At which Mrs. Red Pete came forward. It seemed that she had much to say, incoherently, furiously, vindictively, to the ringleader. His soul would roast in hell for that day's work! He called himself a man, skunkin' in the open and afraid to show himself except with a crowd of, other "Kiyi's" around a house of women and children. Heaping insult upon insult, inveighing against his low blood, his ancestors, his dubious origin, she at last flung out a wild taunt of his invalid wife, the insult of a woman to a woman, until his white face grew rigid, and only that Western-American fetich of the sanctity of sex kept his twitching fingers from the lock of his rifle. Even her husband noticed it, and with a half-authoritative "Let up on that, old gal," and a pat of his freed left hand on her back, took his last parting. The ringleader, still white under the lash of the woman's tongue, turned abruptly to the second captive. "And if _you_'ve got anybody to say 'good-by' to, now's your chance." The man looked up. Nobody stirred or spoke. He was a stranger there, being a chance confederate picked up by Red Pete, and known to no one. Still young, but an outlaw from his abandoned boyhood, of which father and mother were only a forgotten dream, he loved horses and stole them, fully accepting the frontier penalty of life for the interference with that animal on which a man's life so often depended. But he understood the good points of a horse, as was shown by the one he bestrode--until a few days before the property of Judge Boompointer. This was his sole distinction. The unexpected question stirred him for a moment out of the attitude of reckless indifference, for attitude it was, and a part of his profession. But it may have touched him that at that moment he was less than his companion and his virago wife. However, he only shook his head. As he did so his eye casually fell on the handsome girl by the doorpost, who was looking at him. The ringleader, too, may have been touched by his complete loneliness, for _he_ hesitated. At the same moment he saw that the girl was looking at his friendless captive. A grotesque idea struck him. "Salomy Jane, ye might do worse than come yere and say 'good-by' to a dying man, and him a stranger," he said. There seemed to be a subtle stroke of poetry and irony in this that equally struck the apathetic crowd. It was well known that Salomy Jane Clay thought no small potatoes of herself, and always held off the local swain with a lazy nymph-like scorn. Nevertheless, she slowly disengaged herself from the doorpost, and, to everybody's astonishment, lounged with languid grace and outstretched hand towards the prisoner. The color came into the gray reckless mask which the doomed man wore as her right hand grasped his left, just loosed by his captors. Then she paused; her shy, fawn-like eyes grew bold, and fixed themselves upon him. She took the chewing-gum from her mouth, wiped her red lips with the back of her hand, by a sudden lithe spring placed her foot on his stirrup, and, bounding to the saddle, threw her arms about his neck and pressed a kiss upon his lips. [Illustration] They remained thus for a hushed moment--the man on the threshold of death, the young woman in the fullness of youth and beauty--linked together. Then the crowd laughed; in the audacious effrontery of the girl's act the ultimate fate of the two men was forgotten. She slipped languidly to the ground; _she_ was the focus of all eyes,--she only! The ringleader saw it and his opportunity. He shouted: "Time's up--Forward!" urged his horse beside his captives, and the next moment the whole cavalcade was sweeping over the clearing into the darkening woods. Their destination was Sawyer's Crossing, the headquarters of the committee, where the council was still sitting, and where both culprits were to expiate the offense of which that council had already found them guilty. They rode in great and breathless haste,--a haste in which, strangely enough, even the captives seemed to join. That haste possibly prevented them from noticing the singular change which had taken place in the second captive since the episode of the kiss. His high color remained, as if it had burned through his mask of indifference; his eyes were quick, alert, and keen, his mouth half open as if the girl's kiss still lingered there. And that haste had made them careless, for the horse of the man who led him slipped in a gopher-hole, rolled over, unseated his rider, and even dragged the bound and helpless second captive from Judge Boompointer's favorite mare. In an instant they were all on their feet again, but in that supreme moment the second captive felt the cords which bound his arms had slipped to his wrists. By keeping his elbows to his sides, and obliging the others to help him mount, it escaped their notice. By riding close to his captors, and keeping in the crush of the throng, he further concealed the accident, slowly working his hands downwards out of his bonds. Their way lay through a sylvan wilderness, mid-leg deep in ferns, whose tall fronds brushed their horses' sides in their furious gallop and concealed the flapping of the captive's loosened cords. The peaceful vista, more suggestive of the offerings of nymph and shepherd than of human sacrifice, was in a strange contrast to this whirlwind rush of stern, armed men. The westering sun pierced the subdued light and the tremor of leaves with yellow lances; birds started into song on blue and dove-like wings, and on either side of the trail of this vengeful storm could be heard the murmur of hidden and tranquil waters. In a few moments they would be on the open ridge, whence sloped the common turnpike to "Sawyer's," a mile away. It was the custom of returning cavalcades to take this hill at headlong speed, with shouts and cries that heralded their coming. They withheld the latter that day, as inconsistent with their dignity; but, emerging from the wood, swept silently like an avalanche down the slope. They were well under way, looking only to their horses, when the second captive slipped his right arm from the bonds and succeeded in grasping the reins that lay trailing on the horse's neck. A sudden _vaquero_ jerk, which the well-trained animal understood, threw him on his haunches with his forelegs firmly planted on the slope. The rest of the cavalcade swept on; the man who was leading the captive's horse by the _riata_, thinking only of another accident, dropped the line to save himself from being dragged backwards from his horse. The captive wheeled, and the next moment was galloping furiously up the slope. It was the work of a moment; a trained horse and an experienced hand. The cavalcade had covered nearly fifty yards before they could pull up; the freed captive had covered half that distance uphill. The road was so narrow that only two shots could be fired, and these broke dust two yards ahead of the fugitive. They had not dared to fire low; the horse was the more valuable animal. The fugitive knew this in his extremity also, and would have gladly taken a shot in his own leg to spare that of his horse. Five men were detached to recapture or kill him. The latter seemed inevitable. But he had calculated his chances; before they could reload he had reached the woods again; winding in and out between the pillared tree trunks, he offered no mark. They knew his horse was superior to their own; at the end of two hours they returned, for he had disappeared without track or trail. The end was briefly told in the "Sierra Record:"-- "Red Pete, the notorious horse-thief, who had so long eluded justice, was captured and hung by the Sawyer's Crossing Vigilantes last week; his confederate, unfortunately, escaped on a valuable horse belonging to Judge Boompointer. The judge had refused one thousand dollars for the horse only a week before. As the thief, who is still at large, would find it difficult to dispose of so valuable an animal without detection, the chances are against either of them turning up again." THE LADY'S REFLECTIONS [Illustration] II Salomy Jane watched the cavalcade until it had disappeared. Then she became aware that her brief popularity had passed. Mrs. Red Pete, in stormy hysterics, had included her in a sweeping denunciation of the whole universe, possibly for simulating an emotion in which she herself was deficient. The other women hated her for her momentary exaltation above them; only the children still admired her as one who had undoubtedly "canoodled" with a man "a-going to be hung"--a daring flight beyond their wildest ambition. Salomy Jane accepted the change with charming unconcern. She put on her yellow nankeen sunbonnet,--a hideous affair that would have ruined any other woman, but which only enhanced the piquancy of her fresh brunette skin,--tied the strings, letting the blue-black braids escape below its frilled curtain behind, jumped on her mustang with a casual display of agile ankles in shapely white stockings, whistled to the hound, and waving her hand with a "So long, sonny!" to the lately bereft but admiring nephew, flapped and fluttered away in her short brown holland gown. Her father's house was four miles distant. Contrasted with the cabin she had just quitted, it was a superior dwelling, with a long "lean-to" at the rear, which brought the eaves almost to the ground and made it look like a low triangle. It had a long barn and cattle sheds, for Madison Clay was a "great" stockraiser and the owner of a "quarter section." It had a sitting-room and a parlor organ, whose transportation thither had been a marvel of "packing." These things were supposed to give Salomy Jane an undue importance, but the girl's reserve and inaccessibility to local advances were rather the result of a cool, lazy temperament and the preoccupation of a large, protecting admiration for her father, for some years a widower. For Mr. Madison Clay's life had been threatened in one or two feuds,--it was said, not without cause,--and it is possible that the pathetic spectacle of her father doing his visiting with a shotgun may have touched her closely and somewhat prejudiced her against the neighboring masculinity. The thought that cattle, horses, and "quarter section" would one day be hers did not disturb her calm. As for Mr. Clay, he accepted her as housewifely, though somewhat "interfering," and, being one of "his own womankind," therefore not without some degree of merit. "Wot's this yer I'm hearin' of your doin's over at Red Pete's? Honey-foglin' with a horse-thief, eh?" said Mr. Clay two days later at breakfast. "I reckon you heard about the straight thing, then," said Salomy Jane unconcernedly, without looking round. "What do you kalkilate Rube will say to it? What are you goin' to tell _him_?" said Mr. Clay sarcastically. "Rube," or Reuben Waters, was a swain supposed to be favored particularly by Mr. Clay. Salomy Jane looked up. "I'll tell him that when _he's_ on his way to be hung, I'll kiss him,--not till then," said the young lady brightly. This delightful witticism suited the paternal humor, and Mr. Clay smiled; but, nevertheless, he frowned a moment afterwards. "But this yer hoss-thief got away arter all, and that's a hoss of a different color," he said grimly. Salomy Jane put down her knife and fork. This was certainly a new and different phase of the situation. She had never thought of it before, and, strangely enough, for the first time she became interested in the man. "Got away?" she repeated. "Did they let him off?" "Not much," said her father briefly. "Slipped his cords, and going down the grade pulled up short, just like a _vaquero_ agin a lassoed bull, almost draggin' the man leadin' him off his hoss, and then skyuted up the grade. For that matter, on that hoss o' Judge Boompointer's he mout have dragged the whole posse of 'em down on their knees ef he liked! Sarved 'em right, too. Instead of stringin' him up afore the door, or shootin' him on sight, they must allow to take him down afore the hull committee 'for an example.' 'Example' be blowed! Ther' 's example enough when some stranger comes unbeknownst slap onter a man hanged to a tree and plugged full of holes. _That's_ an example, and _he_ knows what it means. Wot more do ye want? But then those Vigilantes is allus clingin' and hangin' onter some mere scrap o'the law they're pretendin' to despise. It makes me sick! Why, when Jake Myers shot your ole Aunt Viney's second husband, and I laid in wait for Jake afterwards in the Butternut Hollow, did _I_ tie him to his hoss and fetch him down to your Aunt Viney's cabin 'for an example' before I plugged him? No!" in deep disgust. "No! Why, I just meandered through the wood, careless-like, till he comes out, and I just rode up to him, and I said"-- But Salomy Jane had heard her father's story before. Even one's dearest relatives are apt to become tiresome in narration. "I know, dad," she interrupted; "but this yer man,--this hoss-thief,--did _he_ get clean away without gettin' hurt at all?" "He did, and unless he's fool enough to sell the hoss he kin keep away, too. So ye see, ye can't ladle out purp stuff about a 'dyin' stranger' to Rube. He won't swaller it." "All the same, dad," returned the girl cheerfully, "I reckon to say it, and say _more_; I'll tell him that ef _he_ manages to get away too, I'll marry him--there! But ye don't ketch Rube takin' any such risks in gettin' ketched, or in gettin' away arter!" Madison Clay smiled grimly, pushed back his chair, rose, dropped a perfunctory kiss on his daughter's hair, and, taking his shotgun from the corner, departed on a peaceful Samaritan mission to a cow who had dropped a calf in the far pasture. Inclined as he was to Reuben's wooing from his eligibility as to property, he was conscious that he was sadly deficient in certain qualities inherent in the Clay family. It certainly would be a kind of _mésalliance_. Left to herself, Salomy Jane stared a long while at the coffee-pot, and then called the two squaws who assisted her in her household duties, to clear away the things while she went up to her own room to make her bed. Here she was confronted with a possible prospect of that proverbial bed she might be making in her willfulness, and on which she must lie, in the photograph of a somewhat serious young man of refined features--Reuben Waters--stuck in her window-frame. Salomy Jane smiled over her last witticism regarding him and enjoyed it, like your true humorist, and then, catching sight of her own handsome face in the little mirror, smiled again. But wasn't it funny about that horse-thief getting off after all? Good Lordy! Fancy Reuben hearing he was alive and going round with that kiss of hers set on his lips! She laughed again, a little more abstractedly. And he had returned it like a man, holding her tight and almost breathless, and he going to be hung the next minute! Salomy Jane had been kissed at other times, by force, chance, or stratagem. In a certain ingenuous forfeit game of the locality known as "I'm a-pinin'," many had "pined" for a "sweet kiss" from Salomy Jane, which she had yielded in a sense of honor and fair play. She had never been kissed like this before--she would never again; and yet the man was alive! And behold, she could see in the mirror that she was blushing! She should hardly know him again. A young man with very bright eyes, a flushed and sunburnt cheek, a kind of fixed look in the face, and no beard; no, none that she could feel. Yet he was not at all like Reuben, not a bit. She took Reuben's picture from the window, and laid it on her work-box. And to think she did not even know this young man's name! That was queer. To be kissed by a man whom she might never know! Of course he knew hers. She wondered if he remembered it and her. But of course he was so glad to get off with his life that he never thought of anything else. Yet she did not give more than four or five minutes to these speculations, and, like a sensible girl, thought of something else. Once again, however, in opening the closet, she found the brown holland gown she had worn on the day before; thought it very unbecoming, and regretted that she had not worn her best gown on her visit to Red Pete's cottage. On such an occasion she really might have been more impressive. THE KISS REPEATED [Illustration] III When her father came home that night she asked him the news. No, they had _not_ captured the second horse-thief, who was still at large. Judge Boompointer talked of invoking the aid of the despised law. It remained, then, to see whether the horse-thief was fool enough to try to get rid of the animal. Red Pete's body had been delivered to his widow. Perhaps it would only be neighborly for Salomy Jane to ride over to the funeral. But Salomy Jane did not take to the suggestion kindly, nor yet did she explain to her father that, as the other man was still living, she did not care to undergo a second disciplining at the widow's hands. Nevertheless, she contrasted her situation with that of the widow with a new and singular satisfaction. It might have been Red Pete who had escaped. But he had not the grit of the nameless one. She had already settled his heroic quality. "Ye ain't harkenin' to me, Salomy." Salomy Jane started. "Here I'm askin' ye if ye've see that hound Phil Larrabee sneaking by yer to-day?" Salomy Jane had not. But she became interested and self-reproachful for she knew that Phil Larrabee was one of her father's enemies. "He wouldn't dare to go by here unless he knew you were out," she said quickly. "That's what gets me," he said, scratching his grizzled head. "I've been kind o' thinkin' o' him all day, and one of them Chinamen said he saw him at Sawyer's Crossing. He was a kind of friend o' Pete's wife. That's why I thought yer might find out ef he'd been there." Salomy Jane grew more self-reproachful at her father's self-interest in her "neighborliness." "But that ain't all," continued Mr. Clay. "Thar was tracks over the far pasture that warn't mine. I followed them, and they went round and round the house two or three times, ez ef they mout hev bin prowlin', and then I lost 'em in the woods again. It's just like that sneakin' hound Larrabee to hev bin lyin' in wait for me and afraid to meet a man fair and square in the open." "You just lie low, dad, for a day or two more, and let me do a little prowlin'," said the girl, with sympathetic indignation in her dark eyes. "Ef it's that skunk, I'll spot him soon enough and let you know whar he's hiding." "You'll just stay where ye are, Salomy," said her father decisively. "This ain't no woman's work--though I ain't sayin' you haven't got more head for it than some men I know." Nevertheless, that night, after her father had gone to bed, Salomy Jane sat by the open window of the sitting-room in an apparent attitude of languid contemplation, but alert and intent of eye and ear. It was a fine moonlit night. Two pines near the door, solitary pickets of the serried ranks of distant forest, cast long shadows like paths to the cottage, and sighed their spiced breath in the windows. For there was no frivolity of vine or flower round Salomy Jane's bower. The clearing was too recent, the life too practical for vanities like these. But the moon added a vague elusiveness to everything, softened the rigid outlines of the sheds, gave shadows to the lidless windows, and touched with merciful indirectness the hideous débris of refuse gravel and the gaunt scars of burnt vegetation before the door. Even Salomy Jane was affected by it, and exhaled something between a sigh and a yawn with the breath of the pines. Then she suddenly sat upright. Her quick ear had caught a faint "click, click," in the direction of the wood; her quicker instinct and rustic training enabled her to determine that it was the ring of a horse's shoe on flinty ground; her knowledge of the locality told her it came from the spot where the trail passed over an outcrop of flint scarcely a quarter of a mile from where she sat, and within the clearing. It was no errant "stock," for the foot was _shod_ with iron; it was a mounted trespasser by night, and boded no good to a man like Clay. She rose, threw her shawl over her head, more for disguise than shelter, and passed out of the door. A sudden impulse made her seize her father's shotgun from the corner where it stood,--not that she feared any danger to herself, but that it was an excuse. She made directly for the wood, keeping in the shadow of the pines as long as she could. At the fringe she halted; whoever was there must pass her before reaching the house. Then there seemed to be a suspense of all nature. Everything was deadly still--even the moonbeams appeared no longer tremulous; soon there was a rustle as of some stealthy animal among the ferns, and then a dismounted man stepped into the moonlight. It was the horse-thief--the man she had kissed! For a wild moment a strange fancy seized her usually sane intellect and stirred her temperate blood. The news they had told her was _not_ true; he had been hung, and this was his ghost! He looked as white and spirit-like in the moonlight, dressed in the same clothes, as when she saw him last. He had evidently seen her approaching, and moved quickly to meet her. But in his haste he stumbled slightly; she reflected suddenly that ghosts did not stumble, and a feeling of relief came over her. And it was no assassin of her father that had been prowling around--only this unhappy fugitive. A momentary color came into her cheek; her coolness and hardihood returned; it was with a tinge of sauciness in her voice that she said:-- "I reckoned you were a ghost." "I mout have been," he said, looking at her fixedly; "but I reckon I'd have come back here all the same." "It's a little riskier comin' back alive," she said, with a levity that died on her lips, for a singular nervousness, half fear and half expectation, was beginning to take the place of her relief of a moment ago. "Then it was _you_ who was prowlin' round and makin' tracks in the far pasture?" "Yes; I came straight here when I got away." She felt his eyes were burning her, but did not dare to raise her own. "Why," she began, hesitated, and ended vaguely. "_How_ did you get here?" "You helped me!" "I?" "Yes. That kiss you gave me put life into me--gave me strength to get away. I swore to myself I'd come back and thank you, alive or dead." Every word he said she could have anticipated, so plain the situation seemed to her now. And every word he said she knew was the truth. Yet her cool common sense struggled against it. "What's the use of your escaping, ef you're comin' back here to be ketched again?" she said pertly. He drew a little nearer to her, but seemed to her the more awkward as she resumed her self-possession. His voice, too, was broken, as if by exhaustion, as he said, catching his breath at intervals:-- "I'll tell you. You did more for me than you think. You made another man o' me. I never had a man, woman, or child do to me what you did. I never had a friend--only a pal like Red Pete, who picked me up 'on shares.' I want to quit this yer--what I'm doin'. I want to begin by doin' the square thing to you"--He stopped, breathed hard, and then said brokenly, "My hoss is over thar, staked out. I want to give him to you. Judge Boompointer will give you a thousand dollars for him. I ain't lyin'; it's God's truth! I saw it on the handbill agin a tree. Take him, and I'll get away afoot. Take him. It's the only thing I can do for you, and I know it don't half pay for what you did. Take it; your father can get a reward for you, if you can't." Such were the ethics of this strange locality that neither the man who made the offer nor the girl to whom it was made was struck by anything that seemed illogical or indelicate, or at all inconsistent with justice or the horse-thief's real conversion. Salomy Jane nevertheless dissented, from another and weaker reason. "I don't want your hoss, though I reckon dad might; but you're just starvin'. I'll get suthin'." She turned towards the house. "Say you'll take the hoss first," he said, grasping her hand. At the touch she felt herself coloring and struggled, expecting perhaps another kiss. But he dropped her hand. She turned again with a saucy gesture, said, "Hol' on; I'll come right back," and slipped away, the mere shadow of a coy and flying nymph in the moonlight, until she reached the house. Here she not only procured food and whiskey, but added a long dust-coat and hat of her father's to her burden. They would serve as a disguise for him and hide that heroic figure, which she thought everybody must now know as she did. Then she rejoined him breathlessly. But he put the food and whiskey aside. "Listen," he said; "I've turned the hoss into your corral. You'll find him there in the morning, and no one will know but that he got lost and joined the other hosses." Then she burst out. "But you--_you_--what will become of you? You'll be ketched!" "I'll manage to get away," he said in a low voice, "ef--ef"-- "Ef what?" she said tremblingly. "Ef you'll put the heart in me again,--as you did!" he gasped. She tried to laugh--to move away. She could do neither. Suddenly he caught her in his arms, with a long kiss, which she returned again and again. Then they stood embraced as they had embraced two days before, but no longer the same. For the cool, lazy Salomy Jane had been transformed into another woman--a passionate, clinging savage. Perhaps something of her father's blood had surged within her at that supreme moment. The man stood erect and determined. "Wot's your name?" she whispered quickly. It was a woman's quickest way of defining her feelings. "Dart." "Yer first name?" "Jack." "Let me go now, Jack. Lie low in the woods till to-morrow sunup. I'll come again." He released her. Yet she lingered a moment. "Put on those things," she said, with a sudden happy flash of eyes and teeth, "and lie close till I come." And then she sped away home. But midway up the distance she felt her feet going slower, and something at her heartstrings seemed to be pulling her back. She stopped, turned, and glanced to where he had been standing. Had she seen him then, she might have returned. But he had disappeared. She gave her first sigh, and then ran quickly again. It must be nearly ten o'clock! It was not very long to morning! She was within a few steps of her own door, when the sleeping woods and silent air appeared to suddenly awake with a sharp "crack!" She stopped, paralyzed. Another "crack!" followed, that echoed over to the far corral. She recalled herself instantly and dashed off wildly to the woods again. As she ran she thought of one thing only. He had been "dogged" by one of his old pursuers and attacked. But there were two shots, and he was unarmed. Suddenly she remembered that she had left her father's gun standing against the tree where they were talking. Thank God! she may again have saved him. She ran to the tree; the gun was gone. She ran hither and thither, dreading at every step to fall upon his lifeless body. A new thought struck her; she ran to the corral. The horse was not there! He must have been able to regain it, and escaped, _after_ the shots had been fired. She drew a long breath of relief, but it was caught up in an apprehension of alarm. Her father, awakened from his sleep by the shots, was hurriedly approaching her. "What's up now, Salomy Jane?" he demanded excitedly. "Nothin'," said the girl with an effort. "Nothin', at least, that _I_ can find." She was usually truthful because fearless, and a lie stuck in her throat; but she was no longer fearless, thinking of _him_. "I wasn't abed; so I ran out as soon as I heard the shots fired," she answered in return to his curious gaze. "And you've hid my gun somewhere where it can't be found," he said reproachfully. "Ef it was that sneak Larrabee, and he fired them shots to lure me out, he might have potted me, without a show, a dozen times in the last five minutes." She had not thought since of her father's enemy! It might indeed have been he who had attacked Jack. But she made a quick point of the suggestion. "Run in, dad, run in and find the gun; you've got no show out here without it." She seized him by the shoulders from behind, shielding him from the woods, and hurried him, half expostulating, half struggling, to the house. But there no gun was to be found. It was strange; it must have been mislaid in some corner! Was he sure he had not left it in the barn? But no matter now. The danger was over; the Larrabee trick had failed; he must go to bed now, and in the morning they would make a search together. At the same time she had inwardly resolved to rise before him and make another search of the wood, and perhaps--fearful joy as she recalled her promise!--find Jack alive and well, awaiting her! ANOTHER ESCAPE [Illustration] IV Salomy Jane slept little that night, nor did her father. But towards morning he fell into a tired man's slumber until the sun was well up the horizon. Far different was it with his daughter: she lay with her face to the window, her head half lifted to catch every sound, from the creaking of the sun-warped shingles above her head to the far-off moan of the rising wind in the pine trees. Sometimes she fell into a breathless, half-ecstatic trance, living over every moment of the stolen interview; feeling the fugitive's arm still around her, his kisses on her lips; hearing his whispered voice in her ears--the birth of her new life! This was followed again by a period of agonizing dread--that he might even then be lying, his life ebbing away, in the woods, with her name on his lips, and she resting here inactive, until she half started from her bed to go to his succor. And this went on until a pale opal glow came into the sky, followed by a still paler pink on the summit of the white Sierras, when she rose and hurriedly began to dress. Still so sanguine was her hope of meeting him, that she lingered yet a moment to select the brown holland skirt and yellow sunbonnet she had worn when she first saw him. And she had only seen him twice! Only _twice_! It would be cruel, too cruel, not to see him again! She crept softly down the stairs, listening to the long-drawn breathing of her father in his bedroom, and then, by the light of a guttering candle, scrawled a note to him, begging him not to trust himself out of the house until she returned from her search, and leaving the note open on the table, swiftly ran out into the growing day. Three hours afterwards Mr. Madison Clay awoke to the sound of loud knocking. At first this forced itself upon his consciousness as his daughter's regular morning summons, and was responded to by a grunt of recognition and a nestling closer in the blankets. Then he awoke with a start and a muttered oath, remembering the events of last night, and his intention to get up early, and rolled out of bed. Becoming aware by this time that the knocking was at the outer door, and hearing the shout of a familiar voice, he hastily pulled on his boots, his jean trousers, and fastening a single suspender over his shoulder as he clattered downstairs, stood in the lower room. The door was open, and waiting upon the threshold was his kinsman, an old ally in many a blood-feud--Breckenridge Clay! "You _are_ a cool one, Mad!" said the latter in half-admiring indignation. "What's up?" said the bewildered Madison. "_You_ ought to be, and scootin' out o' this," said Breckenridge grimly. "It's all very well to 'know nothin';' but here Phil Larrabee's friends hev just picked him up, drilled through with slugs and deader nor a crow, and now they're lettin' loose Larrabee's two half-brothers on you. And you must go like a derned fool and leave these yer things behind you in the bresh," he went on querulously, lifting Madison Clay's dust-coat, hat, and shotgun from his horse, which stood saddled at the door. "Luckily I picked them up in the woods comin' here. Ye ain't got more than time to get over the state line and among your folks thar afore they'll be down on you. Hustle, old man! What are you gawkin' and starin' at?" Madison Clay had stared amazed and bewildered--horror-stricken. The incidents of the past night for the first time flashed upon him clearly--hopelessly! The shot; his finding Salomy Jane alone in the woods; her confusion and anxiety to rid herself of him; the disappearance of the shotgun; and now this new discovery of the taking of his hat and coat for a disguise! _She_ had killed Phil Larrabee in that disguise, after provoking his first harmless shot! She, his own child, Salomy Jane, had disgraced herself by a man's crime; had disgraced him by usurping his right, and taking a mean advantage, by deceit, of a foe! "Gimme that gun," he said hoarsely. Breckenridge handed him the gun in wonder and slowly gathering suspicion. Madison examined nipple and muzzle; one barrel had been discharged. It was true! The gun dropped from his hand. "Look here, old man," said Breckenridge, with a darkening face, "there's bin no foul play here. Thar's bin no hiring of men, no deputy to do this job. _You_ did it fair and square--yourself?" "Yes, by God!" burst out Madison Clay in a hoarse voice. "Who says I didn't?" Reassured, yet believing that Madison Clay had nerved himself for the act by an over-draught of whiskey, which had affected his memory, Breckenridge said curtly, "Then wake up and 'lite' out, ef ye want me to stand by you." "Go to the corral and pick me out a hoss," said Madison slowly, yet not without a certain dignity of manner. "I've suthin' to say to Salomy Jane afore I go." He was holding her scribbled note, which he had just discovered, in his shaking hand. Struck by his kinsman's manner, and knowing the dependent relations of father and daughter, Breckenridge nodded and hurried away. Left to himself, Madison Clay ran his fingers through his hair, and straightened out the paper on which Salomy Jane had scrawled her note, turned it over, and wrote on the back:-- You might have told me you did it, and not leave your ole father to find it out how you disgraced yourself and him, too, by a low-down, underhanded, woman's trick! I've said I done it, and took the blame myself, and all the sneakiness of it that folks suspect. If I get away alive--and I don't care much which--you needn't foller. The house and stock are yours; but you ain't any longer the daughter of your disgraced father, MADISON CLAY. He had scarcely finished the note when, with a clatter of hoofs and a led horse, Breckenridge reappeared at the door elate and triumphant. "You're in nigger luck, Mad! I found that stole hoss of Judge Boompointer's had got away and strayed among your stock in the corral. Take him and you're safe; he can't be outrun this side of the state line." "I ain't no hoss-thief," said Madison grimly. "Nobody sez ye are, but you'd be wuss--a fool--ef you didn't take him. I'm testimony that you found him among your hosses; I'll tell Judge Boompointer you've got him, and ye kin send him back when you're safe. The judge will be mighty glad to get him back, and call it quits. So ef you've writ to Salomy Jane, come." Madison Clay no longer hesitated. Salomy Jane might return at any moment,--it would be part of her "fool womanishness,"--and he was in no mood to see her before a third party. He laid the note on the table, gave a hurried glance around the house, which he grimly believed he was leaving forever, and, striding to the door, leaped on the stolen horse, and swept away with his kinsman. But that note lay for a week undisturbed on the table in full view of the open door. The house was invaded by leaves, pine cones, birds, and squirrels during the hot, silent, empty days, and at night by shy, stealthy creatures, but never again, day or night, by any of the Clay family. It was known in the district that Clay had flown across the state line, his daughter was believed to have joined him the next day, and the house was supposed to be locked up. It lay off the main road, and few passed that way. The starving cattle in the corral at last broke bounds and spread over the woods. And one night a stronger blast than usual swept through the house, carried the note from the table to the floor, where, whirled into a crack in the flooring, it slowly rotted. But though the sting of her father's reproach was spared her, Salomy Jane had no need of the letter to know what had happened. For as she entered the woods in the dim light of that morning she saw the figure of Dart gliding from the shadow of a pine towards her. The unaffected cry of joy that rose from her lips died there as she caught sight of his face in the open light. "You are hurt," she said, clutching his arm passionately. "No," he said. "But I wouldn't mind that if"-- "You're thinkin' I was afeard to come back last night when I heard the shootin', but I _did_ come," she went on feverishly. "I ran back here when I heard the two shots, but you were gone. I went to the corral, but your hoss wasn't there, and I thought you'd got away." "I _did_ get away," said Dart gloomily. "I killed the man, thinkin' he was huntin' _me_, and forgettin' I was disguised. He thought I was your father." "Yes," said the girl joyfully, "he was after dad, and _you_--you killed him." She again caught his hand admiringly. But he did not respond. Possibly there were points of honor which this horse-thief felt vaguely with her father. "Listen," he said grimly. "Others think it was your father killed him. When _I_ did it--for he fired at me first--I ran to the corral again and took my hoss, thinkin' I might be follered. I made a clear circuit of the house, and when I found he was the only one, and no one was follerin', I come back here and took off my disguise. Then I heard his friends find him in the wood, and I know they suspected your father. And then another man come through the woods while I was hidin' and found the clothes and took them away." He stopped and stared at her gloomily. But all this was unintelligible to the girl. "Dad would have got the better of him ef you hadn't," she said eagerly, "so what's the difference?" "All the same," he said gloomily, "I must take his place." She did not understand, but turned her head to her master. "Then you'll go back with me and tell him _all_?" she said obediently. "Yes," he said. She put her hand in his, and they crept out of the wood together. She foresaw a thousand difficulties, but, chiefest of all, that he did not love as she did. _She_ would not have taken these risks against their happiness. But alas for ethics and heroism. As they were issuing from the wood they heard the sound of galloping hoofs, and had barely time to hide themselves before Madison Clay, on the stolen horse of Judge Boompointer, swept past them with his kinsman. Salomy Jane turned to her lover. * * * * * And here I might, as a moral romancer, pause, leaving the guilty, passionate girl eloped with her disreputable lover, destined to lifelong shame and misery, misunderstood to the last by a criminal, fastidious parent. But I am confronted by certain facts, on which this romance is based. A month later a handbill was posted on one of the sentinel pines, announcing that the property would be sold by auction to the highest bidder by Mrs. John Dart, daughter of Madison Clay, Esq., and it was sold accordingly. Still later--by ten years--the chronicler of these pages visited a certain "stock" or "breeding farm," in the "Blue Grass Country," famous for the popular racers it has produced. He was told that the owner was the "best judge of horse-flesh in the country." "Small wonder," added his informant, "for they say as a young man out in California he was a horse-thief, and only saved himself by eloping with some rich farmer's daughter. But he's a straight-out and respectable man now, whose word about horses can't be bought; and as for his wife, _she_'s a beauty! To see her at the 'Springs,' rigged out in the latest fashion, you'd never think she had ever lived out of New York or wasn't the wife of one of its millionaires." The Riverside Press CAMBRIDGE. MASSACHUSETTS U.S.A 
12823	----	JOE'S LUCK OR ALWAYS WIDE AWAKE BY HORATIO ALGER, JR. AUTHOR OF "TONY THE TRAMP," "SLOW AND SURE," "THE CASH BOY," "MAKING HIS WAY," "JACK'S WARD," "DO AND DARE," "FACING THE WORLD," "STRONG AND STEADY," "STRIVE AND SUCCEED," ETC. NEW YORK THE NEW YORK BOOK COMPANY 1913 JOE'S LUCK CHAPTER I INTRODUCES JOE "Come here, you Joe, and be quick about it!" The boy addressed, a stout boy of fifteen, with an honest, sun-browned face, looked calmly at the speaker. "What's wanted?" he asked. "Brush me off, and don't be all day about it!" said Oscar Norton impatiently. Joe's blue eyes flashed indignantly at the tone of the other. "You can brush yourself off," he answered independently. "What do you mean by your impudence?" demanded Oscar angrily. "Have you turned lazy all at once?" "No," said Joe firmly, "but I don't choose to be ordered round by you." "What's up, I wonder? Ain't you our servant?" "I am not your servant, though your father is my employer." "Then you are bound to obey me--his son." "I don't see it." "Then you'd better, if you know what's best for yourself. Are you going to brush me off?" "No." "Look out! I can get my father to turn you off." "You may try if you want to." Oscar, much incensed, went to his father to report Joe's insubordination. While he is absent, a few words of explanation will enlighten the reader as to Joe's history and present position. Joe Mason was alone in the world. A year previous he had lost his father, his only remaining parent, and when the father's affairs were settled and funeral expenses paid there was found to be just five dollars left, which was expended for clothing for Joe. In this emergency Major Norton, a farmer and capitalist, offered to provide Joe with board and clothes and three months' schooling in the year in return for his services. As nothing else offered, Joe accepted, but would not bind himself for any length of time. He was free to go whenever he pleased. Now there were two disagreeable things in Joe's new place. The first was the parsimony of Major Norton, who was noted for his stingy disposition, and the second was the overbearing manners of Oscar, who lost no opportunity to humiliate Joe and tyrannize over him so far as Joe's independent spirit would allow. It happened, therefore, that Joe was compelled to work hard, while the promised clothing was of the cheapest and shabbiest description. He was compelled to go to school in patched shoes and a ragged suit, which hurt his pride as he compared himself with Oscar, who was carefully and even handsomely dressed. Parsimonious as his father was, he was anxious that his only boy should appear to advantage. On the very day on which our story begins Oscar had insulted Joe in a way which excited our hero's bitter indignation. This is the way it happened: Joe, who was a general favorite on account of his good looks and gentlemanly manners, and in spite of his shabby attire, was walking home with Annie Raymond, the daughter of the village physician, when Oscar came up. He was himself secretly an admirer of the young lady, but had never received the least encouragement from her. It made him angry to see his father's drudge walking on equal terms with his own favorite, and his coarse nature prompted him to insult his enemy. "Miss Raymond," he said, lifting his hat mockingly, "I congratulate you on the beau you have picked up." Annie Raymond fully appreciated his meanness, and answered calmly: "I accept your congratulations, Mr. Norton." This answer made Oscar angry and led him to go further than he otherwise would. "You must be hard up for an escort, when you accept such a ragamuffin as Joe Mason." Joe flushed with anger. "Oscar Norton, do you mean to insult Miss Raymond or me," he demanded. "So you are on your high horse!" said Oscar sneeringly. "Will you answer my question?" "Yes, I will. I certainly don't mean to insult Miss Raymond, but I wonder at her taste in choosing my father's hired boy to walk with." "I am not responsible to you for my choice, Oscar Norton," said Annie Raymond, with dignity. "If my escort is poorly dressed, it is not his fault, nor do I think the less of him for it." "If your father would dress me better, I should be very glad of it," said Joe. "If I am a ragamuffin, it is his fault." "I'll report that to him," said Oscar maliciously. "I wish you would. It would save me the trouble of asking him for better clothes." "Suppose we go on," said Annie Raymond. "Certainly," said Joe politely. And they walked on, leaving Oscar discomfited and mortified. "What a fool Annie Raymond makes of herself" he muttered. "I should think she'd be ashamed to go round with Joe Mason." Oscar would have liked to despise Annie Raymond, but it was out of his power. She was undoubtedly the belle of the school, and he would have been proud to receive as much notice from her as she freely accorded to Joe. But the young lady had a mind and a will of her own, and she had seen too much to dislike in Oscar to regard him with favor, even if he were the son of a rich man, while she had the good sense and discrimination to see that Joe, despite his ragged garb, possessed sterling good qualities. When Oscar got home he sought his father. "Father," said he, "I heard Joe complaining to Annie Raymond that you didn't dress him decently." Major Norton looked annoyed. "What does the boy mean?" he said. "What does he expect?" "He should be dressed as well as I am," said Oscar maliciously. "Quite out of the question," said the major hastily. "Your clothes cost a mint of money." "Of course, you want me to look well, father. I am your son, and he is only your hired boy." "I don't want folks to talk," said the major, who was sensitive to public opinion. "Don't you think his clothes are good enough?" "Of course they are; but I'll tell you what, father," said Oscar, with a sudden idea, "you know that suit of mine that I got stained with acid?" "Yes, Oscar," said the major gravely. "I ought to remember it. It cost me thirty-four dollars, and you spoiled it by your carelessness." "Suppose you give that to Joe?" suggested Oscar. "He's a good deal larger than you. It wouldn't fit him; and, besides, it's stained." "What right has a hired boy to object to a stain? No matter if it is too small, he has no right to be particular." "You are right, Oscar," said the major, who was glad to be saved the expense of a new suit for Joe. Even he had been unpleasantly conscious that Joe's appearance had become discreditable to him. "You may bring it down, Oscar," he said. "I dare say Joe won't like the idea of wearing it, but a boy in his position has no right to be proud." "Of course not," returned the major, his ruling passion gratified by the prospect of saving the price of a suit. "When Joseph comes home--at any rate, after he is through with his chores--you may tell him to come in to me." "All right, sir." Before Oscar remembered this message, the scene narrated at the commencement of the chapter occurred. On his way to complain to his father, he recollected the message, and, retracing his steps, said to Joe: "My father wants to see you right off." This was a summons which Joe felt it his duty to obey. He accordingly bent his steps to the room where Major Norton usually sat. CHAPTER II THE STAINED SUIT "Oscar tells me that you wish to see me, sir," said Joe, as he entered the presence of his pompous employer. Major Norton wheeled round in his armchair and looked at Joe over his spectacles. He looked at Joe's clothes, too, and it did strike him forcibly that they were very shabby. However, there was Oscar's stained suit; which was entirely whole and of excellent cloth. As to the stains, what right had a boy like Joe to be particular? "Ahem!" said the major, clearing his throat. "Oscar tells me that you are not satisfied with the clothes I have I given you." "He has told you the truth, Major Norton," replied Joe bluntly. "If you will look for yourself, I think you will see why I am dissatisfied." "Joseph," said the major, in a tone of disapproval, "you are too free spoken. I understand you have been complaining to Doctor Raymond's daughter of the way I dress you." "Did Oscar tell you the way that happened?" inquired Joe. "I apprehend he did not." "When I was walking home with Miss Annie Raymond, Oscar came up and insulted me, calling me a ragamuffin. I told him that, if I was a ragamuffin, it was not my fault." Major Norton looked disturbed. "Oscar was inconsiderate," he said. "It seems to me that your clothes are suitable to your station in life. It is not well for a boy in your circumstances to be 'clothed in purple and fine linen,' as the Scriptures express it. However, perhaps it is time for you to have another suit." Joe listened in astonishment. Was it possible that Major Norton was going to open his heart and give him what he had long secretly desired? Our hero's delusion was soon dissipated. Major Norton rose from his seat, and took from a chair near-by a stained suit, which had not yet attracted Joe's attention. "Here is a suit of Oscar's," he said, "which is quite whole and almost new. Oscar only wore it a month. It cost me thirty-four dollars!" said the major impressively. He held it up, and Joe recognized it at once. "Isn't it the suit Oscar got stained?" he asked abruptly. "Ahem! Yes; it is a little stained, but that doesn't injure the texture of the cloth." As he held it up the entire suit seemed to have been sprinkled with acid, which had changed the color in large, patches in different parts. The wearer would be pretty sure to excite an unpleasant degree of attention. Joe did not appear to be overwhelmed with the magnificence of the gift. "If it is so good, why don't Oscar wear it?" he asked. Major Norton regarded Joe with displeasure. "It cannot matter to you how Oscar chooses to dress," he said. "I apprehend that you and he are not on a level." "He is your son, and I am your hired boy," said Joe. "I admit that. But I don't see how you can ask me to wear a suit like that." "I apprehend that you are unsuitably proud, Joseph." "I hope not, sir; but I don't want to attract everybody's notice as I walk the streets. If I had stained the suit myself, I should have felt bound to wear it, but it was Oscar's carelessness that destroyed its appearance, and I don't think I ought to suffer for that. Besides, it is much too small for me. Let me show you." Joe pulled off his coat and put on the stained one. The sleeves were from two to three inches too short, and it was so far from meeting in front, on account of his being much broader than Oscar, that his shoulders seemed drawn back to meet each other behind. "It doesn't exactly fit," said the major; "but it can be let out easily. I will send it to Miss Pearce--the village tailoress--to fix it over for you." "Thank you, Major Norton," said Joe, in a decided tone, "but I hope you won't go to that expense, for I shall not be willing to wear it under any circumstances." "I cannot believe my ears," said Major Norton, with dignified displeasure. "How old are you, Joseph?" "Fifteen, sir." "It is not fitting that you, a boy of fifteen, should dictate to your employer." "I don't wish to, Major Norton, but I am not willing to wear that suit." "You are too proud. Your pride needs taking down." "Major Norton," said Joe firmly, "I should like to tell you how I feel. You are my employer, and I am your hired boy. I try to do my duty by you." "You are a good boy to work, Joseph. I don't complain of that." "You agreed to give me board and clothing for my services." "So I have." "Yes, sir; but you have dressed me in such a way that I attract attention in the street for my shabbiness. I don't think I am very proud, but I have been mortified! more than once when I saw people looking at my patched clothes and shoes out at the toes. I think if I work faithfully I ought to be dressed decently." "Joseph," said Major Norton uneasily, "you look at the thing too one-sided. You don't expect me to dress you like Oscar?" "No, sir; I don't. If you would spend half as much for my clothes as you do for Oscar's I would be contented." "It seems to me you are very inconsistent. Here is a suit of clothes that cost me thirty-four dollars, which I offer you, and you decline." "You know why well enough, sir," said Joe, "You did not tell me you intended to dress me in Oscar's castoff clothes, too small, and stained at that. I would rather wear the patched suit I have on till it drops to pieces than wear this suit." "You can go, Joseph," said Major Norton, in a tone of annoyance. "I did not expect to find you so unreasonable. If you do not choose to take what I offer you, you will have to go without." "Very well, sir." Joe left the room, his face flushed and his heart full of indignation at the slight which had been attempted on him. "It is Oscar's doings, I have no doubt," he said to himself. "It is like his meanness. He meant to mortify me." If there had been any doubt in Joe's mind, it would soon have been cleared up. Oscar had been lying in wait for his appearance, and managed to meet him as he went out into the yard. "Where are your new clothes?" he asked mockingly. "I have none," answered Joe. "Didn't my father give you a suit of mine?" "He offered me the suit which you stained so badly with acid." "Well, it's pretty good," said Oscar patronizingly. "I only wore it about a month." "Why don't you wear it longer?" "Because it isn't fit for me to wear," returned Oscar. "Nor for me," said Joe. "You don't mean to say you've declined?" exclaimed Oscar, in surprise. "That is exactly what I have done." "Why?" "You ought to know why." "It is better than the one you have on." "It is too small for me. Besides, it would attract general attention." "Seems to me somebody is getting proud," sneered Oscar. "Perhaps you think Annie Raymond wouldn't walk with you in that suit?" "I think it would make ho difference to her," said Joe. "She was willing to walk with me in this ragged suit." "I don't admire her taste." "She didn't walk with my clothes; she walked with me." "A hired boy!" "Yes, I am a hired boy; but I don't get very good pay." "You feel above your business, that's what's the matter with you." "I hope some time to get higher than my business," said Joe. "I mean to rise in the world, if I can." Oscar shrugged his shoulders. "Perhaps you would like to be a wealthy merchant, or a member of Congress," he said. "I certainly should." Oscar burst into a sneering laugh, and left Joe alone. Joe's work was done, and, being left free to do as he liked, he strolled over to the village store. CHAPTER III THE RETURNED CALIFORNIAN The village store, in the evening, was a sort of village club-house, where not only the loungers, but a better class, who desired to pass the evening socially, were wont to congregate. About the center of the open space was a large box-stove, which in winter was kept full of wood, ofttimes getting red-hot, and around this sat the villagers. Some on wooden chairs, some on a wooden settee, with a broken back, which was ranged on one side. Joe frequently came here in the evening to pass a social hour and kill time. At the house of Major Norton he had no company. Oscar felt above him, and did not deign to hold any intercourse with his father's drudge, while the housekeeper--Major Norton being a widower--was busy about her own special work, and would have wondered at Joe if he had sought her company. I make this explanation because I do not wish it to be understood that Joe was a common village lounger, or loafer. When Joe entered the store he found the usual company present, but with one addition. This was Seth Larkin, who had just returned from California, whither he had gone eighteen months before, and was, of course, an object of great attention, and plied with numerous questions by his old acquaintances in regard to the land of promise in the far West, of which all had heard so much. It was in the fall of the year 1851, and so in the early days of California. Seth was speaking as Joe entered. "Is there gold in California?" repeated Seth, apparently in answer to a question. "I should say there was. Why, it's chock full of it. People haven't begun to find out the richness of the country. It's the place for a poor man to go if he wants to become rich. What's the prospects here? I ask any one of you. A man may go working and plodding from one year's end to another and not have ten dollars at the end of it. There's some here that know that I speak the truth." "How much better can a man do in California?" asked Daniel Tompkins. "Well, Dan," said Seth, "it depends on the kind of man he is. If he's a man like you, that spends his money for rum as fast as he gets it, I should say it's just as well to stay here. But if he's willing to work hard, and to put by half he makes, he's sure to do well, and he may get rich. Why, I knew a man that landed in California the same day that I did, went up to the mines, struck a vein, and--well, how much do you think that man is worth to-day?" "A thousand dollars?" suggested Dan Tompkins. "Why, I'm worth more than that myself, and I wasn't lucky, and had the rheumatism for four months. You'll have to go higher." "Two thousand?" guessed Sam Stone. "We don't make much account of two thousand dollars in the mines, Sam," said Seth. "It's of some account here," said Sam. "I've been workin' ten years, and I ain't saved up a third of it." "I don't doubt it," said Seth; "and it ain't your fault, either. Money's scarce round here, and farmin' don't pay. You know what I was workin' at before I went out--in a shoe shop. I just about made a poor livin', and that was all. I didn't have money enough to pay my passage out, but I managed to borrow it. Well, it's paid now, and I've got something left." "You haven't told us yet how much the man made that you was talkin' about," said Tom Sutter. "It couldn't be five thousand dollars, now, could it?" "I should say it could," said Seth. "Was it any more?" inquired Dan Tompkins. "Well, boys, I s'pose I may as well tell you, and you may b'lieve it or not, just as you like. That man is worth twenty thousand dollars to-day." There was a chorus of admiring ejaculations. "Twenty thousand dollars! Did you ever hear the like?" "Mind, boys, I don't say it's common to make so much money in so short a time. There isn't one in ten does it, but some make even more. What I do say is, that a feller that's industrious, and willin' to work, an' rough it, and save what he makes, is sure to do well, if he keeps well. That's all a man has a right to expect, or to hope for." "To be sure it is." "What made you come home, Seth, if you were gettin' on so well?" inquired one. "That's a fair question," said Seth, "and I'm willin' to answer it. It was because of the rheumatics. I had 'em powerful bad at the mines, and I've come home to kinder recuperate, if that's the right word. But I'm goin' back ag'in, you may bet high on that. No more work in the shoe shop for me at the old rates. I don't mean that I'd mind bein' a manufacturer on a big scale. That's a little more stiddy and easy than bein' at the mines, but that takes more capital than I've got." "How much does it cost to go out there?" asked Dan Tompkins. "More money than you can scare together, Dan. First-class, nigh on to three hundred dollars, I believe." This statement rather dampened the ardor of more than one of the listeners. Three hundred dollars, or even two, were beyond the convenient reach of most of those present. They would have to mortgage their places to get it. "You can go second-class for a good deal less, and you can go round the Horn pretty cheap," continued Seth. "How far away is Californy?" inquired Sam Stone. "By way of the isthmus, it must be as much as six thousand miles, and it's twice as fur, I reckon, round the Horn. I don't exactly know the distance." "Then it's farther away than Europe," said Joe, who had been listening with eager interest. "Of course it is," said Seth. "Why, that's Joe Mason, isn't it? How you've grown since I saw you." "Do you think I have?" said Joe, pleased with the assurance. "To be sure you have. Why, you're a big boy of your age. How old are you?" "Fifteen---nearly sixteen." "That's about what I thought. Where are you livin' now, Joe?" "I'm working for Major Norton." Seth burst into a laugh. "I warrant you haven't made your fortune yet, Joe," he said. "I haven't made the first start yet toward it." "And you won't while you work for the major. How much does he pay you?" "Board and clothes." "And them are the clothes?" said Seth, surveying Joe's appearance critically. "Yes." "I guess the major's tailor's bill won't ruin him, then. Are they the best you've got?" "No; I've got a better suit for Sunday." "Well, that's something. You deserve to do better, Joe." "I wish I could," said Joe wistfully. "Is there any chance for a boy in California, Mr. Larkin?" "Call me Seth. It's what I'm used to. I don't often use the handle to my name. Well, there's a chance for a boy, if he's smart; but he's got to work." "I should be willing to do that." "Then, if you ever get the chance, it won't do you any harm to try your luck." "How much did you say it costs to get there?" "Well, maybe you could get there for a hundred dollars, if you wasn't particular how you went." A hundred dollars! It might as well have been ten thousand, as far as Joe was concerned. He received no money wages, nor was he likely to as long as he remained in the major's employ. There was a shoe shop in the village, where money wages were paid, but there was no vacancy; and, even if there were, Joe was quite unacquainted with the business, and it would be a good while before he could do any more than pay his expenses. Joe sighed as he thought how far away was the prospect of his being able to go to California. He could not help wishing that he were the possessor of the magic carpet mentioned in the Arabian tale, upon which the person seated had only to wish himself to be transported anywhere, and he was carried there in the twinkling of an eye. Joe walked home slowly, dreaming of the gold-fields on the other side of the continent, and wishing he were there. CHAPTER IV JOE'S LEGACY The next day was Saturday. There was no school, but this did not lighten Joe's labors, as he was kept at work on the farm all day. He was in the barn when Deacon Goodwin, a neighbor, drove up. Oscar was standing in front of the house, whittling out a cane from a stick he had cut in the woods. "Is Joe Mason at home?" the deacon inquired. Oscar looked up in surprise. Why should the deacon want Joe Mason? "I suppose he is," drawled Oscar. "Don't you know?" "Probably he is in the barn," said Oscar indifferently. "Will you call him? I want to see him on business." Oscar was still more surprised. He was curious about the business, but his pride revolted at the idea of being sent to summon Joe. "You'll find him in the barn," said he. "I don't want to leave my horse," said the deacon. "I will take it as a favor if you will call him." Oscar hesitated. Finally he decided to go and then return to hear what business Joe and the deacon had together. He rather hoped that Joe had been trespassing on the deacon's grounds, and was to be reprimanded. He opened the barn door and called out: "Deacon Goodwin wants you out at the gate." Joe was as much surprised as Oscar. He followed Oscar to the front of the house and bade the deacon good morning. "Oscar tells me you want to see me," he said. "Yes, Joe. Do you remember your Aunt Susan?" "My mother's aunt?" "Yes; she's dead and buried." "She was pretty old," said Joe. "The old lady had a small pension," continued the deacon, "that just about kept her, but she managed to save a little out of it. When the funeral expenses were paid it was found that there were fifty-six dollars and seventy-five cents over." "What's going to be done with it? he inquired. "She's left it to you," was the unexpected reply, "You was the nearest relation she had, and it was her wish that whatever was left should go to you." "I'm very much obliged to her. I didn't expect anything. I had almost forgotten I had a great-aunt." "The money has been sent to me, Joe," continued the deacon. "I'm ready to pay it over to you when you want it, but I hope you won't spend it foolish." "I don't think I shall, Deacon Goodwin." "It wouldn't take long to spend it, Joe," said the deacon. "Do you want me to keep it for you?" "I don't know," said Joe; "I haven't had time to think. I'll come round to-night and see you." "Very well, Joseph. G'lang, Dobbin!" and the deacon started his old horse, who had completed his quarter century, along the road. Oscar had listened, not without interest, to the conversation. Though he was the son of a rich man, he had not at command so large a sum as his father's hired boy had fallen heir to. On the whole, he respected Joe rather more than when he was altogether penniless. "You're in luck, Joe," said he graciously. "Yes," said Joe. "It's very unexpected." "You might buy yourself a new suit of clothes." "I don't intend to do that." "Why not? You were wishing for one yesterday." "Because it is your father's place to keep me in clothes. That's the bargain I made with him." "Perhaps you are right," said Oscar. "I'll tell you what you can do," he said, after a pause. "What?" "You might buy a boat." "I shouldn't have any time to use it." "You might go out with it in the evening. I would look after it in the daytime." No doubt this arrangement would be satisfactory to Oscar, who would reap all the advantage, but Joe did not see it in a favorable light. "I don't think I should care to buy a boat," he said. "What do you say to buying a revolver?" "I think it would be better to put it on interest." "You'd better get the good of it now. You might die and then what use would the money be?" On the way to the deacon's Joe fell in with Seth Larkin. "Well, my boy, where are you bound?" asked Seth. "To collect my fortune," said Joe. Seth asked for an explanation and received it. "I'm glad for you and I wish it were more." "So do I," said Joe. "What for? Anything particular?" "Yes; if it was enough, I would go to California." "And you really want to go?" "Yes. I suppose fifty dollars wouldn't be enough?" "No; it wouldn't," said Seth; "but I'll tell you what you could do." "What?" "Go to New York and keep yourself till you got a chance to work your passage round the Horn." "So I might," said Joe, brightening up. "It wouldn't be easy, but you wouldn't mind that." "No; I wouldn't mind that." "Well, if you decide to go, come round and see me to-morrow, and I'll give you the best advice I can." The deacon opposed Joe's plan, but in vain. Our hero had made up his mind. Finally the old man counted out the money and Joe put it in an old wallet. The nest thing was to give Major Norton warning. "Major Norton," said Joe, "I should like to have you get another boy in my place." "What, Joe?" exclaimed the major. "I am going to leave town." "Where are you going?" asked his employer. "First to New York and afterwards to California." "Well, I declare! Is it because you ain't satisfied with your clothes?" "No, sir. I don't see much prospect for me if I stay here and I have heard a good deal about California." "But you haven't got any money." "I have almost sixty dollars." "Oh, yes; Oscar told me. You'd better stay here." "No, sir; I have made up my mind." "You'll come back in a month without a cent." "If I do, I'll go to work again for you." Monday morning came. Clad in his Sunday suit of cheap and rough cloth, Joe stood on the platform at the depot. The cars came up, he jumped aboard, and his heart beat with exultation as he reflected that he had taken the first step toward the Land of Gold. CHAPTER V AT THE COMMERCIAL HOTEL. Joe had never been in New York and when he arrived the bustle and confusion at first bewildered him. "Have a hack, young man?" inquired a jehu. "What'll you charge?" "A dollar and a half, and half-a-dollar for your baggage." "This is all the baggage I have," said Joe, indicating a bundle tied in a red cotton handkerchief. "Then, I'll only charge a dollar and a half," said the hackman. "I'll walk," said Joe. "I can't afford to pay a dollar and a half." "You can't walk; it's too far." "How far is it?" "Ten miles, more or less," answered the hackman. "Then I shall save fifteen cents a mile," said Joe, not much alarmed, for he did not believe the statement. "If you lose your way, don't blame me." Joe made his way out of the crowd, and paused at the corner of the next street for reflection. Finally he stopped at an apple and peanut stand, and, as a matter of policy, purchased an apple. "I am from the country," he said, "and I want to find a cheap hotel. Can you recommend one to me?" "Yes," said the peanut merchant. "I know of one where they charge a dollar a day." "Is that cheap? What do they charge at the St. Nicholas?" "Two dollars a day." "A day?" asked Joe, in amazement. It must be remembered that this was over fifty years ago. Joe would have greater cause to be startled at the prices now asked at our fashionable hotels. "Well, you can go to the cheap hotel." "Where is it?" The requisite directions were given. It was the Commercial Hotel, located in a down-town street. The Commercial Hotel, now passed away, or doing business under a changed name, was not a stylish inn. It was rather dark and rather dingy, but Joe did not notice that particularly. He had never seen a fine hotel, and this structure, being four stories in height above the offices, seemed to him rather imposing than otherwise. He walked up to the desk, on which was spread out, wide open, the hotel register. Rather a dissipated-looking clerk stood behind the counter, picking his teeth. "Good morning, sir," said Joe politely. "What do you charge to stay here?" "A dollar a day," answered the clerk. "Can you give me a room?" "I guess so, my son. Where is your trunk?" "I haven't got any." "Haven't you got any baggage?" "Here it is." The clerk looked rather superciliously at the small bundle. "Then you'll have to pay in advance." "All right," said Joe. "I'll pay a day in advance." A freckle-faced boy was summoned, provided with the key of No. 161, and Joe was directed to follow him. "Shall I take your bundle?" he asked. "No, thank you. I can carry it myself." They went up-stairs, until Joe wondered when they were going to stop. Finally the boy paused at the top floor, for the very good reason that he could get no higher, and opened the door of 161. "There you are," said the boy. "Is there anything else you want?" "No, thank you." "I'm sorry there ain't a bureau to keep your clothes," said the freckle-faced boy, glancing at Joe's small bundle with a smile. "It is inconvenient," answered Joe, taking the joke. "You wouldn't like some hot water for shaving, would you?" asked the boy, with a grin. "You can have some put on to heat and I'll order it when my beard is grown," said Joe good-naturedly. "All right. I'll tell 'em to be sure and have it ready in two or three years." "That will be soon enough. You'd better order some for yourself at the same time." "Oh, I get in hot water every day." The freckle-faced boy disappeared, and Joe sat down on the bed, to reflect a little on his position and plans. So here he was in New York, and on the way to California, too--that is, he hoped so. How much can happen in a little while. Three days before he had not dreamed of any change in his position. "I hope I shan't have to go back again to Oakville. I won't go unless I am obliged to," he determined. He washed his hands and face, and went down-stairs. He found that dinner was just ready. It was not a luxurious meal, but, compared with the major's rather frugal table, there was great variety and luxury. Joe did justice to it. "Folks live better in the city than they do in the country," he thought; "but, then, they have to pay for it. A dollar a day! Why, that would make three hundred and sixty-five dollars a year!" This to Joe seemed a very extravagant sum to spend on one person's board and lodging. "Now," thought Joe, after dinner was over, "the first thing for me to find out is when the California steamer starts and what is the lowest price I can go for." In the barroom Joe found a file of two of the New York daily papers, and began to search for the advertisement of the California steamers. At last he found it. The steamer was to start in three days. Apply for passage and any information at the company's offices. "I'll go right down there, and find out whether I've got money enough to take me," Joe decided. CHAPTER VI JOE BUYS A TICKET The office of the steamer was on the wharf from which it was to start. Already a considerable amount of freight was lying on the wharf ready to be loaded. Joe made his way to the office. "Well, boy, what's your business?" inquired a stout man with a red face, who seemed to be in charge. "Is this the office of the California steamer, sir?" "Yes." "What is the lowest price for passage?" "A hundred dollars for the steerage." When Joe heard this his heart sank within him. It seemed to be the death-blow to his hopes. He had but fifty dollars, or thereabouts, and there was no chance whatever of getting the extra fifty. "Couldn't I pay you fifty dollars now and the rest as soon as I can earn it in California?" he pleaded. "We don't do business in that way." "I'd be sure to pay it, sir, if I lived," said Joe. "Perhaps you think I am not honest." "I don't know whether you are or not," said the agent cavalierly. "We never do business in that way." Joe left the office not a little disheartened. "I wish it had been a hundred dollars Aunt Susan left me," he said to himself. Joe's spirits were elastic, however. He remembered that Seth had never given him reason to suppose that the money he had would pay his passage by steamer. He had mentioned working his passage in a sailing-vessel round the Horn. Joe did not like that idea so well, as the voyage would probably last four months, instead of twenty-five days, and so delay his arrival. The afternoon slipped away almost without Joe's knowledge. He walked about, here and there, gazing with curious eyes at the streets, and warehouses, and passing vehicles, and thinking what a lively place New York was, and how different life was in the metropolis from what it had been to him in the quiet country town which had hitherto been his home. Somehow it seemed to wake Joe up, and excite his ambition, to give him a sense of power which he had never felt before. "If I could only get a foothold here," thought Joe, "I should be willing to work twice as hard as I did on the farm." This was what Joe thought. I don't say that he was correct. There are many country boys who make a mistake in coming to the city. They forsake quiet, comfortable homes, where they have all they need, to enter some city counting-room, or store, at starvation wages, with, at best, a very remote prospect of advancement and increased risk of falling a prey to temptation in some of the many forms which it assumes in a populous town. A boy needs to be strong, and self-reliant, and willing to work if he comes to the city to compete for the prizes of life. As the story proceeds, we shall learn whether Joe had these necessary qualifications. When supper was over he went into the public room of the Commercial Hotel, and took up a paper to read. There was a paragraph about California, and some recent discoveries there, which he read with avidity. Though Joe was not aware of it, he was closely observed by a dark-complexioned man, dressed in rather a flashy manner. When our hero laid down the paper this man commenced a conversation. "I take it you are a stranger in the city, my young friend?" he observed, in an affable manner. "Yes, sir," answered Joe, rather glad to have some one to speak to. "I only arrived this morning." "Indeed! May I ask from what part of the country you come?" "From Oakville, New Jersey." "Indeed! I know the place. It is quite a charming town." "I don't know about that," said Joe. "It's pretty quiet and dull--nothing going on." "So you have come to the city to try your luck?" "I want to go to California." "Oh, I see--to the gold-diggings." "Have you ever been there, sir?" "No; but I have had many friends go there. When do you expect to start?" "Why, that is what puzzles me," Joe replied frankly. "I may not be able to go at all." "Why not?" "I haven't got money enough to buy a ticket." "You have got some money, haven't you?" "Yes--I have fifty dollars; but I need that a hundred dollars is the lowest price for a ticket." "Don't be discouraged, my young friend," said the stranger, in the most friendly manner. "I am aware that the ordinary charge for a steerage ticket is one hundred dollars, but exceptions are sometimes made." "I don't think they will make one in my case," said Joe. "I told the agent I would agree to pay the other, half as soon as I earned it, but he said he didn't do business in that way." "Of course. You are a stranger to him, don't you see? That makes all the difference in the world. Now, I happen to be personally acquainted with him. I am sure he would do me a favor. Just give me the fifty dollars, and I'll warrant I'll get the ticket for you." Joe was not wholly without caution, and the thought of parting with his money to a stranger didn't strike him favorably. Not that he had any doubts as to his new friend's integrity, but it didn't seem businesslike. "Can't I go with you to the office?" he suggested. "I think I can succeed better in the negotiation if I am alone," said the stranger. "I'll tell you what--you needn't hand me the money, provided you agree to take the ticket off my hands at fifty dollars if I secure it." "Certainly I will, and be very thankful to you." "I always like to help young men along," said the stranger benevolently. "I'll see about it to-morrow. Now, where can I meet you?" "In this room. How will that do?" "Perfectly. I am sure I can get the ticket for you. Be sure to have the money ready." "I'll be sure," said Joe cheerfully. "And hark you, my young friend," continued the stranger, "don't say a word to any one of what I am going to do for you, or I might have other applications, which I should be obliged to refuse." "Very well, sir. I will remember." Punctually at four the next day the stranger entered the room, where Joe was already awaiting him. "Have you succeeded?" asked Joe eagerly. The stranger nodded. "Let us go up to your room and complete our business. For reasons which I have already mentioned, I prefer that the transaction should be secret." "All right, sir." Joe got his key, and led the way up-stairs. "I had a little difficulty with the agent," said the stranger; "but finally he yielded, out of old friendship." He produced a large card, which read thus: CALIFORNIA STEAMSHIP COMPANY. THE BEARER Is Entitled to One Steerage Passage FROM NEW YORK TO SAN FRANCISCO STEAMER COLUMBUS. Below this was printed the name of the agent. Joe paid over the money joyfully. "I am very much obliged to you," he said gratefully. "Don't mention it," said the stranger, pocketing the fifty dollars. "Good day! Sorry to leave you, but I am to meet a gentleman at five." He went down-stairs, and left Joe alone. CHAPTER VII JOE GETS INTO TROUBLE "How lucky I have been," thought Joe, in the best of spirits. "There wasn't one chance in ten of my succeeding, and yet I have succeeded. Everything has turned out right. If I hadn't met this man, I couldn't have got a ticket at half price." Joe found that after paying his hotel expenses, he should have a dollar left over. This would be rather a small sum to start with in California, but Joe didn't trouble himself much about that. In the course of the day Joe found himself in the upper part of the Bowery. It seemed to him a very lively street, and he was much interested in looking in at the shop windows as he passed. He was standing before a window, when a stone from some quarter struck the pane and shivered it in pieces. Joe was startled, and was gazing at the scene of havoc in bewilderment, when a stout German, the proprietor, rushed out and seized him by the collar. "Aha! I have you, you young rascal!" he exclaimed furiously. "I'll make you pay for this!" By this time Joe had recovered his senses. "Let me alone!" he exclaimed. "I let you know!" exclaimed the angry man. "You break my window! You pay me five dollar pretty quick, or I send you to prison!" "I didn't break your window! It's a lie!" "You tell me I lie?" shouted the angry German. "First you break my window, then you tell me I lie! You, one bad boy--you one loafer!" "I don't know who broke your window," said Joe, "but I tell you I didn't. I was standing here, looking in, when, all at once, I heard a crash." "You take me for one fool, perhaps," said his captor, puffing with excitement. "You want to get away, hey?" "Yes, I do." "And get no money for my window?" By this time a crowd had collected around the chief actors in this scene. They were divided in opinion. "Don't he look wicked, the young scamp?" said a thin-visaged female with a long neck. "Yes," said her companion. "He's one of them street rowdies that go around doin' mischief. They come around and pull my bell, and run away, the villians!" "What's the matter, my boy?" asked a tall man with sandy hair, addressing himself to Joe in a friendly tone. "This man says I broke his window." "How was it? Did you break it?" "No, sir. I was standing looking in, when a stone came from somewhere and broke it." "Look here, sir," said the sandy-haired man, addressing himself to the German, "what reason have you for charging this boy with breaking your window?" "He stood shoost in front of it," said the German. "If he had broken it, he would have run away. Didn't that occur to you?" "Some one broke mine window," said the German. "Of course; but a boy who threw a stone must do so from a distance, and he wouldn't be likely to run up at once to the broken window." "Of course not. The man's a fool!" were the uncomplimentary remarks of the bystanders, who a minute before had looked upon Joe as undoubtedly guilty. "You've got no case at all," said Joe's advocate. "Let go the boy's collar, or I shall advise him to charge you with assault and battery." "Maybe you one friend of his?" said the German. "I never saw the boy before in my life," said the other, "but I don't want him falsely accused." "Somebody must pay for my window." "That's fair; but it must be the boy or man that broke it, not my young friend here, who had no more to do with it than myself. I sympathize with you, and wish you could catch the scamp that did it." At that moment a policeman came up. "What's the matter?" he asked. "My window was broke--dat's what's de matter." "Who broke it?" asked the policeman. "I caught dat boy standing outside," pointing to Joe. "Aha, you young rascal! I've caught you, have I? I've had my eye on you for weeks!" And Joe, to his dismay, found himself collared anew. "I've only been in the city two days," said Joe. "Take him to jail!" exclaimed the German. And the policeman was about to march off poor Joe, when a voice of authority stayed him. "Officer, release that boy!" said the sandy-haired man sternly. "I'll take you along, too, if you interfere." "Release that boy!" repeated the other sternly; "and arrest the German for assault and battery. I charge him with assaulting this boy!" "Who are you?" demanded the officer insolently. "My name is ------, and I am one of the new police commissioners," said the sandy-haired man quietly. Never was there a quicker change from insolence to fawning. "Oh, I beg your pardon, sir," said the officer, instantly releasing Joe. "I didn't know you." "Nor your duty, either, it appears," said the commissioner sternly. "Without one word of inquiry into the circumstances, you were about to arrest this boy. A pretty minister of justice you are!" "Shall I take this man along, sir?" asked the policeman, quite subdued. At this suggestion the bulky Teuton hurried into his shop, trembling with alarm. With great difficulty he concealed himself under the counter. "You may let him go this time. He has some excuse for his conduct, having suffered loss by the breaking of his window. As for you, officer, unless you are more careful in future, you will not long remain a member of the force." The crowd disappeared, only Joe and his advocate remaining behind. "I am grateful to you, sir, for your kindness," said Joe. "But for you I should have been carried to the station-house." "It is fortunate I came along just as I did. Are you a stranger in the city?" "Yes, sir." "You must be careful not to run into danger. There are many perils in the city for the in experienced." "Thank you, sir. I shall remember your advice." The next day, about two hours before the time of sailing, Joe went down to the wharf. As he was going on board a man stopped him. "Have you got a ticket?" he asked. "Yes, sir," said Joe, "a steerage ticket. There it is." "Where did you get this?" asked the man. Joe told him. "How much did you pay for it?" "Fifty dollars." "Then you have lost your money, for it is a bogus ticket. You can't travel on it." Joe stared at the other in blank dismay. The earth seemed to be sinking under him. He realized that he had been outrageously swindled, and that he was farther from going to California than ever. CHAPTER VIII JOE'S LUCK CHANGES The intelligence that his ticket was valueless came to Joe like a thunderbolt from a clear sky. The minute before he was in high spirits--his prospects seemed excellent and his path bright. "What shall I do?" he ejaculated. "I can't tell you," said the officer. "One thing is clear--you can't go to California on that ticket." Poor Joe! For the moment hope was dead within his breast. He had but one dollar left and that was only half the amount necessary to carry him back to the village where we found him at the commencement of our story. Even if he were able to go back, he felt he would be ashamed to report the loss of his money. The fact that he had allowed himself to be swindled mortified him not a little. He would never hear the last of it if he returned to Oakville. "No; I wouldn't go back if I could," he decided. "Wouldn't I like to get hold of the man that sold me the ticket!" He had hardly given mental expression to this wish when it was gratified. The very man passed him and was about to cross the gangplank into the steamer. Joe's eyes flashed, and he sprang forward and seized the man by the arm. The swindler's countenance changed when he recognized Joe, but he quickly decided upon his course. "What do you want, Johnny?" he asked composedly. "What do I want? I want my fifty dollars back." "I don't know what you are talking about." "You sold me a bogus ticket for fifty dollars," said Joe stoutly. "Here it is. Take it back and give me my money." "The boy must be crazy," said the swindler. "Did you sell him that ticket?" inquired the officer. "Never saw him before in my life." "Ain't you mistaken, boy?" asked the officer. "No, sir. This is the very man." "Have you any business here?" asked the officer. "Yes," said the man; "I've taken a steerage ticket to San Francisco. Here it is." "All right. Go in." He tore himself from Joe's grasp and went on board the steamer. Our hero, provoked, was about to follow him, when the officer said: "Stand back! You have no ticket." "That man bought his ticket with my money." "That is nothing to me," said the officer. "It may be so, or you may be mistaken." "I am not mistaken," said Joe. "You can report it to the police--that is, if you think you can prove it. Now, stand back!" Poor Joe! He had been worsted in the encounter with this arch-swindler. He would sail for San Francisco on the Columbus. Perhaps he would make his fortune there, while Joe, whom he had so swindled, might, within three days, be reduced to beggary. Joe felt that his confidence in human nature was badly shaken. Injustice and fraud seemed to have the best of it in this world, so far as his experience went, and it really seemed as if dishonesty were the best policy. It is a hard awakening for a trusting boy, when he first comes in contact with selfishness and corruption. Joe fell back because he was obliged to. He looked around, hoping that he might somewhere see a policeman, for he wanted to punish the scoundrel to whom he owed his unhappiness and loss. But, as frequently happens, when an officer is wanted none is to be seen. Joe did not leave the wharf. Time was not of much value to him, and he decided that he might as well remain and see the steamer start on which he had fondly hoped to be a passenger. Meanwhile, the preparations for departure went steadily forward. Trunks arrived and were conveyed on board; passengers, accompanied by their friends, came, and all was hurry and bustle. Two young men, handsomely dressed and apparently possessed of larger means than the great majority of the passengers, got out of a hack and paused close to where Joe was standing. "Dick," said one, "I'm really sorry you are not going with me. I shall feel awfully lonely without you." "I am very much disappointed, Charlie, but duty will keep me at home. My father's sudden, alarming sickness has broken up all my plans." "Yes, Dick, of course you can't go." "If my father should recover, in a few weeks, I will come out and join you, Charlie." "I hope you may be able to, Dick. By the way, how about your ticket?" "I shall have to lose it, unless the company will give me another in place of it." "They ought to do it." "Yes, but they are rather stiff about it. I would sell it for a hundred dollars." Joe heard this and his heart beat high. He pressed forward, and said eagerly: "Will you sell it to me for that?" The young man addressed as Dick looked, in surprise, at the poorly dressed boy who had addressed him. "Do you want to go to California?" he asked. "Yes, sir," said Joe. "I am very anxious to go." "Do I understand you to offer a hundred dollars for my ticket?" "Yes, sir; but I can't pay you now." "When do you expect to be able to pay me, then?" "Not till I've earned the money in California." "Have you thought before of going?" "Yes, sir. Until an hour ago I thought that it was all arranged that I should go. I came down here and found that the ticket I had bought was a bogus one, and that I had been swindled out of my money." "That was a mean trick," said Dick Scudder indignantly. "Do you know the man that cheated you?" "Yes; he is on board the steamer." "How much money have you got left?" "A dollar." "Only a dollar? And you are not afraid to land in California with this sum?" "No, sir. I shall go to work at once." "Charlie," said Dick, turning to his friend, "I will do as you say. Are you willing to take this boy into your stateroom in my place?" "Yes," said Charles Folsom promptly. "He looks like a good boy. I accept him as my roommate." "All right," said the other. "My boy, what is your name?" "Joe Mason." "Well, Joe, here is my ticket. If you are ever able to pay a hundred dollars for this ticket, you may pay it to my friend, Charles Folsom. Now, I advise you both to be getting aboard, as it is nearly time for the steamer to sail. I won't go on with you, Charlie, as I must go back to my father's bedside." "Good-by, sir. God bless you!" said Joe gratefully. "Good-by, Joe, and good luck!" As they went over the plank, the officer, recognizing Joe, said roughly: "Stand back, boy! Didn't I tell you you couldn't go aboard without a ticket?" "Here is my ticket," said Joe. "A first-class ticket!" exclaimed the officer, in amazement. "Where did you get it?" "I bought it," answered Joe. "I shall go to California, after all!" thought our hero exultingly. CHAPTER IX THE FIRST DAY ON BOARD "We will look up our stateroom first, Joe," said his new friend. "It ought to be a good one." The stateroom proved to be No. 16, very well located and spacious for a stateroom. But to Joe it seemed very small for two persons. He was an inexperienced traveler and did not understand that life on board ship is widely different from life on shore. His companion had been to Europe and was used to steamer life. "I think, Joe," said he, "that I shall put you in the top berth. The lower berth is considered more desirable, but I claim it on the score of age and infirmity." "You don't look very old, or infirm," said Joe. "I am twenty-three. And you?" "Fifteen--nearly sixteen." "I have a stateroom trunk, which will just slip in under my berth. Where is your luggage?" Joe looked embarrassed. "I don't know but you will feel ashamed of me," he said; "but the only extra clothes I have are tied up in this handkerchief." Charles Folsom whistled. "Well," said he, "you are poorly provided. What have you got inside?" "A couple of shirts, three collars, two handkerchiefs, and a pair of stockings." "And you are going a journey of thousands of miles! But never mind," he said kindly. "I am not much larger than you, and, if you need it, I can lend you. Once in California, you will have less trouble than if you were loaded down with clothes. I must get you to tell me your story when there is time." They came on deck just in time to see the steamer swing out of the dock. There were some of the passengers with sober faces. They had bidden farewell to friends and relatives whom they might not see for years--perhaps never again. They were going to a new country, where hardships undoubtedly awaited them, and where they must take their chances of health and success. Some, too, feared seasickness, a malady justly dreaded by all who have ever felt its prostrating effects. But Joe only felt joyful exhilaration. "You look happy, Joe," said young Folsom. "I feel so," said Joe. "Are you hoping to make your fortune in California?" "I am hoping to make a living," said Joe. "Didn't you make a living here at home?" "A poor living, with no prospects ahead. I didn't mind hard work and poor clothes, if there had been a prospect of something better by and by." "Tell me your story. Where were you living?" Charles Folsom listened attentively. "Major Norton didn't appear disposed to pamper you, or bring you up in luxury, that's a fact. It would have been hard lines if, on account of losing your aunt's legacy, you had been compelled to go back to Oakville." "I wouldn't have gone," said Joe resolutely. "What would you have done?" "Stayed in New York, and got a living somehow, even if I had to black boots in the street." "I guess you'll do. You've got the right spirit. It takes boys and men like you for pioneers." Joe was gratified at his companion's approval. "Now," said Folsom, "I may as well tell you my story. I am the son of a New York merchant who is moderately rich. I entered the counting-room at seventeen, and have remained there ever since, with the exception of four months spent in Europe." "If you are rich already, why do you go out to California?" asked Joe. "I am not going to the mines; I am going to prospect a little for the firm. Some day San Francisco will be a large city. I am going to see how soon it will pay for our house to establish a branch there." "I see," said Joe. "I shall probably go out to the mines and take a general survey of the country; but, as you see, I do not go out to obtain employment." "It must be jolly not to have to work," said Joe, "but to have plenty of money to pay your expenses." "Well, I suppose it is convenient. I believe you haven't a large cash surplus?" "I have a dollar." "You've got some pluck to travel so far away from home with such a slender capital, by Jove!" "I don't know that it's pluck. It's necessity." "Something of both, perhaps. Don't you feel afraid of what may happen?" "No," said Joe. "California is a new country, and there must be plenty of work. Now, I am willing to work and I don't believe I shall starve." "That's the way to feel, Joe. At the worst, you have me to fall back upon. I won't see you suffer." "It is very lucky for me. I hope I shan't give you any trouble." "If you do, I'll tell you of it," said Folsom, laughing. "The fact is, I feel rather as if I were your guardian. An odd feeling that, as hitherto I have been looked after by others. Now it is my turn to assume authority." "You will find me obedient," said Joe, smiling. "Seriously, I am so inexperienced in the way of the world that I shall consider it a great favor if you will give me any hints you may think useful to me." Folsom became more and more pleased with his young charge. He saw that he was manly, amiable, and of good principles, with only one great fault--poverty--which he was quite willing to overlook. They selected their seats in the saloon, and were fortunate enough to be assigned to the captain's table. Old travelers know that those who sit at this table are likely to fare better than those who are farther removed. While Folsom was walking the deck with an old friend, whom he had found among the passengers, Joe went on an exploring expedition. He made his way to that portion of the deck appropriated to the steerage passengers. Among them his eye fell on the man who swindled him. "You here!" exclaimed the fellow in amazement. "Yes," said Joe, "I am here." "I thought you said your ticket wasn't good?" "It wasn't, as you very well know." "I don't know anything about it. How did you smuggle yourself aboard?" "I didn't smuggle myself aboard at all. I came on like the rest of the passengers." "Why haven't I seen you before?" "I am not a steerage passenger. I am traveling first-class." "You don't mean it!" ejaculated the fellow, thoroughly astonished. "You told me you hadn't any more money." "So I did, and that shows that you were the man that sold me the bogus ticket." "Nothing of the kind," said the other, but he seemed taken aback by Joe's charge. "Well, all I can say is, that you know how to get round. When a man or boy can travel first-class without a cent of money, he'll do." "I wouldn't have come at all if I had had to swindle a poor boy out of his money," said Joe. Joe walked off without receiving an answer. He took pains to ascertain the name of the man who had defrauded him. He was entered on the passenger-list as Henry Hogan. CHAPTER X THE DETECTED THIEF "Do you expect to be seasick, Joe?" "I don't know, Mr. Folsom. This is the first time I have ever been at sea." "I have crossed the Atlantic twice, and been sick each time. I suppose I have a tendency that way." "How does it feel?" asked Joe curiously. Folsom laughed. "It cannot be described," he answered. "Then I would rather remain ignorant," said Joe. "You are right. This is a case where ignorance is bliss decidedly." Twenty-four hours out Folsom's anticipations were realized. He experienced nausea and his head swam. Returning from a walk on deck, Joe found his guardian lying down in the stateroom. "Is anything the matter, Mr. Folsom?" "Nothing but what I expected. The demon of the sea has me in his gripe." "Can I do anything for you?" "Nothing at present, Joe. What art can minister to a stomach diseased? I must wait patiently, and it will wear off. Don't you feel any of the symptoms?" "Oh, no--I feel bully," said Joe. "I've got a capital appetite." "I hope you will be spared. It would be dismal for both of us to be groaning with seasickness." "Shall I stay with you?" "No--go on deck. That is the best way to keep well. My sickness won't last more than a day or two." The young man's expectations were realized. After forty-eight hours he recovered from his temporary indisposition and reappeared on deck. He found that his young companion, had made a number of acquaintances, and had become a general favorite through his frank and pleasant manners. "I think you'll get on, Joe," said he. "You make friends easily." "I try to do it," said Joe modestly. "You are fast getting over your country greenness. Of course you couldn't help having a share of it, having never lived outside of a small country village." "I am glad you think so, Mr. Folsom. I suppose I was very green and I haven't got over it yet, but in six months I hope to get rid of it wholly." "It won't take six months at the rate you are advancing." Day succeeded day and Joe was not sick at all. He carried a good appetite to every meal and entered into the pleasures of sea life with zest. He played shuffle-board on deck, guessed daily the ship's run, was on the alert for distant sails, and managed in one way or another to while away the time cheerfully. They had got into the Gulf of Mexico, when, one day, there was an unwonted commotion in the steerage. A poor German had lost forty dollars, the entire capital he was carrying with him to the new country. "Some tief has rob me," he complained, in accents of mingled grief and anger. "He has rob me of all my gold. He has not left me one cent." "When did you miss the money?" inquired the first officer. "Just now," said the poor German. "When did you see it last?" "Last night when I went to mine bed." "Did you take off your clothes?" "No." "What men sleep near you?" The German pointed to two. The first was a German. "But he would not rob me. He is mine friend," he said. "He is Fritz." "Who is the other man?" The German pointed to Henry Hogan, the same man who had defrauded Joe. "The man's a fool," said Hogan. "Does he mean to say a gentleman like me would steal his paltry money?" "He hasn't said so," said the first officer quietly. "He only said that you slept near him." "He'd better not accuse me," blustered Hogan. The officer was a judge of human nature, and Hogan's manner and words made him suspect that he was really the guilty party. "My man," said he, "you are making a fuss before you are accused. No charge has been made against you. The man's money has been taken, and some one must have taken it." "I don't believe he ever had any," said Hogan. "Can you prove that you had the money?" asked the officer, addressing the German. "Has any one on board seen it in your possession?" An Irishman named Riley came forward. "That can I do," said he. "It was only yesterday morning that I saw the man counting his money." "In what denomination was the money?" Pat Riley scratched his head. "Sure I didn't know that money belonged to any denomination, sir." The officer smiled. "I mean, was it in five, or ten, or twenty dollar pieces." "There was four tens, sir--four gould eagles." "Is that right?" inquired the officer, turning to the German. "Yes, sir, that's what I had." "Then," said the officer, "it seems clearly proved that our German friend here had the money he claims. Now, I suggest that the two men he has said occupied bunks nearest to him shall be searched. But first, if the man who has taken the money will come forward voluntarily and return the same, I will guarantee that he shall receive no punishment." He paused for a brief space and looked at Hogan. Hogan seemed uneasy, but stolid and obstinate. "Since my offer is not accepted," said the officer, "let the two men be searched." Fritz, the young German, came forward readily. "I am ready," he said. "I am not," said Hogan. "I protest against this outrage. It is an infringement of my rights as an American citizen. If any one dares to lay hands on me, I will have him arrested as soon as we reach California." His threat produced no effect upon the officer. At a signal two sailors seized him, and, despite his struggles, turned his pockets inside out. Among the contents were found four gold eagles. "It is my money!" exclaimed the poor German. "You lie! The money is mine!" said Hogan furiously. "There was a cross, which I scratched with a pin, on one piece," said the German. "Look! see if it is there." Examination was made, and the scratch was found just as he described it. "The money evidently belongs to the German," said the officer. "Give it to him." "You are robbing me of my money," said Hogan. "Look here, my friend, you had better be quiet," said the officer significantly, "or I will have you tied up to keep out of mischief. You are getting off very well as it is. I have no doubt you have been up to other dishonest tricks before this one." "That is true, sir," said Joe, speaking up for the first time. "This is the same man who sold me a bogus ticket, two days before we sailed, for fifty dollars." "It's a lie!" said Hogan. "I'll be even with you some time, boy, for that lie of yours." "I don't care for the threats of such a scoundrel as you are," said Joe undauntedly. "Look out for him, Joe," said Folsom. "He will try to do you a mischief some time." He would have been confirmed in his opinion had he observed the glance of hatred with which the detected thief followed his young ward. CHAPTER XI JOE ARRIVES IN SAN FRANCISCO At the isthmus they exchanged steamers, crossing the narrow neck of land on the backs of mules. To-day the journey is more rapidly and comfortably made in a railroad-car. Of the voyage on the Pacific nothing need be said. The weather was fair, and it was uneventful. It was a beautiful morning in early September when they came in sight of the Golden Gate, and, entering the more placid waters of San Francisco Bay, moored at a short distance from the town. "What do you think of it, Joe?" asked Charles Folsom. "I don't know," said Joe slowly. "Is this really San Francisco?" "It is really San Francisco." "It doesn't seem to be much built up yet," said Joe. In fact, the appearance of the town would hardly suggest the stately capital of to-day, which looks out like a queen on the bay and the ocean, and on either side opens her arms to the Eastern and Western continents. It was a town of tents and one-story cabins, irregularly and picturesquely scattered over the hillside, with here and there a sawmill, where now stand some of the most prominent buildings of the modern city. For years later there was a large mound of sand where now the stately Palace Hotel covers two and a half acres. Where now stand substantial business blocks, a quarter of a century since there appeared only sandy beaches or mud-flats, with here and there a wooden pier reaching out into the bay. Only five years before the town contained but seventy-nine buildings--thirty-one frame, twenty-six adobe, and the rest shanties. It had grown largely since then, but even now was only a straggling village, with the air of recent settlement. "You expected something more, Joe, didn't you?" "Yes," admitted Joe. "You must remember how new it is. Ten years, nay, five, will work a great change in this straggling village. We shall probably live to see it a city of a hundred thousand inhabitants." The passengers were eager to land. They were tired of the long voyage and anxious to get on shore. They wanted to begin making their fortunes. "What are your plans, Joe?" asked Charles Folsom. "I shall accept the first job that offers," said Joe. "I can't afford to remain idle long with my small capital." "Joe," said the young man seriously, "let me increase your capital for you. You can pay me back, you know, when it is convenient. Here, take this gold piece." Our young hero shook his head. "Thank you, Mr. Folsom," he said, "you are very kind, but I think it will be better for me to shift on what I have. Then I shall have to go to work at once, and shall get started in my new career." "Suppose you can't find work?" suggested Folsom. "I will find it," said Joe resolutely. "Perhaps we might take lodgings together, Joe." "I can't afford it," said Joe. "You're a gentleman of property, and I'm a poor boy who has his fortune to make. For the present I must expect to rough it." "Well, Joe, perhaps you are right. At any rate, I admire your pluck and independent spirit." There was a motley crowd collected on the pier and on the beach when Joe and his friend landed. Rough, bearded men, in Mexican sombreros and coarse attire--many in shirt-sleeves and with their pantaloons tucked in their boots--watched the new arrivals with interest. "You needn't feel ashamed of your clothes, Joe," said Folsom, with a smile. "You are better dressed than the majority of those we see." Joe looked puzzled. "They don't look as if they had made their fortunes," he said. "Don't judge by appearances. In a new country people are careless of appearances. Some of these rough fellows, no doubt, have their pockets full of gold." At this moment a rough-looking fellow stepped forward and said heartily: "Isn't this Charles Folsom?" "Yes," answered Folsom, puzzled. "You don't remember me?" said the other, laughing. "Not I." "Not remember Harry Carter, your old chum?" "Good Heaven!" exclaimed Folsom, surveying anew the rough figure before him. "You don't mean to say you are Harry Carter?" "The same, at your service." "What a transformation! Why, you used to be rather a swell and now----" "Now I look like a barbarian." "Well, rather," said Folsom, laughing. "You want me to explain? Such toggery as I used to wear would be the height of folly at the mines." "I hope you have had good luck," said Folsom. "Pretty fair," said Carter, in a tone of satisfaction. "My pile has reached five thousand dollars." "And how long have you been at work?" "A year. I was a bookkeeper in New York on a salary of fifteen hundred dollars a year. I used to spend all my income--the more fool I--till the last six months, when I laid by enough to bring me out here." "Then you have really bettered yourself?" "I should say so. I could only save up five hundred dollars a year at the best in New York. Here I have crowded ten years into one." "In spite of your large outlay for clothes?" "I see you will have your joke. Now, what brings you out here? Are you going to the mines?" "Presently, but not to dig. I came to survey the country." "Let me do what I can for you." "I will. First, what hotel shall I go to?" "There is the Leidesdorff House, on California Street. I'll lead you there." "Thank you. Will you come, Joe?" "Yes, I will go to find out where it is." The three bent their steps to the hotel referred to. It was a shanty compared with the magnificent hotels which now open their portals to strangers, but the charge was ten dollars a day and the fare was of the plainest. "I guess I won't stop here," said Joe, "My money wouldn't keep me here more than an hour or two." "At any rate, Joe, you must dine with me," said Folsom. "Then you may start out for yourself." "You must dine with me, both of you," said Carter. Folsom saw that he was in earnest, and accepted. The dinner was plain but abundant, and all three did justice to it. Joe did not know till afterward that the dinner cost five dollars apiece. After dinner the two friends sat down to talk over old times and mutual friends, but Joe felt that there was no time for him to lose. He had his fortune to make. Still more important, he had his living to make, and in a place where dollars were held as cheap as dimes in New York or Boston. So, emerging into the street, with his small bundle under his arm, he bent his steps as chance directed. CHAPTER XII JOE FINDS A JOB Joe knew nothing about the streets or their names. Chance brought him to Clay Street, between what is now Montgomery and Kearny Streets. Outside of a low wooden building, which appeared to be a restaurant, was a load of wood. "I wonder if I couldn't get the chance to saw and split that wood?" thought Joe. It would not do to be bashful. So he went in. A stout man in an apron was waiting on the guests. Joe concluded that this must be the proprietor. "Sit down, boy," said he, "if you want some dinner." "I've had my dinner," said Joe. "Don't you want that wood outside sawed and split?" "Yes." "Let me do it." "Go ahead." There was a saw and saw-horse outside. The work was not new to Joe, and he went at it vigorously. No bargain had been made, but Joe knew so little of what would be considered a fair price that in this first instance he chose to leave it to his employer. As he was at work Folsom and his friend passed by. "Have you found a job already?" said Folsom. "Yes, sir." "You have kept your promise, Joe. You said you would take the first job that offered." "Yes, Mr. Folsom; I meant what I said." "Come round to the Leidesdorff House this evening and tell me how you made out." "Thank you, sir, I will." "That seems a smart boy," said Carter. "Yes, he is. Help him along if you have a chance." "I will. I like his pluck." "He has no false pride. He is ready to do anything." "Everybody is here. You know Jim Graves, who used to have his shingle up as a lawyer on Nassau Street?" "Yes. Is he here?" "He has been here three months. What do you think he is doing?" "I couldn't guess." "I don't think you could. He has turned drayman." Charles Folsom gazed at his friend in wonder. "Turned drayman!" he exclaimed. "Is he reduced to that?" "Reduced to that! My dear fellow, you don't understand the use of language. Graves is earning fifteen dollars a day at his business, and I don't believe he made that in New York in a month." "Well, it is a strange state of society. Does he mean to be a drayman all his life?" "Of course not. A year hence he may be a capitalist, or a lawyer again. Meanwhile he is saving money." "He is a sensible man, after all; but, you see, Carter, it takes time to adjust my ideas to things here. The first surprise was your rough appearance." "There is one advantage my rough life has brought me," said Carter. "It has improved my health. I was given to dyspepsia when I lived in New York. Now I really believe I could digest a tenpenny nail, or--an eating-house mince pie, which is more difficult." "You have steep hills in San Francisco." "Yes, it is something of a climb to the top of Clay Street Hill. When you get to the top you get a fine view, though." Now the hill may be ascended in cars drawn up the steeply graded sides by an endless rope running just below the surface. No such arrangement had been thought of then. Folsom gave out when he had completed half the ascent. "I'll be satisfied with the prospect from here," he said. Meanwhile Joe kept steadily at his task. "It will take me three hours and a half, possibly four," he said to himself, after a survey of the pile. "I wonder what pay I shall receive." While thus employed many persons passed him. One among them paused and accosted him. "So you have found work already?" he said. Looking up, Joe recognized Harry Hogan, the man who had swindled him. He didn't feel inclined to be very social with this man. "Yes," said he coldly. "Rather strange work for a first-class passenger." He envied Joe because he had traveled first-class, while he had thought himself fortunate, with the help his dishonesty gave him, in being able to come by steerage. "It is very suitable employment for a boy who has no money," said Joe. "How much are you going to be paid for the job?" asked Hogan, with sudden interest, for ten dollars constituted his only remaining funds. If his theft on shipboard had not been detected he would have been better provided. "I don't know," said Joe shortly. "You didn't make any bargain, then?" "No." "What are you going to do next?" inquired Hogan. "I don't know," said Joe. Hogan finally moved off. "I hate that boy," he soliloquized. "He puts on airs for a country boy. So he's getting too proud to talk to me, is he? We'll see, Mr. Joseph Mason." Joe kept on till his task was completed, put on his coat and went into the restaurant. It was the supper-hour. "I've finished the job," said Joe, in a businesslike tone. The German took a look at Joe's work. "You did it up good," he said. "How much you want?" "I don't know. What would be a fair price?" "I will give you some supper and five dollars." Joe could hardly believe his ears. Five dollars and a supper for four hours' work! Surely he had come to the Land of Gold in very truth. "Will dat do?" "Oh, yes," said Joe. "I didn't expect so much." "You shouldn't tell me dat. It isn't business." Joe pocketed the gold piece which he received with a thrill of exultation. He had never received so much in value for a week's work before. Just then a man paid two dollars for a very plain supper. "That makes my pay seven dollars," said Joe to himself. "If I can get steady work, I can get rich very quick," he thought. There was one thing, however, that Joe did not take into account. If his earnings were likely to be large, his expenses would be large, too. So he might receive a good deal of money and not lay up a cent. "Shall you have any more work to do?" asked Joe. "Not shoost now," answered the German. "You can look round in a week. Maybe I have some then." CHAPTER XIII JOE'S HOTEL Before going to the Leidesdorff House to call upon his friend Folsom, Joe thought he would try to make arrangements for the night. He came to the St. Francis Hotel, on the corner of Dupont and Clay Streets. There was an outside stair that led to the balcony that ran all round the second story. The doors of the rooms opened upon this balcony. A man came out from the office. "Can I get lodging here?" asked Joe. "Yes." "How much do you charge?" "Three dollars." "He must take me for a millionaire," thought Joe. "I can't afford it," he said. As Joe descended the stairs he did not feel quite so rich. Six dollars won't go far when lodging costs three dollars and supper two. Continuing his wanderings, Joe came to a tent, which seemed to be a hotel in its way, for it had "Lodgings" inscribed on the canvas in front. "What do you charge for lodgings?" Joe inquired. "A dollar," was the reply. Looking in, Joe saw that the accommodations were of the plainest. Thin pallets were spread about without pillows. Joe was not used to luxury but to sleep here would be roughing it even for him. But he was prepared to rough it, and concluded that he might as well pass the night here. "All right!" said he. "I'll be round by and by." "Do you want to pay in advance to secure your bed?" "I guess not; I'll take the risk." Joe went on to the Leidesdorff Hotel and was cordially received by Mr. Folsom. "How much have you earned to-day, Joe?" "Five dollars and my supper." "That's good. Is the job finished?" "Yes, sir." "And you have nothing in view for to-morrow?" "No, sir; but I guess I shall run across a job." "Where are you going to spend the night?" "In a tent a little way down the street." "How much will they charge you?" "One dollar." "I wish my bed was large enough to hold two; you should be welcome to a share of it. But they don't provide very wide bedsteads in this country." Mr. Folsom's bed was about eighteen inches wide. "Thank you, sir," said Joe; "I shall do very well in the tent, I am sure." "I am thinking of making a trip to the mines with my friend Carter," continued Folsom. "Very likely we shall start to-morrow. Do you want to go with us?" "I expect to go to the mines," said Joe, "but I think I had better remain awhile in San Francisco, and lay by a little money. You know I am in debt." "In debt?" "Yes, for my passage. I should like to pay that off." "There is no hurry about it, Joe." "I'd like to get it off my mind, Mr. Folsom." About nine o'clock Joe left the hotel and sought the tent where he proposed to pass the night. He was required to pay in advance, and willingly did so. CHAPTER XIV JOE'S SECOND DAY Joe woke up at seven o'clock the next morning. Though his bed was hard, he slept well, for he was fatigued. He stretched himself and sat up on his pallet. It is needless to say that he had not undressed. Three or four men were lying near him, all fast asleep except one, and that one he recognized as Henry Hogan. "Halloo!" said Hogan. "You here?" "Yes," said Joe, not overpleased at the meeting. "We seem to keep together," said Hogan, with a grin. "So it seems," said Joe coldly. Hogan, however, seemed disposed to be friendly. "Pretty rough accommodations for the money." "It doesn't make so much difference where money is earned easily." "How much money did you make yesterday?" Joe's first thought was to tell him it was none of his business, but he thought better of it. "I made seven dollars," said he, rather proudly. "Pretty good, but I beat you," said Hogan. "How much did you make?" "I'll show you." Hogan showed five half-eagles. "I made it in ten minutes," he said. Joe was decidedly mystified. "You are fooling me," he said. "No, I am not. I made it at the gaming-table." "Oh!" said Joe, a little startled, for he had been brought up to think gambling wicked. "Better come and try your luck with me," said Hogan. "It is easier and quicker than sawing wood." "Perhaps it is," said Joe, "but I'd rather saw wood." "I suspect you are a young Puritan." "Perhaps I am," said Joe. "At any rate, I don't mean to gamble." "Just as you like. I can't afford to be so particular." "You don't seem to be very particular," said Joe. "What do you mean?" inquired Hogan suspiciously. "You know well enough," said Joe. "You know the way you had of getting money in New York. You know the way you tried to get it on board the steamer." "Look here, young fellow," said Hogan menacingly, "I've heard enough of this. You won't find it safe to run against me. I'm a tough customer, you'll find." "I don't doubt it," said Joe. "Then just be careful, will you? I ain't going to have you slander me and prejudice people against me, and I mean to protect myself. Do you understand me?" "I think I do, Mr. Hogan, but I don't feel particularly alarmed." Joe got up and went out in search of breakfast. Be thought of the place where he took supper but was deterred from going there by the high prices. "I suppose I shall have to pay a dollar for my breakfast," he thought, "but I can't afford to pay two. My capital is reduced to five dollars and I may not be able to get anything to do to-day." Joe finally succeeded in finding a humble place where for a dollar he obtained a cup of coffee, a plate of cold meat, and as much bread as he could eat. "I shall have to make it do with two meals a day," thought our hero. "Then it will cost me three dollars a day to live, including lodging, and I shall have to be pretty lucky to make that." After breakfast Joe walked about the streets, hoping that something would turn up. But his luck did not seem to be so good as the day before. Hour after hour passed and no chance offered itself. As he was walking along feeling somewhat anxious, he met Hogan. "Lend me a dollar," said Hogan quickly. "I'm dead broke." "Where has all your money gone?" asked Joe, "Lost it at faro. Lend me a dollar and I'll win it all back." "I have no money to spare," said Joe decidedly. "Curse you for a young skinflint!" said Hogan, scowling. "I'll get even with you yet." CHAPTER XV THE FOILED ASSASSIN About four o'clock Joe went into a restaurant and got some dinner. In spite of his wish to be economical, his dinner bill amounted to a dollar and a half, and now his cash in hand was reduced to two dollars and a half. Joe began to feel uneasy. "This won't do," he said to himself. "At this rate I shall soon be penniless. I must get something to do." In the evening he strolled down Montgomery Street to Telegraph Hill. It was not a very choice locality, the only buildings being shabby little dens, frequented by a class of social outlaws who kept concealed during the day but came out at night--a class to which the outrages frequent at this time were rightly attributed. Joe was stumbling along the uneven path, when all at once he found himself confronted by a tall fellow wearing a slouched hat. The man paused in front of him, but did not say a word. Finding that he was not disposed to move aside, Joe stepped aside himself. He did not as yet suspect the fellow's purpose. He understood it, however, when a heavy hand was laid on his shoulder. "Quick, boy, your money!" said the ruffian. Having but two dollars and a half, Joe naturally felt reluctant to part with it, and this gave him the courage to object. "I've got none to spare," he said and tried to tear himself away. His resistance led the fellow to suspect that he had a considerable sum with him. Joe felt himself seized and carried into a den close by, which was frequented by thieves and desperate characters. There was a counter, on which was set a dim oil-lamp. There were a few bottles in sight, and a villainous-looking fellow appeared to preside over the establishment. The latter looked up as Joe was brought in. "Who have you there?" asked the barkeeper. "A young cove as don't want to part with his money." "You'd better hand over what you've got, young 'un." Joe looked from one to the other and thought he had never seen such villainous faces before. "What are you lookin' at?" demanded his captor suspiciously, "You want to know us again, do you? Maybe you'd like to get us hauled up, would you?" "I don't want ever to set eyes on you again." "That's the way to talk. As soon as our business is over, there ain't no occasion for our meetin' again. Don't you go to point us out, or----" He didn't finish the sentence, but whipped out a long knife, which made any further remarks unnecessary. Under the circumstances, resistance would be madness and Joe drew out his money. "Is that all you've got?" demanded the thief. "Every cent," said Joe. "It won't leave me anything to pay for my night's lodging." "Then you can sleep out. I've done it many a time. But I'll take the liberty of searching you, and seeing if you tell the truth or not." "Just as you like," said Joe. Joe was searched, but no more money was found. "The boy's told the truth," said his captor. "Two dollars and a half is a pretty small haul." "I am sorry, gentlemen, that I haven't anything more. It isn't my fault, for I've tried hard to get something to do to-day, and couldn't." "You're a cool customer," said the barkeeper. "I expect to be to-night, for I shall have to sleep out." "You can go," said his captor, as he opened the door of the den; "and don't come round here again, unless you've got more money with you." "I don't think I shall," said Joe. When Joe found himself penniless, he really felt less anxious than when he had at least money enough to pay for lodging and breakfast. Having lost everything, any turn of fortune must be for the better. "Something has got to turn up pretty quick," thought Joe. "It's just as well I didn't get a job to-day. I should only have had more money to lose." He had not walked a hundred feet when his attention was called to the figure of a gentleman walking some rods in front of him. He saw it but indistinctly, and would not have given it a second thought had he not seen that the person, whoever he might be, was stealthily followed by a man who in general appearance resembled the rascal who had robbed him of his money. The pursuer carried in his hand a canvas bag filled with sand. This, though Joe did not know it, was a dangerous weapon in the hands of a lawless human. Brought down heavily upon the head of an unlucky traveler, it often produced instant death, without leaving any outward marks that would indicate death from violence. Though Joe didn't comprehend the use of the sand-bag, his own recent experience and the stealthy movement of the man behind convinced him that mischief was intended. He would have been excusable if, being but a boy and no match for an able-bodied ruffian, he had got out of the way. But Joe had more courage than falls to the share of most boys of sixteen. He felt a chivalrous desire to rescue the unsuspecting stranger from the peril that menaced him. Joe, too, imitating the stealthy motion of the pursuer, swiftly gained upon him, overtaking him just as he had the sand-bag poised aloft, ready to be brought down upon the head of the traveler. With a cry, Joe rushed upon the would-be assassin, causing him to stumble and fall, while the gentleman in front turned round in amazement. Joe sprang to his side. "Have you a pistol?" he said quickly. Scarcely knowing what he did, the gentleman drew out a pistol and put it in Joe's hand. Joe cocked it, and stood facing the ruffian. The desperado was on his feet, fury in his looks and a curse upon his lips. He swung the sand-bag aloft. "Curse you!" he said. "I'll make you pay for this!" "One step forward," said Joe, in a clear, distinct voice, which betrayed not a particle of fear, "and I will put a bullet through your brain!" The assassin stepped back. He was a coward, who attacked from behind. He looked in the boy's resolute face, and he saw he was in earnest. "Put down that weapon, you whipper-snapper!" "Not much!" answered Joe. "I've a great mind to kill you!" "I've no doubt of it," said our hero; "but you'd better not attack me. I am armed, and I will fire if you make it necessary. Now, turn round and leave us." "Will you promise not to shoot?" "Yes, if you go off quietly." The order was obeyed, but not very willingly. When the highwayman had moved off, Joe said: "Now, sir, we'd better be moving, and pretty quickly, or the fellow may return, with some of his friends, and overpower us. Where are you stopping?" "At the Waverly House." "That is near-by. We will go there at once." They soon reached the hotel, a large wooden building on the north side of Pacific Street. Joe was about to bid his acquaintance good night but the latter detained him. "Come in, my boy," he said. "You have done me a great service. I must know more of you." CHAPTER XVI JOE'S NEW FRIEND "Come up to my room," said the stranger. He obtained a candle at the office, gas not being used in San Francisco at that time, and led the way to a small chamber on the second floor. "Now, sit down, my boy, and tell me your name." "Joseph Mason." "How long have you been here?" "Less than a week." "I only arrived yesterday. But for your help, my residence might have been a brief one." "I am glad I have been able to be of service to you." "You were a friend in need, and a friend in need is a friend indeed. It is only fair that I should be a friend to you. It's a poor rule that doesn't work both ways." Joe was favorably impressed with the speaker's appearance. He was a man of middle height, rather stout, with a florid complexion, and an open, friendly face. "Thank you, sir," he said, "I need a friend, and shall be glad of your friendship." "Then here's my hand. Take it, and let us ratify our friendship." Joe took the proffered hand and shook it cordially. "My name is George Morgan," said the stranger. "I came from Philadelphia. Now we know each other. Where are you staying?" Joe's face flushed and he looked embarrassed. "Just before I came up with you," he answered, thinking frankness best, "I was robbed of two dollars and a half, all the money I had in this world. I shall have to stop in the streets to-night." "Not if I know it," said Morgan emphatically. "This bed isn't very large, but you are welcome to a share of it. To-morrow we will form our plans." "Shan't I inconvenience you, sir?" asked Joe. "Not a bit," answered Morgan heartily. "Then I will stay, sir, and thank you. After the adventure I have had to-night, I shouldn't enjoy being out in the streets." "Tell me how you came to be robbed. Was it by the same man who made the attack upon me?" "No, sir. I wish it had been, as then I should feel even with him. It was a man that looked very much like him, though." Joe gave an account of the robbery, to which his new friend listened with attention. "Evidently," he said, "the street we were in is not a very safe one. Have you had any supper?" "Oh, yes, sir. Luckily, I got that and paid for it before I had my money taken." "Good. Now, as I am tired, I will go to bed, and you can follow when you feel inclined." "I will go now, sir. I have been walking the streets all day, in search of work, and, though I found none, I am tired, all the same." They woke up at seven o'clock. "How did you rest, Joe?" asked George Morgan. "Very well, sir." "Do you feel ready for breakfast?" "As soon as I can earn money enough to pay for it." "Don't trouble yourself about that. You are going to breakfast with me." "You are very kind, Mr. Morgan, but I wish you had some work for me to do, so that I could pay you." "That may come after awhile. It might not be safe to delay your breakfast till you could pay for it. Remember, you have done me a great service, which fifty breakfasts couldn't pay for." "Don't think of that, Mr. Morgan," said Joe modestly. "Anybody would do what I did." "I am not sure whether everybody would have the courage. But you must leave me to show my appreciation of your services in my own way." They took breakfast in the hotel and walked out. Though it was early, the town was already astir. People got up early in those days. Building was going on here and there. Draymen were piloting heavy loads through the streets--rough enough in general appearance, but drawn from very unlikely social grades. "By Jove!" said Morgan, in surprise, his glance resting on a young man of twenty-five, who was in command of a dray. "Do you hear that drayman?" "Is he a foreigner?" asked Joe. "I don't understand what he is saying." "He is talking to his horse in Greek, quoting from Homer. Look here, my friend!" he said, hailing the drayman. "What is it, sir?" said the young man courteously. "Didn't I hear you quoting Greek just now?" "Yes, sir." "How happens it that a classical scholar like you finds himself in such a position?" The young man smiled. "How much do you think I am earning?" "I can't guess. I am a stranger in this city." "Twenty dollars a day." "Capital! I don't feel as much surprised as I did. Are you a college graduate?" "Yes, sir. I was graduated at Yale. Then I studied law and three months since I came out here. It takes time to get into practise at home and I had no resources to fall back upon. I raised money enough to bring me to California and came near starving the first week I was here. I couldn't wait to get professional work, but I had an offer to drive a dray. I am a farmer's son and was accustomed to hard work as a boy. I accepted the offer and here I am. I can lay up half my earnings and am quite satisfied." "But you won't be a drayman all your life?" "Oh, no, sir. But I may as well keep at it till I can get into something more to my taste." And the young lawyer drove off. "It's a queer country," said Morgan. "It's hard to gauge a man by his occupation here, I see." "I wish I could get a dray to drive," said Joe. "You are not old enough or strong enough yet. I am looking for some business myself, Joe, but I can't at all tell what I shall drift into. At home I was a dry-goods merchant. My partner and I disagreed and I sold out to him. I drew ten thousand dollars out of the concern, invested four-fifths of it, and have come out here with the remainder, to see what I can do." "Ten thousand dollars! What a rich man you must be!" said Joe. "In your eyes, my boy. As you get older, you will find that it will not seem so large to you. At any rate, I hope to increase it considerably." They were walking on Kearny Street, near California Street, when Joe's attention was drawn, to a sign: THIS RESTAURANT FOR SALE It was a one-story building, of small dimensions, not fashionable, nor elegant in its appointments, but there wasn't much style in San Francisco at that time. "Would you like to buy out the restaurant?" asked Morgan. "I don't feel like buying anything out with empty pockets," said Joe. "Let us go in." The proprietor was a man of middle age. "Why do you wish to sell out?" asked Morgan. "I want to go to the mines. I need an out-of-door life and want a change." "Does this business pay?" "Sometimes I have made seventy-five dollars profit in a day." "How much do you ask for the business?" "I'll take five hundred dollars, cash." "Have you a reliable cook?" "Yes. He knows his business." "Will he stay?" "For the present. If you want a profitable business, you will do well to buy." "I don't want it for myself. I want it for this young man." "For this boy?" asked the restaurant-keeper, surprised. Joe looked equally surprised. CHAPTER XVII JOE STARTS IN BUSINESS "Do you think you can keep a hotel, Joe?" asked Morgan. "I can try," said Joe promptly. "Come in, gentlemen," said the restaurant-keeper. "We can talk best inside." The room was small, holding but six tables. In the rear was the kitchen. "Let me see your scale of prices," said Morgan. It was shown him. "I could breakfast cheaper at Delmonico's," he said. "And better," said the proprietor of the restaurant; "but I find people here willing to pay big prices, and, as long as that's the case, I should be a fool to reduce them. Yes, there's a splendid profit to be made in the business. I ought to charge a thousand dollars, instead of five hundred." "Why don't you?" asked Morgan bluntly. "Because I couldn't get it. Most men, when they come out here, are not content to settle down in the town. They won't be satisfied till they get to the mines." "That seems to be the case with you, too." "It isn't that altogether. My lungs are weak and confinement isn't good for me. Besides, the doctors say the climate in the interior is better for pulmonary affections." "What rent do you have to pay?" "A small ground-rent. I put up this building myself." "How soon can you give possession?" "Right off." "Will you stay here three days, to initiate my young friend into the mysteries of the business?" "Oh, yes; I'll do that willingly." "Then I will buy you out." In five minutes the business was settled. "Joe," said Morgan, "let me congratulate you. You are now one of the business men of San Francisco." "It seems like a dream to me, Mr. Morgan," said Joe. "This morning when I waked up I wasn't worth a cent." "And now you own five hundred dollars," said Mr. Morgan, laughing. "That wasn't exactly the way I thought of it, sir, but are you not afraid to trust me to that amount?" "No, I am not, Joe," said Morgan seriously. "I think you are a boy of energy and integrity. I don't see why you shouldn't succeed." "Suppose I shouldn't?" "I shall not trouble myself about the loss. In all probability, you saved my life last evening. That is worth to me many times what I have invested for you." "I want to give you my note for the money," said Joe. "If I live, I will pay you, with interest." "I agree with you. We may as well put it on a business basis." Papers were drawn up, and Joe found himself proprietor of the restaurant. He lost no opportunity of mastering the details of the business. He learned where his predecessor obtained his supplies, what prices he paid, about how much he required for a day's consumption, and what was his scale of prices. "Do you live here, Mr. Brock?" asked Joe. "Yes; I have a bed, which I lay in a corner of the restaurant. Thus I avoid the expense of a room outside, and am on hand early for business." "I'll do the same," said Joe promptly. "In that way you will have no personal expenses, except clothing and washing," said Brock. "I shall be glad to have no bills to pay for board," said Joe. "That's rather a steep item here." "So it is." "I don't see but I can save up pretty much all I make," said Joe. "Certainly you can." In two days Joe, who was naturally quick and whose natural shrewdness was sharpened by his personal interest, mastered the details of the business, and felt that he could manage alone. "Mr. Brock," said he, "you promised to stay with me three days, but I won't insist upon the third day. I think I can get along well without you." "If you can, I shall be glad to leave you at once. The fact is, a friend of mine starts for the mines to-morrow, and I would like to accompany him. I asked him to put it off a day, but he thinks he can't." "Go with him, by all means. I can get along." So, on the morning of the third day, Joe found himself alone. At the end of the first week he made a careful estimate of his expenses and receipts, and found, to his astonishment, that he had cleared two hundred dollars. It seemed to him almost incredible, and he went over the calculations again and again. But he could figure out no other result. "Two hundred dollars in one week!" he said to himself. "What would Oscar say to that? It seems like a fairy tale." Joe did not forget that he was five hundred dollars In debt. He went to George Morgan, who had bought out for himself a gentlemen's furnishing store, and said: "Mr. Morgan, I want to pay up a part of that debt." "So soon, Joe? How much do you want to pay?" "A hundred and fifty dollars." "You don't mean to say that you have cleared that amount?" said Morgan, in amazement. "Yes, sir, and fifty dollars more." "Very well. I will receive the money. You do well to wipe out your debts as soon as possible." Joe paid over the money with no little satisfaction. Without going too much into detail, it may be stated that at the end of a month Joe was out of debt and had three hundred dollars over. He called on the owner of the land to pay the monthly ground-rent. "Why don't you buy the land, and get rid of the rent?" asked the owner. "Do you want to sell?" asked Joe. "Yes; I am about to return to the East." "What do you ask?" "I own two adjoining lots. You may have them all for a thousand dollars." "Will you give me time?" "I can't. I want to return at once, and I must have the cash." A thought struck Joe. "I will take three hours to consider," said Joe. He went to George Morgan and broached his business. "Mr. Morgan," he said, "will you lend me seven hundred dollars?" "Are you getting into pecuniary difficulties, Joe?" asked Morgan, concerned. "No, sir; but I want to buy some real estate." "Explain yourself." Joe did so. "It is the best thing you can do," said Morgan, "I will lend you the money." "I hope to repay it inside of two months," said Joe. "I think you will, judging from what you have done already." In two hours Joe had paid over the entire amount, for it will be remembered that he had three hundred dollars of his own, and was owner of three city lots. "Now," thought he, "I must attend to business, and clear off the debt I have incurred. I shan't feel as if the land is mine till I have paid for it wholly." Joe found it a great advantage that he obtained his own board and lodging free. Though wages were high, the necessary expenses of living were so large that a man earning five dollars a day was worse off oftentimes than one who was earning two dollars at the East. "How shall I make my restaurant more attractive?" thought Joe. He decided first that he would buy good articles and insist upon as much neatness as possible about the tables. At many of the restaurants very little attention was paid to this, and visitors who had been accustomed to neatness at home were repelled. Soon Joe's dining-room acquired a reputation, and the patronage increased. At the end of the third month he had not only paid up the original loan of seven hundred dollars, but was the owner of the three lots, and had four hundred dollars over. He began to feel that his prosperity was founded on a solid basis. One day about this time, as he was at the desk where he received money from his patrons as they went out, his attention was drawn to a rough fellow, having the appearance of a tramp, entering at the door. The man's face seemed familiar to him, and it flashed upon him that it was Henry Hogan, who had defrauded him in New York. The recognition was mutual. "You here?" he exclaimed, in surprise. "So it seems," said Joe. "Is it a good place?" "I like it." "Who's your boss?" "Myself." "You don't mean to say this is your own place?" "Yes, I do." "Well, I'll be blowed!" ejaculated Hogan, staring stupidly at Joe. CHAPTER XVIII MR. HOGAN'S PROPOSAL Joe enjoyed Hogan's amazement. He felt rather proud of his rapid progress. It was not four months since, a poor, country boy, he had come up to New York, and fallen a prey to a designing sharper. Now, on the other side of the continent, he was master of a business and owner of real estate. The day has passed for such rapid progress. California is no longer a new country, and the conditions of living closely approximate those in the East. I am careful to say this because I don't wish to mislead my young readers. Success is always attainable by pluck and persistency, but the degree is dependent on circumstances. "How have you made out?" asked Joe of his visitor. "I've had hard luck," grumbled Hogan, "I went to the mines, but I wasn't lucky." "Was that the case with other miners?" asked Joe, who had a shrewd suspicion that Hogan's ill luck was largely the result of his laziness and want of application. "No," said Hogan. "Other men around me were lucky, but I wasn't." "Perhaps your claim was a poor one." "It was, as long as I had anything to do with it," said Hogan. "I sold it out for a trifle and the next day the other man found a nugget. Wasn't that cursed hard?" he grumbled. "You ought to have kept on. Then you would have found the nugget." "No, I shouldn't. I am too unlucky. If I had held on, it wouldn't have been there. You've got on well. You're lucky." "Yes; I have no reason to complain. But I wasn't lucky all the time. I was robbed of every cent of money, when I met a good friend, who bought this business for me." "Does it pay?" asked the other eagerly. "Yes, it pays," said Joe cautiously. "How much do you make, say, in a week?" asked Hogan, leaning his elbows on the counter and looking up in Joe's face. "Really, Mr. Hogan," said Joe, "I don't feel called upon to tell my business to others." "I thought maybe you'd tell an old friend," said Hogan. Joe could not help laughing at the man's matchless impudence. "I don't think you have treated me exactly like a friend, Mr. Hogan," he said. "You certainly did all you could to prevent my coming to California." "There's some mistake about that," said Hogan. "You're under a misapprehension; but I won't go into that matter now. Will you trust me for my supper?" "Yes," said Joe promptly. "Sit down at that table." The man had treated him badly, but things had turned out favorably for Joe, and he would not let Hogan suffer from hunger, if he could relieve him. Hogan needed no second invitation. He took a seat at a table near-by, and ate enough for two men, but Joe could not repeat the invitation he had given. He felt that he could not afford it. It was rather late when Hogan sat down. When he finished, he was the only one left in the restaurant, except Joe. He sauntered up to the desk. "You've got a good cook," said Hogan, picking his teeth with a knife. "Yes," answered Joe. "I think so." "You say the business pays well?" "Yes; it satisfies me." "Are you alone? Have you no partner?" "You could do better with one. Suppose you take me into business with you?" Joe was considerably surprised at this proposition from a man who had swindled him. "How much capital can you furnish?" he asked. "I haven't got any money. I'm dead broke," said Hogan, "but I can give my services. I can wait on the table. I'll do that, and you can give me my board and one-third of the profits. Come, now, that's a good offer. What do you say?" Joe thought it best to be candid. "I don't want any partner, Mr. Hogan," he said; "and I may as well tell you, I don't think I should care to be associated with you if I did." "Do you mean to insult me?" asked Hogan, scowling. "No; but I may as well be candid." "What's the matter with me?" asked Hogan roughly. "I don't like the way you do business," said Joe. "Look here, young one, you put on too many airs just because you're keepin' a one-horse restaurant," said Hogan angrily. "If it's a one-horse restaurant, why do you want to become my partner?" retorted Joe coolly. "Because I'm hard up--I haven't got a cent." "I'm sorry for you; but a man needn't be in that condition long here." "Where do you sleep?" asked Hogan suddenly. "Here. I put a bed on the floor in one corner, and so am on hand in the morning." "I say," Hogan continued insinuatingly, "won't you let me stay here to-night?" "Sleep here?" "Yes." "I'd rather not, Mr. Hogan." "I haven't a cent to pay for a lodging. If you don't take me in, I shall have to stay in the street all night." "You've slept out at the mines, haven't you?" "Yes." "Then you can do it here." "You're hard on a poor man," whined Hogan. "It wouldn't cost you anything to let me sleep here." "No, it wouldn't," said Joe; "but I prefer to choose my own company at night." "I may catch my death of cold," said Hogan. "I hope not; but I don't keep lodgings," said Joe firmly. "You haven't any feeling for an unlucky man." "I have given you your supper, and not stinted you in any way. What you ate would cost two dollars at my regular prices. I wasn't called to do it, for you never did me any service, and you are owing me to-day fifty dollars, which you cheated me out of when I was a poor boy. I won't let you lodge here, but I will give you a breakfast in the morning, if you choose to come round. Then you will be strengthened for a day's work, and can see what you can find to do." Hogan saw that Joe was in earnest and walked out of the restaurant, without a word. When Joe was about to close his doors for the night his attention was drawn to a man who was sitting down on the ground, a few feet distant, with his head buried between his two hands, in an attitude expressive of despondency. Joe was warm-hearted and sympathetic, and, after a moment's hesitation, addressed the stranger. "Is anything the matter with you, sir?" he asked. "Don't you feel well?" The man addressed raised his head. He was a stout, strongly built man, roughly dressed, but had a look which inspired confidence. "I may as well tell you, boy," he answered, "though you can't help me. I've been a cursed fool, that's what's the matter." "If you don't mind telling me," said Joe gently, "perhaps I can be of service to you." The man shook his head. "I don't think you can," he said, "but I'll tell you, for all that. Yesterday I came up from the mines with two thousand dollars. I was about a year getting it together, and to me it was a fortune. I'm a shoemaker by occupation, and lived in a town in Massachusetts, where I have a wife and two young children. I left them a year ago to go to the mines. I did well, and the money I told you about would have made us all comfortable, if I could only have got it home." "Were you robbed of it?" asked Joe, remembering his own experience. "Yes; I was robbed of it, but not in the way you are thinking of. A wily scoundrel induced me to enter a gambling-den, the Bella Union, they call it. I wouldn't play at first, but soon the fascination seized me. I saw a man win a hundred dollars, and I thought I could do the same, so I began, and won a little. Then I lost, and played on to get my money back. In just an hour I was cleaned out of all I had. Now I am penniless, and my poor family will suffer for my folly." He buried his face in his hands once more and, strong man as he was, he wept aloud. "Have you had any supper, sir?" said Joe compassionately. "No; but I have no appetite." "Have you any place to sleep?" "No." "Then I can offer you a supper and a night's lodging. Don't be discouraged. In the morning we can talk the matter over, and see what can be done." The stranger rose and laid his hand on Joe's arm. "I don't know how it is," he said, "but your words give me courage. I believe you have saved my life. I have a revolver left and I had a mind to blow my brains out." "Would that have helped you or your family?" "No, boy. I was a fool to think of it. I'll accept your offer, and to-morrow I'll see what I can do. You're the best friend I've met since I left home." CHAPTER XIX THE UNLUCKY MINER Joe brought out some cold meat and bread and butter, and set it before his guest. "The fire's gone out," he said, "or I would give you some tea. Here is a glass of milk, if you like it." "Thank you, boy," said his visitor. "Milk is good enough for anybody. One thing I can say, I've steered clear of liquor. A brother of mine was intemperate and that was a warning to me. I took credit to myself for being a steady-going man, compared with many of my acquaintances out at the mines. But it don't do to boast. I've done worse, perhaps. I've gambled away the provision I had made for my poor family." "Don't take it too hard," said Joe, in a tone of sympathy. "You know how it is out here. Down to-day and up to-morrow." "It'll take me a long time to get up to where I was," said the other; "but it's my fault, and I must make the best of it." Joe observed, with satisfaction, that his visitor was doing ample justice to the supper spread before him. With a full stomach, he would be likely to take more cheerful views of life and the future. In this thought Joe proved to be correct. "I didn't think I could eat anything," said the miner, laying down his knife and fork, twenty minutes later, "but I have made a hearty supper, thanks to your kindness. Things look a little brighter to me now. I've had a hard pullback, but all is not lost. I've got to stay here a year or two longer, instead of going back by the next steamer; but I must make up my mind to that. What is your name, boy?" "Joe Mason." "You've been kind to me, and I won't forget it. It doesn't seem likely I can return the favor, but I'll do it if ever I can. Good night to you." "Where are you going?" asked Joe, surprised, as the miner walked to the door. "Out into the street." "But where do you mean to pass the night?" "Where a man without money must--in the street." "But you mustn't do that." "I shan't mind it. I've slept out at the mines many a night." "But won't you find it more comfortable here?" "Yes; but I don't want to intrude. You've given me a good supper and that is all I can expect." "He doesn't seem much like Hogan," thought Joe. "You are welcome to lodge here with me," he said. "It will cost you nothing and will be more comfortable for you." "You don't know me, Joe," said the miner. "How do you know but I may get up in the night and rob you?" "You could, but I don't think you will," said Joe. "I am not at all afraid of it. You look like an honest man." The miner looked gratified. "You shan't repent your confidence, Joe," he said. "I'd rather starve than rob a good friend like you. But you mustn't trust everybody." "I don't," said Joe. "I refused a man to-night--a man named Hogan." "Hogan?" "Yes." "What does he look like?" Joe described him. "It's the very man," said the miner. "Do you know him, then?" "Yes; he was out at our diggings. Nobody liked him, or trusted him. He was too lazy to work, but just loafed around, complaining of his luck. One night I caught him in my tent, just going to rob me. I warned him to leave the camp next day or I'd report him, and the boys would have strung him up. That's the way they treat thieves out there." "It doesn't surprise me to hear it," said Joe. "He robbed me of fifty dollars in New York." "He did? How was that?" Joe told the story. "The mean skunk!" ejaculated Watson--for this Joe found to be the miners name. "It's mean enough to rob a man, but to cheat a poor boy out of all he has is a good deal meaner. And yet you gave him supper?" "Yes. The man was hungry; I pitied him." "You're a better Christian than I am. I'd have let him go hungry." Both Joe and the miner were weary and they soon retired, but not to uninterrupted slumber. About midnight they were disturbed, as the next chapter will show. CHAPTER XX HOGAN MEETS A CONGENIAL SPIRIT When Hogan left Joe's presence he was far from feeling as grateful as he ought for the kindness with which our hero had treated him. Instead of feeling thankful for the bountiful supper, he was angry because Joe had not permitted him to remain through the night. Had he obtained this favor, he would have resented the refusal to take him into partnership. There are some men who are always soliciting favors, and demanding them as a right, and Hogan was one of them. Out in the street he paused a minute, undecided where to go. He had no money, as he had truly said, or he would have been tempted to go to a gambling-house, and risk it on a chance of making more. "Curse that boy!" he muttered, as he sauntered along in the direction of Telegraph Hill. "Who'd have thought a green country clodhopper would have gone up as he has, while an experienced man of the world like me is out at the elbows and without a cent!" The more Hogan thought of this, the more indignant he became. He thrust both hands into his pantaloons pockets, and strode moodily on. "I say it's a cursed shame!" he muttered. "I never did have any luck, that's a fact. Just see how luck comes to some. With only a dollar or two in his pocket, this Joe got trusted for a first-class passage out here, while I had to come in the steerage. Then, again, he meets some fool, who sets him up in business. Nobody ever offered to set me up in business!" continued Hogan, feeling aggrieved at Fortune for her partiality. "Nobody even offered to give me a start in life. I have to work hard, and that's all the good it does." The fact was that Hogan had not done a whole day's work for years. But such men are very apt to deceive themselves and possibly he imagined himself a hard-working man. "It's disgusting to see the airs that boy puts on," he continued to soliloquize. "It's nothing but luck. He can't help getting on, with everybody to help him. Why didn't he let me sleep in his place to-night? It wouldn't have cost him a cent." Then Hogan drifted off into calculations of how much money Joe was making by his business. He knew the prices charged for meals and that they afforded a large margin of profit. The more he thought of it, the more impressed he was with the extent of Joe's luck. "The boy must be making his fortune," he said to himself. "Why, he can't help clearing from one to two hundred dollars a week--perhaps more. It's a money-making business, there's no doubt of it. Why couldn't he take me in as partner? That would set me on my legs again, and in time I'd be rich. I'd make him sell out, and get the whole thing after awhile." So Hogan persuaded himself into the conviction that Joe ought to have accepted him as partner, though why this should be, since his only claim rested on his successful attempt to defraud him in New York, it would be difficult to conjecture. Sauntering slowly along, Hogan had reached the corner of Pacific Street, then a dark and suspicious locality in the immediate neighborhood of a number of low public houses of bad reputation. The night was dark, for there was no moon. Suddenly he felt himself seized in a tight grip, while a low, stern voice in his ear demanded: "Your money, and be quick about it!" Hogan was not a brave man, but this demand, in his impecunious condition, instead of terrifying him, struck his sense of humor as an exceedingly good joke. "You've got the wrong man!" he chuckled. "Stop your fooling, and hand over your money, quickly!" was the stern rejoinder. "My dear friend," said Hogan, "if you can find any money about me, it's more than I can do myself." "Are you on the square?" demanded the other suspiciously. "Look at me, and see." The highwayman took him at his word. Lighting a match, he surveyed his captive. "You don't look wealthy, that's a fact," he admitted. "Where are you going?" "I don't know. I haven't got any money, nor any place to sleep." "Then you'd better be leaving this place, or another mistake may be made." "Stop!" said Hogan, with a sudden thought. "Though I haven't any money, I can tell you where we can both find some." "Do you mean it?" "Yes." "Come in here, then, and come to business." He led Hogan into a low shanty on Pacific Street, and, bidding him be seated on a broken settee, waited for particulars. CHAPTER XXI READY FOR MISCHIEF Though Hogan was a scamp in the superlative degree, the burly ruffian who seated himself by his side looked the character much better. He was not a man to beat about the bush. As he expressed it, he wanted to come to business at once. "What's your game, pard?" he demanded. "Out with it." Hogan's plan, as the reader has already surmised, was to break into Joe's restaurant and seize whatever money he might be found to have on the premises. He recommended it earnestly, for two reasons. First, a share of the money would be welcome; and, secondly, he would be gratified to revenge himself upon the boy, whom he disliked because he had injured him. Jack Rafferty listened in silence. "I don't know about it," he said. "There's a risk." "I don't see any risk. We two ought to be a match for a boy." "Of course we are. If we wasn't I'd go hang myself up for a milksop. Are you sure there's no one else with him?" "Not a soul." "That's well, so far; but we might be seen from the outside." "We can keep watch." "Do you think the boy's got much money about him?" "Yes; he's making money hand over fist. He's one of those mean chaps that never spend a cent, but lay it all by. Bah!" So Hogan expressed his contempt for Joe's frugality. "All the better for us. How much might there be now, do you think?" "Five hundred dollars, likely." "That's worth risking something for," said Jack thoughtfully. "We'll share alike?" inquired Hogan anxiously. "Depends on how much you help about gettin' the money," said Jack carelessly. Hogan, who was not very courageous, did not dare push the matter though he would have liked a more definite assurance. However, he had another motive besides the love of money, and was glad to have the cooperation of Rafferty, though secretly afraid of his ruffianly accomplice. It was agreed to wait till midnight. Till then both men threw themselves down and slept. As the clock indicated midnight, Rafferty shook Hogan roughly. The latter sat up and gazed, in terrified bewilderment, at Jack, who was leaning over him, forgetting for the moment the compact into which he had entered. "What do you want?" he ejaculated. "It's time we were about our business," growled Jack. "It's struck twelve." "All right!" responded Hogan, who began to feel nervous, now that the crisis was at hand. "Don't sit rubbing your eyes, man, but get up." "Haven't you got a drop of something to brace me up?" asked Hogan nervously. "What are you scared of, pard?" asked Rafferty contemptuously. "Nothing," answered Hogan, "but I feel dry." "All right. A drop of something will warm us both up." Jack went behind the counter, and, selecting a bottle of rot-gut whisky, poured out a stiff glassful apiece. "Drink it, pard," he said. Hogan did so, nothing loath. "That's the right sort," he said, smacking his lips. "It's warming to the stomach." So it was and a frequent indulgence in the vile liquid would probably have burned his stomach and unfitted it for service. But the momentary effect was stimulating, and inspired Hogan with a kind of Dutch courage, which raised him in the opinion of his burly confederate. "Push ahead, pard," said he. "I'm on hand." "That's the way to talk," said Rafferty approvingly. "If we're lucky, we'll be richer before morning." Through the dark streets, unlighted and murky, the two confederates made their stealthy way, and in five minutes stood in front of Joe's restaurant. CHAPTER XXII CHECKMATED Everything looked favorable for their plans. Of course, the restaurant was perfectly dark, and the street was quite deserted. "How shall we get in?" asked Hogan of his more experienced accomplice. "No trouble--through the winder." Rafferty had served an apprenticeship at the burglar's trade, and was not long in opening the front window. He had no light and could not see that Joe had a companion. If he had discovered this, he would have been more cautious. "Go in and get the money," said he to Hogan. He thought it possible that Hogan might object, but the latter had a reason for consenting. He thought he might obtain for himself the lion's share of the plunder, while, as to risk, there would be no one but Joe to cope with, and Hogan knew that in physical strength he must be more than a match for a boy of sixteen. "All right!" said Hogan. "You stay at the window and give the alarm if we are seen." Rafferty was prompted by a suspicion of Hogan's good faith in the proposal he made to him. His ready compliance lulled this suspicion, and led him to reflect that, perhaps, he could do the work better himself. "No," said he. "I'll go in and you keep watch at the winder." "I'm willing to go in," said Hogan, fearing that he would not get his fair share of the plunder. "You stay where you are, pard!" said Rafferty, in a tone of command. "I'll manage this thing myself." "Just as you say," said Hogan, slightly disappointed. Rafferty clambered into the room, making as little noise as possible. He stood still a moment, to accustom his eyes to the darkness. His plan was to discover where Joe lay, wake him up, and force him, by threats of instant death as the penalty for non-compliance, to deliver up all the money he had in the restaurant. Now, it happened that Joe and his guest slept in opposite corners of the room. Rafferty discovered Joe, but was entirely ignorant of the presence of another person in the apartment. Joe waked on being rudely shaken. "Who is it?" he muttered drowsily. "Never mind who it is!" growled Jack in his ear. "It's a man that'll kill you if you don't give up all the money you've got about you!" Joe was fully awake now, and realized the situation. He felt thankful that he was not alone, and it instantly flashed upon him that Watson had a revolver. But Watson was asleep. To obtain time to form a plan, he parleyed a little. "You want my money?" he asked, appearing to be confused. "Yes--and at once! Refuse, and I will kill you!" I won't pretend to deny that Joe's heart beat a little quicker than its wont. He was thinking busily. How could he attract Watson's attention? "It's pretty hard, but I suppose I must," he answered. "That's the way to talk." "Let me get up and I'll get it." Joe spoke so naturally that Rafferty suspected nothing. He permitted our hero to rise, supposing that he was going for the money he demanded. Joe knew exactly where Watson lay and went over to him. He knelt down and drew out the revolver from beneath his head, at the same time pushing him, in the hope of arousing him. The push was effectual. Watson was a man whose experience at the mines had taught him to rouse at once. He just heard Joe say: "Hush!" "What are you so long about?" demanded Rafferty suspiciously. "I've got a revolver," said Joe unexpectedly; "and, if you don't leave the room, I'll fire!" With an oath, Rafferty, who was no coward, sprang upon Joe, and it would have gone hard with him but for Watson. The latter was now broad awake. He seized Rafferty by the collar, and, dashing him backward upon the floor, threw himself upon him. "Two can play at that game!" said he. "Light the candle, Joe." "Help, pard!" called Rafferty. But Hogan, on whom he called, suspecting how matters stood, was in full flight. The candle was lighted, and in the struggling ruffian Joe recognized the man who, three months before, had robbed him of his little all. CHAPTER XXIII NOT WHOLLY BLACK "I know this man, Mr. Watson," said Joe. "Who is he?" "He is the same man who robbed me of my money one night about three months ago--the one I told you of." For the first time, Rafferty recognized Joe. "There wasn't enough to make a fuss about," he said. "There was only two dollars and a half." "It was all I had." "Let me up!" said Rafferty, renewing his struggles. "Joe, have you got a rope?" asked Watson. "Yes." "Bring it here, then. I can't hold this man all night." "What are you going to do with me?" demanded Rafferty uneasily. "Tie you hand and foot till to-morrow morning and then deliver you over to the authorities." "No, you won't!" He made a renewed struggle, but Watson was a man with muscles of iron, and the attempt was unsuccessful. It was not without considerable difficulty, however, that the midnight intruder was secured. When, at length, he was bound hand and foot, Watson withdrew to a little distance. Joe and he looked at Rafferty, and each felt that he had seldom seen a more brutal face. "Well," growled Rafferty, "I hope you are satisfied?" "Not yet," returned Watson. "When you are delivered into the hands of the authorities we shall be satisfied." "Oh, for an hour's freedom!" muttered Jack Rafferty, expressing his thoughts aloud. "What use would you make of it?" asked Watson, in a tone of curiosity. "I'd kill the man that led me into this trap!" Watson and Joe were surprised. "Was there such a man. Didn't you come here alone?" "No; there was a man got me to come. Curse him, He told me I would only find the boy here!" "What has become of him?" "He ran away, I reckon, instead of standing by me." "Where was he?" "At the winder." "Could it have been Hogan?" thought Joe. "I think I know the man," said our hero. "I'll describe the man I mean and you can tell me if it was he." He described Hogan as well as he could. "That's the man," said Rafferty. "I wouldn't peach if he hadn't served me such a mean trick. What's his name?" "His name is Hogan. He came over on the same steamer with me, after robbing me of fifty dollars in New York. He has been at the mines, but didn't make out well. This very afternoon I gave him supper--all he could eat--and charged him nothing for it. He repays me by planning a robbery." "He's a mean skunk," said Watson bluntly. "You're right, stranger," said Rafferty. "I'm a scamp myself, but I'll be blowed if I'd turn on a man that fed me when I was hungry." The tones were gruff but the man was evidently sincere. "You're better than you look," said Watson, surprised to hear such a sentiment from a man of such ruffianly appearance. Jack Rafferty laughed shortly. "I ain't used to compliments," he said, "and I expect I'm bad enough, but I ain't all bad. I won't turn on my pal, unless he does it first, and I ain't mean enough to rob a man that's done me a good turn." "No, you ain't all bad," said Watson. "It's a pity you won't make up your mind to earn an honest living." "Too late for that, I reckon. What do you think they'll do with me?" In those days punishments were summary and severe. Watson knew it and Joe had seen something of it. Our hero began to feel compassion for the foiled burglar. He whispered in Watson's ear. Watson hesitated, but finally yielded. "Stranger," said he, "the boy wants me to let you go." "Does he?" inquired Rafferty, in surprise. "Yes. He is afraid it will go hard with you if we give you up." "Likely it will," muttered Rafferty, watching Watson's face eagerly, to see whether he favored Joe's proposal. "Suppose we let you go--will you promise not to make another attempt upon this place?" "What do you take me for? I'm not such a mean cuss as that." "One thing more--you won't kill this man that brought you here?" "If I knowed it wasn't a trap he led me into. He told me there was only the boy." "He thought so. I don't belong here. The boy let me sleep here out of kindness. Hogan knew nothing of this. I didn't come till after he had left." "That's different," said Rafferty; "but he shouldn't have gone back on me." "He is a coward, probably." "I guess you're right," said Rafferty contemptuously. "You promise, then?" "Not to kill him? Yes." "Then we'll let you go." Watson unloosed the bonds that confined the prisoner. Rafferty raised himself to his full height and stretched his limbs. "There--I feel better," he said. "You tied the rope pretty tight." "I found it necessary," said Watson, laughing. "Now, Joe, if you will open the door, this gentleman will pass out." Rafferty turned to Joe, as he was about to leave the restaurant. "Boy," said he, "I won't forget this. I ain't much of a friend to boast of, but I'm your friend. You've saved me from prison, and worse, it's likely; and, if you need help any time, send for me. If I had that money I took from you I'd pay it back." "I don't need it," said Joe. "I've been lucky, and am doing well. I hope you'll make up your mind to turn over a new leaf. If you do, and are ever hard up for a meal, come to me, and you shall have it without money and without price." "Thank you, boy," said Rafferty. "I'll remember it." He strode out of the restaurant, and disappeared in the darkness. "Human nature's a curious thing, Joe," said Watson. "Who would have expected to find any redeeming quality in such a man as that?" "I would sooner trust him than Hogan." "So would I. Hogan is a mean scoundrel, who is not so much of a ruffian as this man only because he is too much of a coward to be." "I am glad we let him go," said Joe. "I am not sure whether it was best, but I knew we should have to be awake all night if we didn't. He could have loosened the knots after awhile. He won't trouble you any more." "I wish I felt as sure about Hogan," said Joe. "Hogan is a coward. I advise you to keep ft revolver constantly on hand. He won't dare to break in by himself." * * * * * The next morning, after breakfast, Watson prepared to go out in search of work. "I must begin at the bottom of the ladder once more," he said to Joe. "It's my own fault, and I won't complain. But what a fool I have been! I might have gone home by the next steamer if I hadn't gambled away all my hard earnings." "What sort of work shall you try to get?" "Anything--I have no right to be particular. Anything that will pay my expenses and give me a chance to lay by something for my family at home." "Mr. Watson," said Joe suddenly, "I've been thinking of something that may suit you. Since I came to San Francisco I have never gone outside. I would like to go to the mines." "You wouldn't make as much as you do here." "Perhaps not; but I have laid by some money and I would like to see something of the country. Will you carry on the restaurant for me for three months, if I give you your board and half of the profits?" "Will I? I should think myself very lucky to get the chance." "Then you shall have the chance." "How do you know that I can be trusted?" asked Watson. "I haven't known you long," said Joe, "but I feel confidence in your honesty." "I don't think you'll repent your confidence. When do you want to go?" "I'll stay here a few days, till you get used to the business, then I will start." "I was lucky to fall in with you," said Watson. "I didn't want to go back to the mines and tell the boys what a fool I have been. I begin to think there's a chance for me yet." CHAPTER XXIV MR. BICKFORD, OF PUMPKIN HOLLOW It may be thought that Joe was rash in deciding to leave his business in the hands of a man whose acquaintance he had made but twelve hours previous. But in the early history of California friendships ripened fast. There was more confidence between man and man, and I am assured that even now, though the State is more settled and as far advanced in civilization and refinement as any of her sister States on the Atlantic coast, the people are bound together by more friendly ties, and exhibit less of cold caution than at the East. At all events, Joe never dreamed of distrusting his new acquaintance. A common peril, successfully overcome, had doubtless something to do in strengthening the bond between them. Joe went round to his friend Mr. Morgan and announced his intention. "I don't think you will make money by your new plan, Joe," said Morgan. "I don't expect to," said Joe, "but I want to see the mines. If I don't succeed, I can come back to my business here." "That is true. I should like very well to go, too." "Why won't you, Mr. Morgan?" "I cannot leave my business as readily as you can. Do you feel confidence in this man whom you are leaving in charge?" "Yes, sir. He has been unlucky, but I am sure he is honest." "He will have considerable money belonging to you by the time you return--that is, if you stay any length of time." "I want to speak to you about that, Mr. Morgan. I have directed him to make a statement to you once a month, and put in your hands what money comes to me--if it won't trouble you too much." "Not at all, Joe. I shall be glad to be of service to you." "If you meet with any good investment for the money while I am away, I should like to have you act for me as you would for yourself." "All right, Joe." Joe learned from Watson that the latter had been mining on the Yuba River, not far from the town of Marysville. He decided to go there, although he might have found mines nearer the city. The next question was, How should he get there, and should he go alone? About this time a long, lank Yankee walked into the restaurant, one day, and, seating himself at a table, began to inspect the bill of fare which Joe used to write up every morning. He looked disappointed. "Don't you find what you want?" inquired Joe. "No," said the visitor. "I say, this is a queer country. I've been hankerin' arter a good dish of baked beans for a week, and ain't found any." "We sometimes have them," said Joe. "Come here at one o'clock, and you shall be accommodated." The stranger brightened up. "That's the talk," said he. "I'll come." "Have you just come out here?" asked Joe curiously. "A week ago." "Are you a Southerner?" asked Joe demurely. "No, I guess not!" said the Yankee, with emphasis. "I was raised in Pumpkin Hollow, State of Maine. I was twenty-one last first of April, but I ain't no April fool, I tell you. Dad and me carried on the farm till I, began to hear tell of Californy. I'd got about three hundred dollars saved up and I took it to come out here." "I suppose you've come out to make your fortune?" "Yes, sir-ee, that's just what I come for." "How have you succeeded so far?" "I've succeeded in spendin' all my money, except fifty dollars. I say, it costs a sight to eat and drink out here. I can't afford to take but one meal a day, and then I eat like all possessed." "I should think you would, Mr.-------" "Joshua Bickford--that's my name when I'm to hum." "Well, Mr. Bickford, what are your plans?" "I want to go out to the mines and dig gold. I guess I can dig as well as anybody. I've had experience in diggin' ever since I was ten year old." "Not digging gold, I suppose?" "Diggin' potatoes, and sich." "I'm going to the mines myself, Mr. Bickford. What do you say to going along with me?" "I'm on hand. You know the way, don't you?" "We can find it, I have no doubt. I have never been there, but my friend Mr. Watson is an experienced miner." "How much gold did you dig?" asked Joshua bluntly. "Two thousand dollars," answered Watson, not thinking it necessary to add that he had parted with the money since at the gaming-table. "Two thousand dollars?" exclaimed Joshua, duly impressed. "That's a heap of money!" "Yes; it's a pretty good pile." "I'd like to get that much. I know what I'd do." "What would you do, Mr. Bickford?" "I'd go home and marry Sukey Smith, by gosh!" "Then I hope you'll get the money, for Miss Smith's sake." "There's a feller hangin' round her," said Joshua, "kinder slick-lookin', with his hair parted in the middle; he tends in the dry-goods store; but, if I come home with two thousand dollars, she'll have me, I guess. Why, with two thousand dollars I can buy the farm next to dad's, with a house with five rooms into it, and a good-sized barn. I guess Sukey wouldn't say no to me then, but would change her name to Bickford mighty sudden." "I hope you will succeed in your plans, Mr. Bickford." "Seems to me you're kinder young to be out here," said Bickford, turning his attention to Joe. "Yes; I am not quite old enough to think of marrying." "Have you got money enough to get out to the mines?" asked Joshua cautiously. "I think I can raise enough," said Joe, smiling. "My young friend is the owner of this restaurant," said Watson. "You don't say! I thought you hired him." "No. On the contrary, I am in his employ. I have agreed to run the restaurant for him while he is at the mines. "You don't say!" exclaimed Bickford, surveying our hero with curiosity. "Have you made much money in this eating-house?" "I've done pretty well," said Joe modestly. "I own the building and the two adjoining lots." "You don't say! How old be you?" "Sixteen." "You must be all-fired smart!" "I don't know about that, Mr. Bickford. I've been lucky and fallen in with good friends." "Well, I guess Californy's the place to make money. I ain't made any yet, but I mean to. There wasn't no chance to get ahead in Pumpkin Hollow. I was workin' for eight dollars a month and board." "It would be a great while before you could save up money to buy a farm out of that, Mr. Bickford." "That's so." "My experience was something like yours. Before I came out here I was working on a farm." "Sho!" "And I didn't begin to get as much money as you. I was bound out to a farmer for my board and clothes. The board was fair but the clothes were few and poor." "You don't say!" "I hope you will be as lucky as I have been." "How much are you worth now?" asked Joshua curiously. "From one to two thousand dollars, I expect." "Sho! I never did! How long have you been out here?" "Three months." "Je-rusalem! That's better than stayin' to hum." "I think so." By this time Mr. Bickford had completed his breakfast and in an anxious tone he inquired: "What's the damage?" "Oh, I won't charge you anything, as you are going to be my traveling companion," said Joe. "You're a gentleman, by gosh!" exclaimed Mr. Bickford, in unrestrained delight. "Come in at one o'clock and you shall have some of your favorite beans and nothing to pay. Can you start for the mines to-morrow?" "Yes--I've got nothin' to prepare." "Take your meals here till we go." "Well, I'm in luck," said Bickford. "Victuals cost awful out here and I haven't had as much as I wanted to eat since I got here." "Consider yourself my guest," said Joe, "and eat all you want to." It may be remarked that Mr. Bickford availed himself of our young hero's invitation, and during the next twenty-four hours stowed away enough provisions to last an ordinary man for half a week. CHAPTER XXV THE MAN FROM PIKE COUNTY Four days later Joe and his Yankee friend, mounted on mustangs, were riding through a canon a hundred miles from San Francisco. It was late in the afternoon, and the tall trees shaded the path on which they were traveling. The air was unusually chilly and after the heat of midday they felt it. "I don't feel like campin' out to-night," said Bickford. "It's too cool." "I don't think we shall find any hotels about here," said Joe. "Don't look like it. I'd like to be back in Pumpkin Hollow just for to-night. How fur is it to the mines, do you calc'late?" "We are probably about half-way. We ought to reach the Yuba River inside of a week." Here Mr. Bickford's mustang deliberately stopped and began to survey the scenery calmly. "What do you mean, you pesky critter?" demanded Joshua. The mustang turned his head and glanced composedly at the burden he was carrying. "G'lang!" said Joshua, and he brought down his whip on the flanks of the animal. It is not in mustang nature to submit to such an outrage without expressing proper resentment. The animal threw up its hind legs, lowering its head at the same time, and Joshua Bickford, describing a sudden somersault, found himself sitting down on the ground a few feet in front of his horse, not seriously injured, but considerably bewildered. "By gosh!" he ejaculated. "Why didn't you tell me you were going to dismount, Mr. Bickford?" asked Joe, his eyes twinkling with merriment. "Because I didn't know it myself," said Joshua, rising and rubbing his jarred frame. The mustang did not offer to run away, but stood calmly surveying him as if it had had nothing to do with his rider's sudden dismounting. "Darn the critter! He looks just as if nothing had happened," said Joshua. "He served me a mean trick." "It was a gentle hint that he was tired," said Joe. "Darn the beast! I don't like his hints," said Mr. Bickford. He prepared to mount the animal, but the latter rose on its hind legs and very clearly intimated that the proposal was not agreeable. "What's got into the critter?" said Joshua. "He wants to rest. Suppose we rest here for half-an-hour, while we loosen check-rein and let the horses graze." "Just as you say." Joshua's steed appeared pleased with the success of his little hint and lost no time in availing himself of the freedom accorded him. "I wish I was safe at the mines," said Joshua. "What would dad say if he knowed where I was, right out here in the wilderness? It looks as we might be the only human critters in the world. There ain't no house in sight, nor any signs of man's ever bein' here." "So we can fancy how Adam felt when he was set down in Paradise," said Joe. "I guess he felt kinder lonely." "Probably he did, till Eve came. He had Eve, and I have you for company." "I guess Eve wasn't much like me," said Joshua, with a grin. He was lying at full length on the greensward, looking awkward and ungainly enough, but his countenance, homely as it was, looked honest and trustworthy, and Joe preferred his company to that of many possessed of more outward polish. He could not help smiling at Mr. Bickford's remark. "Probably Eve was not as robust as you are," he replied, "I doubt if she were as tall, either. But as to loneliness, it is better to be lonely than to have some company." "There ain't no suspicious characters round, are there?" inquired Joshua anxiously. "We are liable to meet them--men who have been unsuccessful at the mines and who have become desperate in consequence, and others who came out here to prey upon others. That's what I hear." "Do you think we shall meet any of the critters?" asked Joshua. "I hope not. They wouldn't find it very profitable to attack us. We haven't much money." "I haven't," said Joshua. "I couldn't have got to the mines if you hadn't lent me a few dollars." "You have your animal. You can sell him for something." "If he agrees to carry me so far," said Mr. Bickford, gazing doubtfully at the mustang, who was evidently enjoying his evening repast. "Oh, a hearty meal will make him good-natured. That is the way it acts with boys and men, and animals are not so very different." "I guess you're right," said Joshua. "When I wanted to get a favor out of dad, I always used to wait till the old man had got his belly full. That made him kinder good-natured." "I see you understand human nature, Mr. Bickford," said Joe. "I guess I do," said Joshua complacently. "Great Jehoshaphat, who's that?" Joe raised his head and saw riding toward them a man who might have sat for the photograph of a bandit without any alteration in his countenance or apparel. He wore a red flannel shirt, pants of rough cloth, a Mexican sombrero, had a bowie-knife stuck in his girdle, and displayed a revolver rather ostentatiously. His hair, which he wore long, was coarse and black, and he had a fierce mustache. "Is he a robber?" asked Joshua uneasily. "Even if he is," said Joe, "we are two to one. I dare say he's all right, but keep your weapon ready." Though Joe was but a boy and Bickford a full-grown man, from the outset he had assumed the command of the party, and issued directions which his older companion followed implicitly. The explanation is that Joe had a mind of his own, and decided promptly what was best to be done, while his long-limbed associate was duller witted and undecided. Joe and Joshua maintained their sitting position till the stranger was within a rod or two, when he hailed them. "How are ye, strangers?" he said. "Pretty comfortable," said Joshua, reassured by his words. "How fare you?" "You're a Yank, ain't you?" said the newcomer, disregarding Joshua's question. "I reckon so. Where might you hail from?" "I'm from Pike County, Missouri," was the answer. "You've heard of Pike, hain't you?" "I don't know as I have," said Mr. Bickford. The stranger frowned. "You must have been born in the woods not to have heard of Pike County," he said. "The smartest fighters come from Pike. I kin whip my weight in wildcats, am a match for a dozen Indians to onst, and can tackle a lion without flinchin'." "Sho!" said Joshua, considerably impressed. "Won't you stop and rest with us?" said Joe politely. "I reckon I will," said the Pike man, getting off his beast. "You don't happen to have a bottle of whisky with you, strangers?" "No," said Joe. The newcomer looked disappointed. "I wish you had," said he. "I feel as dry as a tinder-box. Where might you be travelin'?" "We are bound for the mines on the Yuba River." "That's a long way off." "Yes, it's four or five days' ride." "I've been there, and I don't like it. It's too hard work for a gentleman." This was uttered in such a magnificent tone of disdain that Joe was rather amused at the fellow. In his red shirt and coarse breeches, and brown, not overclean skin, he certainly didn't look much like a gentleman in the conventional sense of that term. "It's all well enough to be a gentleman if you've got money to fall back on," remarked Joshua sensibly. "Is that personal?" demanded the Pike County man, frowning and half rising. "It's personal to me," said Joshua quietly. "I accept the apology," said the newcomer, sinking back upon the turf. "I hain't apologized, as I'm aware," said Joshua, who was no craven. "You'd better not rile me, stranger," said the Pike man fiercely. "You don't know me, you don't. I'm a rip-tail roarer, I am. I always kill a man who insults me." "So do we," said Joe quietly. The Pike County man looked at Joe in some surprise. He had expected to frighten the boy with his bluster, but it didn't seem to produce the effect intended. CHAPTER XXVI A DESPERADO Mr. Bickford also seemed a little surprised at Joe's coolness. Though not a coward in the face of danger, he had been somewhat impressed by the fierce aspect of the man from Pike County, and really looked upon him as a reckless daredevil who was afraid of nothing. Joe judged him more truly. He decided that a man who boasted so loudly was a sham. If he had talked less, he would have feared him more. After his last bloodthirsty declaration the man from Pike County temporarily subsided. He drew out from his pocket a greasy pack of cards, and after skilfully shuffling them inquired: "What do you say, strangers, to a little game to pass away the time?" "I never played keards in my life," said Joshua Bickford. "Where was you raised?" demanded the Pike man contemptuously. "Pumpkin Hollow, State o' Maine," said Joshua. "Dad's an orthodox deacon. He never let any of us play keards. I don't know one from t'other." "I'll learn you," said the Pike man condescendingly. "Suppose we have a game of poker?" "Ain't that a gambling' game?" inquired Joshua. "We always play for something," said the Pike man. "It's dern foolishness playin' for nothing. Shall we have a game?" He looked at Joe as he spoke. "I don't care to play," said our hero. "I don't know much about cards, and I don't want to play for money." "That's dern foolishness," said the stranger, whose object it was to clean out his new friends, being an expert gambler. "Perhaps it is," said Joe, "but I only speak for myself. Mr. Bickford may feel differently." "Will you take a hand, Bickford?" asked the Pike man, thinking it possible that Joshua might have some money of which he could relieve him. "You kin show me how to play if you want to," said Joshua, "but I won't gamble any." The Pike man put up his pack of cards in disgust. "Derned if I ever met sich fellers!" he said. "You're Methodists, ain't you?" "We generally decline doing what we don't want to do," said Joe. "Look here, boy," blustered the Pike man, "I reckon you don't know me. I'm from Pike County, Missouri, I am. I'm a rip-tail roarer, I am. I kin whip my weight in wildcats." "You told us that afore," said Joshua placidly. "Derned if I don't mean it, too!" exclaimed the Pike County man, with a fierce frown. "Do you know how I served a man last week?" "No. Tell us, won't you?" said Joshua. "We was ridin' together over in Alameda County. We'd met permiscuous, like we've met to-day. I was tellin' him how four b'ars attacked me once, and I fit 'em all single-handed, when he laughed, and said he reckoned I'd been drinkin' and saw double. If he'd knowed me better, he wouldn't have done it." "What did you do?" asked Joshua, interested. Joe, who was satisfied that the fellow was romancing, did not exhibit any interest. "What did I do?" echoed the Pike County man fiercely. "I told him he didn't know the man he insulted. I told him I was from Pike County, Missouri, and that I was a rip-tail roarer." "And could whip your weight in wildcats," suggested Joe. The Pike man appeared irritated. "Don't interrupt me, boy," he said. "It ain't healthy." "After you'd made them remarks what did you do?" inquired Joshua. "I told him he'd insulted me and must fight. I always do that." "Did he fight?" "He had to." "How did it come out?" "I shot him through the heart," said the man from Pike County fiercely. "His bones are bleaching in the valley where he fell." "Sho!" said Joshua. The Pike County man looked from one to the other to see what effect had been produced by his blood-curdling narration. Joshua looked rather perplexed, as if he didn't quite know what to think, but Joe seemed tranquil. "I think you said it happened last week," said Joe. "If I said so, it is so," said the Pike man, who in truth did not remember what time he had mentioned. "I don't question that. I was only wondering how his bones could begin to bleach so soon after he was killed." "Just so," said Joshua, to whom this difficulty had not presented itself before. "Do you doubt my word, stranger?" exclaimed the Pike man, putting his hand to his side and fingering his knife. "Not at all," said Joe. "But I wanted to understand how it was." "I don't give no explanations," said the Pike man haughtily, "and I allow no man to doubt my word." "Look here, my friend," said Joshua, "ain't you rather cantankerous?" "What's that?" demanded the other suspiciously. "No offense," said Joshua, "but you take a feller up so we don't know exactly how to talk to you." "I take no insults," said the Pike man. "Insults must be washed out in blood." "Soap-suds is better than blood for washin' purposes," said Joshua practically. "Seems to me you're spoilin' for a fight all the time." "I allow I am," said the Pike man, who regarded this as a compliment. "I was brought up on fightin'. When I was a boy I could whip any boy in school." "That's why they called you a rip-tail roarer, I guess," said Joshua. "You're right, stranger," said the Pike man complacently. "What did you do when the teacher give you a lickin'?" asked Mr. Bickford. "What did I do?" yelled the Pike County man, with a demoniac frown. "Exactly so." "I shot him!" said the Pike man briefly. "Sho! How many teachers did you shoot when you was a boy?" "Only one. The rest heard of it and never dared touch me." "So you could play hookey and cut up all you wanted to?" "You're right, stranger." "They didn't manage that way at Pumpkin Hollow," said Mr. Bickford. "Boys ain't quite so handy with shootin'-irons. When the master flogged us we had to stand it." "Were you afraid of him?" asked the Pike man disdainfully. "Well, I was," Joshua admitted. "He was a big man with arms just like flails, and the way he used to pound us was a caution." "I'd have shot him in his tracks," said the Pike man fiercely. "You'd have got a wallopin' fust, I reckon," said Joshua. "Do you mean to insult me?" demanded the Pike man. "Oh, lay down, and don't be so cantankerous," said Joshua. "You're allus thinkin' of bein' insulted." "We may as well be going," said Joe, who was thoroughly disgusted with their new companion. "Just as you say, Joe," said Joshua. "Here, you pesky critter, come and let me mount you." The mustang realized Joe's prediction. After his hearty supper he seemed to be quite tractable and permitted Mr. Bickford to mount him without opposition. Joe also mounted his horse. "I'll ride along with you if you've no objections," said the Pike man. "We kin camp together to-night." So saying, he too mounted the sorry-looking steed which he had recently dismounted. Joe was not hypocrite enough to say that he was welcome. He thought it best to be candid. "If you are quite convinced that neither of us wishes to insult you," he said quietly, "you can join us. If you are bent on quarreling, you had better ride on by yourself." The Pike man frowned fiercely. "Boy," he said, "I have shot a man for less than that." "I carry a revolver," said Joe quietly, "but I shan't use it unless it is necessary. If you are so easily offended, you'd better ride on alone." This the Pike man did not care to do. "You're a strange boy," he said, "but I reckon you're on the square. I'll go along with you." "I would rather you'd leave us," thought Joe, but he merely said: "Very well." CHAPTER XXVII TWO TRAGIC STORIES They rode on for about an hour and a half. Joshua's steed, placated by his good supper, behaved very well. Their ride was still through the canon. Presently it became too dark for them to proceed. "Ain't we gone about fur enough for to-night?" asked Joshua. "Perhaps we have," answered Joe. "Here's a good place to camp," suggested the man from Pike County, pointing to a small grove of trees to the right. "Very well; let us dismount," said Joe. "I think we can pass the night comfortably." They dismounted, and tied their beasts together under one of the trees. They then threw themselves down on a patch of greensward near-by. "I'm gettin' hungry," said Joshua. "Ain't you, Joe?" "Yes, Mr. Bickford. We may as well take supper." Mr. Bickford produced a supper of cold, meat and bread, and placed it between Joe and himself. "Won't you share our supper?" said Joe to their companion. "Thank ye, stranger, I don't mind if I do," answered the Pike man, with considerable alacrity. "My fodder give out this mornin', and I hain't found any place to stock up." He displayed such an appetite that Mr. Bickford regarded him with anxiety. They had no more than sufficient for themselves, and the prospect of such a boarder was truly alarming. "You have a healthy appetite, my friend," he said. "I generally have," said the Pike man. "You'd orter have some whisky, strangers, to wash it down with." "I'd rather have a good cup of coffee sweetened with 'lasses, sech as marm makes to hum," remarked Mr. Bickford. "Coffee is for children, whisky for strong men," said the Roarer. "I prefer the coffee," said Joe. "Are you temperance fellers?" inquired the Pike man contemptuously. "I am," said Joe. "And I, too," said Joshua. "Bah!" said the other disdainfully; "I'd as soon drink skim-milk. Good whisky or brandy for me." "I wish we was to your restaurant, Joe," said Joshua. "I kinder hanker after some good baked beans. Baked beans and brown bread are scrumptious. Ever eat 'em, stranger?" "No," said the Pike man; "none of your Yankee truck for me." "I guess you don't know what's good," said Mr. Bickford. "What's your favorite vittles?" "Bacon and hominy, hoe-cakes and whisky." "Well," said Joshua, "it depends on the way a feller is brung up. I go for baked beans and brown bread, and punkin pie--that's goloptious. Ever eat punkin pie, stranger?" "Yes." "Like it?" "I don't lay much on it." Supper was over and other subjects succeeded. The Pike County man became social. "Strangers," said he, "did you ever hear of the affair I had with Jack Scott?" "No," said Joshua. "Spin it off, will you?" "Jack and me used to be a heap together. We went huntin' together, camped out for weeks together, and was like two brothers. One day we was ridin' out, when a deer started up fifty rods ahead. We both raised our guns and shot at him. There was only one bullet into him, and I knowed that was mine." "How did you know it?" inquired Joshua. "Don't you get curious, stranger. I knowed it, and that was enough. But Jack said it was his. 'It's my deer,' he said, 'for you missed your shot.' 'Look here, Jack,' said I, 'you're mistaken. You missed it. Don't you think I know my own bullet?' 'No, I don't,' said he. 'Jack,' said I calmly, 'don't talk that way. It's dangerous.' 'Do you think I'm afraid of you?' he said, turning on me. 'Jack,' said I, 'don't provoke me. I can whip my weight in wildcats.' 'You can't whip me,' said he. That was too much for me to stand. I'm the Rip-tail Roarer from Pike County, Missouri, and no man can insult me and live. 'Jack,' said I, 'we've been friends, but you've insulted me, and it must be washed out in blood.' Then I up with my we'pon and shot him through the head." "Sho!" said Joshua. "I was sorry to do it, for he was my friend," said the Pike County man, "but he disputed my word, and the man that does that may as well make his will if he's got any property to leave." Here the speaker looked to see what effect was produced upon his listeners. Joe seemed indifferent. He saw through the fellow, and did not credit a word he said. Joshua had been more credulous at first, but he, too, began to understand the man from Pike County. The idea occurred to him to pay him back in his own coin. "Didn't the relatives make any fuss about it?" he inquired. "Didn't they arrest you for murder?" "They didn't dare to," said the Pike man proudly. "They knew me. They knew I could whip my weight in wildcats and wouldn't let no man insult me." "Did you leave the corpse lyin' out under the trees?" asked Joshua. "I rode over to Jack's brother and told him what I had done, and where he'd find the body. He went and buried it." "What about the deer?" "What deer?" "The deer you killed and your friend claimed?" "Oh," said the Pike man, with sudden recollection, "I told Jack's brother he might have it." "Now, that was kinder handsome, considerin' you'd killed your friend on account of it." "There ain't nothin' mean about me," said the man from Pike County. "I see there ain't," said Mr. Bickford dryly. "It reminds me of a little incident in my own life. I'll tell you about it, if you hain't any objection." "Go ahead. It's your deal." "You see, the summer I was eighteen, my cousin worked for dad hayin' time. He was a little older'n me, and he had a powerful appetite, Bill had. If it wasn't for that, he'd 'a' been a nice feller enough, but at the table he always wanted more than his share of wittles. Now, that ain't fair, no ways--think it is, stranger?" "No! Go ahead with your story." "One day we sat down to dinner. Marm had made some apple-dumplin' that day, and 'twas good, you bet. Well, I see Bill a-eyin' the dumplin' as he shoveled in the meat and pertaters, and I knowed he meant to get more'n his share. Now, I'm fond of dumplin' as well as Bill, and I didn't like it. Well, we was both helped and went to eatin'. When I was half through I got up to pour out some water. When I cum back to the table Bill had put away his plate, which he had cleaned off, and was eatin' my dumplin'." "What did you say?" inquired the gentleman from Pike, interested. "I said: 'Bill, you're my cousin, but you've gone too fur.' He laffed, and we went into the field together to mow. He was just startin' on his swath when I cum behind him and cut his head clean off with my scythe." Joe had difficulty in suppressing his laughter, but Mr. Bickford looked perfectly serious. "Why, that was butchery!" exclaimed the Pike man, startled. "Cut off his head with a scythe?" "I hated to, bein' as he was my cousin," said Joshua, "but I couldn't have him cum any of them tricks on me. I don't see as it's any wuss than shootin' a man." "What did you do with his body?" asked Joe, commanding his voice. "Bein' as 'twas warm weather, I thought I'd better bury him at once." "Were you arrested?" "Yes, and tried for murder, but my lawyer proved that I was crazy when I did it, and so I got off." "Do such things often happen at the North?" asked the Pike County man. "Not so often as out here and down South, I guess," said Joshua. "It's harder to get off. Sometimes a man gets hanged up North for handlin' his gun too careless." "Did you ever kill anybody else?" asked the Pike man, eying Joshua rather uneasily. "No," said Mr. Bickford. "I shot one man in the leg and another in the arm, but that warn't anything serious." It was hard to disbelieve Joshua, he spoke with such apparent frankness and sincerity. The man from Pike County was evidently puzzled, and told no more stories of his own prowess. Conversation, died away, and presently all three were asleep. CHAPTER XXVIII THE EVENTS OF A NIGHT The Pike County man was the first to fall asleep. Joe and Mr. Bickford lay about a rod distant from him. When their new comrade's regular breathing, assured Joe that he was asleep, he said: "Mr. Bickford, what do you think of this man who has joined us?" "I think he's the biggest liar I ever set eyes on," said Joshua bluntly. "Then you don't believe his stories?" "No--do you?" "I believe them as much as that yarn of yours about your Cousin Bill," returned Joe, laughing. "I wanted to give him as good as he sent. I didn't want him to do all the lyin'." "And you a deacon's son!" exclaimed Joe, in comic expostulation. "I don't know what the old man would have said if he'd heard me, or Cousin Bill, either." "Then one part is true--you have a Cousin Bill?" "That isn't the only part that's true; he did help me and dad hayin'." "But his head is still safe on his shoulders?" "I hope so." "I don't think we can find as much truth in the story of our friend over yonder." "Nor I. If there was a prize offered for tall lyin' I guess he'd stand a good chance to get it." "Do you know, Joshua, fire-eater as he is, I suspect that he is a coward." "You do?" "Yes, and I have a mind to put him to the test." "How will you do it?" "One day an old hunter came into my restaurant, and kept coming for a week. He was once taken prisoner by the Indians, and remained in their hands for three months. He taught me the Indian war-whoop, and out of curiosity I practised it till I can do it pretty well." "What's your plan?" "To have you fire off your gun so as to wake him up. Then I will give a loud war-whoop and see how it affects the gentleman from Pike County." "He may shoot us before he finds out the deception." "It will be well first to remove his revolver to make all safe. I wish you could give the war-whoop, too. It would make a louder noise." "How do you do it?" Joe explained. "I guess I can do it. You start it, and I'll j'in in, just as I used to do in singin' at meetin'. I never could steer through a tune straight by myself, but when the choir got to goin', I helped 'em all I could." "I guess you can do it. Now let us make ready." The Pike County man's revolver was removed while he was unconsciously sleeping. Then Joshua and our hero ensconced themselves behind trees, and the Yankee fired his gun. The Pike man started up, still half asleep and wholly bewildered, when within a rod of him he heard the dreadful war-whoop. Then another more discordant voice took up the fearful cry. Joshua did very well considering that it was his first attempt. Then the man from Pike County sprang to his feet. If it had been daylight, his face would have been seen to wear a pale and scared expression. It did not appear to occur to him to make a stand against the savage foes who he felt convinced were near at hand. He stood not on the order of going, but went at once. He quickly unloosed his beast, sprang upon his back, and galloped away without apparently giving a thought to the companions with whom he had camped out. When he was out of hearing Joe and Bickford shouted with laughter. "You see I was right," said Joe. "The man's a coward." "He seemed in a hurry to get away," said Joshua dryly. "He's the biggest humbug out." "I thought so as soon as he began to brag so much." "I believed his yarns at first," admitted Joshua. "I thought he was rather a dangerous fellow to travel with." "He looked like a desperado, certainly," said Joe, "but appearances are deceitful. It's all swagger and no real courage." "Well, what shall we do now, Joe?" "Lie down again and go to sleep." "The man's gone off without his revolver." "He'll be back for it within a day or two. We shall be sure to fall in with him again. I shan't lose my sleep worrying about him." The two threw themselves once more on the ground, and were soon fast asleep. * * * * * Joe proved to be correct in his prediction concerning the reappearance of their terrified companion. The next morning, when they were sitting at breakfast--that is, sitting under a tree with their repast spread out on a paper between them--the man from Pike County rode up. He looked haggard, as well he might, not having ventured to sleep for fear of the Indians, and his horse seemed weary and dragged out. "Where have you been?" asked Mr. Bickford innocently. "Chasin' the Indians," said the Rip-tail Roarer, swinging himself from his saddle. "Sho! Be there any Indians about here?" "Didn't you hear them last night?" inquired the man from Pike. "No." "Nor you?" turning to Joe. "I heard nothing of any Indians," replied Joe truthfully. "Then all I can say is, strangers, that you sleep uncommon sound." "Nothing wakes me up," said Bickford. "What about them Indians? Did you railly see any?" "I rather think I did," said the man from Pike. "It couldn't have been much after midnight when I was aroused by their war-whoop. Starting up, I saw twenty of the red devils riding through the canon." "Were you afraid?" "Afraid!" exclaimed the man from Pike contemptuously. "The Rip-tail Roarer knows not fear. I can whip my weight in wildcats------" "Yes, I know you can," interrupted Joshua. "You told us so yesterday." The man from Pike seemed rather annoyed at the interruption, but as Mr. Bickford appeared to credit his statement he had no excuse for quarreling. He proceeded. "Instantly I sprung to the back of my steed and gave them chase." "Did they see you?" "They did." "Why didn't they turn upon you? You said there were twenty of them." "Why?" repeated the Pike man boastfully. "They were afraid. They recognized me as the Rip-tail Roarer. They knew that I had sent more than fifty Indians to the happy hunting-grounds, and alone as I was they fled." "Sho!" "Did you kill any of them?" asked Joe. "When I was some distance on my way I found I had left my revolver behind. Did you find it, stranger?" "There it is," said Joshua, who had replaced it on the ground close to where the Pike man had slept. He took it with satisfaction and replaced it in his girdle. "Then you didn't kill any?" "No, but I drove them away. They won't trouble you any more." "That's a comfort," said Joshua. "Now, strangers, if you've got any breakfast to spare, I think I could eat some." "Set up, old man," said Mr. Bickford, with his mouth full. The man from Pike did full justice to the meal. Then he asked his two companions, as a favor, not to start for two hours, during which he lay down and rested. The three kept together that day, but did not accomplish as much distance as usual, chiefly because of the condition of their companion's horse. At night they camped out again. In the morning an unpleasant surprise awaited them. Their companion had disappeared, taking with him Joshua's horse and leaving instead his own sorry nag. That was not all. He had carried off their bag of provisions, and morning found them destitute of food, with a hearty appetite and many miles away, as they judged, from any settlement. "The mean skunk!" said Joshua. "He's cleaned us out. What shall we do?" "I don't know," said Joe seriously. CHAPTER XXIX JOHN CHINAMAN The two friends felt themselves to be in a serious strait. The exchange of horses was annoying, but it would only lengthen their journey a little. The loss of their whole stock of provisions could not so readily be made up. "I feel holler," said Joshua. "I never could do much before breakfast. I wish I'd eat more supper. I would have done it, only I was afraid, by the way that skunk pitched into 'em, we wouldn't have enough to last." "You only saved them for him, it seems," said Joe. "He has certainly made a poor return for our kindness." "If I could only wring his neck, I wouldn't feel quite so hungry," said Joshua. "Or cut his head off with a scythe," suggested Joe, smiling faintly. "Danged if I wouldn't do it," said Mr. Bickford, hunger making him bloodthirsty. "We may overtake him, Mr. Bickford." "You may, Joe, but I can't. He's left me his horse, which is clean tuckered out, and never was any great shakes to begin with. I don't believe I can get ten miles out of him from now till sunset." "We must keep together, no matter how slow we go. It won't do for us to be parted." "We shall starve together likely enough," said Joshua mournfully. "I've heard that the French eat horse-flesh. If it comes to the worst, we can kill your horse and try a horse-steak." "It's all he's fit for, and he ain't fit for that. We'll move on for a couple of hours and see if somethin' won't turn up. I tell you, Joe, I'd give all the money I've got for some of marm's johnny-cakes. It makes me feel hungrier whenever I think of 'em." "I sympathize with you, Joshua," said Joe. "We may as well be movin' on, as you suggest. We may come to some cabin, or party of travelers." So they mounted their beasts and started. Joe went ahead, for his animal was much better than the sorry nag which Mr. Bickford bestrode. The latter walked along with an air of dejection, as if life were a burden to him. "If I had this critter at home, Joe, I'll tell you what I'd do with him," said Mr. Bickford, after a pause. "Well, what would you do with him?" "I'd sell him to a sexton. He'd be a first-class animal to go to funerals. No danger of his runnin' away with the hearse." "You are not so hungry but you can joke, Joshua." "It's no joke," returned Mr. Bickford. "If we don't raise a supply of provisions soon, I shall have to attend my own funeral. My mind keeps running on them johnny-cakes." They rode on rather soberly, for the exercise and the fresh morning air increased their appetites, which were keen when they started. Mr. Bickford no longer felt like joking, and Joe at every step looked anxiously around him, in the hope of espying relief. On a sudden, Mr. Bickford rose in his Stirrups and exclaimed in a tone of excitement: "I see a cabin!" "Where?" "Yonder," said the Yankee, pointing to a one-story shanty, perhaps a quarter of a mile away. "Is it inhabited, I wonder?" "I don't know. Let us go and see." The two spurred their horses, and at length reached the rude building which had inspired them with hope. The door was open, but no one was visible. Joshua was off his horse in a twinkling and peered in. "Hooray!" he shouted in rejoicing accents. "Breakfast's ready." "What do you mean?" "I mean that I've found something to eat." On a rude table was an earthen platter full of boiled rice and a stale loaf beside it. "Pitch in, Joe," said Joshua. "I'm as hungry as a wolf." "This food belongs to somebody. I suppose we have no right to it." "Right be hanged. A starving man has a right to eat whatever he can find." "Suppose it belongs to a fire-eater, or a man from Pike County?" "We'll eat first and fight afterward." Joe did not feel like arguing the matter. There was an advocate within him which forcibly emphasized Joshua's arguments, and he joined in the banquet. "This bread is dry as a chip," said Mr. Bickford. "But no matter. I never thought dry bread would taste so good. I always thought rice was mean vittles, but it goes to the right place just now." "I wonder if any one will have to go hungry on our account?" said Joe. "I hope not, but I can't help it," returned Mr. Bickford. "Necessity's the fust law of nature, Joe. I feel twice as strong as I did twenty minutes ago." "There's nothing like a full stomach, Joshua. I wonder to whom we are indebted for this repast?" Joe was not long in having his query answered. An exclamation, as of one startled, called the attention of the two friends to the doorway, where, with a terrified face, stood a Chinaman, his broad face indicating alarm. "It's a heathen Chinee, by gosh!" exclaimed Joshua. Even at that time Chinese immigrants had begun to arrive in San Francisco, and the sight was not wholly new either to Joshua or Joe. "Good morning, John," said our young hero pleasantly. "Good morning, heathen," said Mr. Bickford. "We thought we'd come round and make you a mornin' call. Is your family well?" The Chinaman was reassured by the friendly tone of his visitors, and ventured to step in. He at once saw that the food which he had prepared for himself had disappeared. "Melican man eat John's dinner," he remarked in a tone of disappointment. "So we have, John," said Mr. Bickford. "The fact is, we were hungry--hadn't had any breakfast." "Suppose Melican man eat--he pay," said the Chinaman. "That's all right," said Joe; "we are willing to pay. How much do you want?" The Chinaman named his price, which was not unreasonable, and it was cheerfully paid. "Have you got some more bread and rice, John?" asked Mr. Bickford. "We'd like to buy some and take it along." They succeeded in purchasing a small supply--enough with economy to last a day or two. This was felt as a decided relief. In two days they might fall in with another party of miners or come across a settlement. They ascertained on inquiry that the Chinaman and another of his nationality had come out like themselves to search for gold. They had a claim at a short distance from which they had obtained a small supply of gold. The cabin they had found in its present condition. It had been erected and deserted the previous year by a party of white miners, who were not so easily satisfied as the two Chinamen. "Well," said Joshua, after they had started on their way, "that's the first time I ever dined at a Chinee hotel." "We were lucky in coming across it," said Joe. "The poor fellow looked frightened when he saw us gobblin' up his provisions," said Mr. Bickford, laughing at the recollection. "But we left him pretty well satisfied. We didn't treat him as the gentleman from Pike treated us." "No--I wouldn't be so mean as that darned skunk. It makes me mad whenever I look at this consumptive boss he's left behind." "You didn't make much out of that horse trade, Mr. Bickford." "I didn't, but I'll get even with him some time if we ever meet again." "Do you know where he was bound?" "No--he didn't say." "I dare say it'll all come right in the end. At any rate, we shan't starve for the next forty-eight hours." So in better spirits the two companions kept on their way. CHAPTER XXX ON THE YUBA RIVER On the following day Joe and his comrade fell in with a party of men who, like themselves, were on their way to the Yuba River. They were permitted to join them, and made an arrangement for a share of the provisions. This removed all anxiety and insured their reaching their destination without further adventure. The banks of the Yuba presented a busy and picturesque appearance. On the banks was a line of men roughly clad, earnestly engaged in scooping out gravel and pouring it into a rough cradle, called a rocker. This was rocked from side to side until the particles of gold, if there were any, settled at the bottom and were picked out and gathered into bags. At the present time there are improved methods of separating gold from the earth, but the rocker is still employed by Chinese miners. In the background were tents and rude cabins, and there was the unfailing accessory of a large mining camp, the gambling tent, where the banker, like a wily spider, lay in wait to appropriate the hard-earned dust of the successful miner. Joe and his friend took their station a few rods from the river and gazed at the scene before them. "Well, Mr. Bickford," said Joe, "the time has come when we are to try our luck." "Yes," said Joshua. "Looks curious, doesn't it? If I didn't know, I'd think them chaps fools, stoopin' over there and siftin' mud. It 'minds me of when I was a boy and used to make dirt pies." "Suppose we take a day and look round a little. Then we can find out about how things are done, and work to better advantage." "Just as you say, Joe, I must go to work soon, for I hain't nary red." "I'll stand by you, Mr. Bickford." "You're a fust-rate feller, Joe. You seem to know just what to do." "It isn't so long since I was a greenhorn and allowed myself to be taken in by Hogan." "You've cut your eye-teeth since then." "I have had some experience of the world, but I may get taken in again." Joe and his friend found the miners social and very ready to give them information. "How much do I make a day?" said one in answer to a question from Joshua. "Well, it varies. Sometimes I make ten dollars, and from that all the way up to twenty-five. Once I found a piece worth fifty dollars. I was in luck then." "I should say you were," said Mr. Bickford. "The idea of findin' fifty dollars in the river. It looks kind of strange, don't it, Joe?" "Are any larger pieces ever found here?" asked Joe. "Sometimes." "I have seen larger nuggets on exhibition in San Francisco, worth several hundred dollars. Are any such to be found here?" "Generally they come from the dry diggings. We don't often find such specimens in the river washings. But these are more reliable." "Can a man save money here?" "If he'll be careful of what he gets. But much of our dust goes there." He pointed, as he spoke, to a small cabin, used as a store and gambling den at one and the same time. There in the evening the miners collected, and by faro, poker, or monte managed to lose all that they had washed out during the day. "That's the curse of our mining settlement," said their informant. "But for the temptations which the gaming-house offers, many whom you see working here would now be on their way home with a comfortable provision for their families. I never go there, but then I am in the minority." "What did you used to do when you was to hum?" inquired Joshua, who was by nature curious and had no scruples about gratifying his curiosity. "I used to keep school winters. In the spring and summer I assisted my father on his farm down in Maine." "You don't say you're from Maine? Why, I'm from Maine myself," remarked Joshua. "Indeed! Whereabouts in Maine did you live?" "Pumpkin Hollow." "I kept school in Pumpkin Hollow one winter." "You don't say so? What is your name?" inquired Joshua earnestly. "John Kellogg." "I thought so!" exclaimed Mr. Bickford, excited. "Why, I used to go to school to you, Mr. Kellogg." "It is nine years ago, and you must have changed so much that I cannot call you to mind." "Don't you remember a tall, slab-sided youngster of thirteen, that used to stick pins into your chair for you to set on?" Kellogg smiled. "Surely you are not Joshua Bickford?" he said. "Yes, I am. I am that same identical chap." "I am glad to see you, Mr. Bickford," said his old school-teacher, grasping Joshua's hand cordially. "It seems kinder queer for you to call me Mr. Bickford." "I wasn't so ceremonious in the old times," said Kellogg. "No, I guess not. You'd say, 'Come here, Joshua,' and you'd jerk me out of my seat by the collar. 'Did you stick that pin in my chair?' That's the way you used to talk. And then you'd give me an all-fired lickin'." Overcome by the mirthful recollections, Joshua burst into an explosive fit of laughter, in which presently he was joined by Joe and his old teacher. "I hope you've forgiven me for those whippings, Mr. Bickford." "They were jest what I needed, Mr. Kellogg. I was a lazy young rascal, as full of mischief as a nut is of meat. You tanned my hide well." "You don't seem to be any the worse for it now." "I guess not. I'm pretty tough. I say, Mr. Kellogg," continued Joshua, with a grin, "you'd find it a harder job to give me a lickin' now than you did then." "I wouldn't undertake it now. I am afraid you could handle me." "It seems cur'us, don't it, Joe?" said Joshua. "When Mr. Kellogg used to haul me round the schoolroom, it didn't seem as if I could ever be a match for him." "We change with the passing years," said Kellogg, in a moralizing tone, which recalled his former vocation. "Now you are a man, and we meet here on the other side of the continent, on the banks of the Yuba River. I hope we are destined to be successful." "I hope so, too," said Joshua, "for I'm reg'larly cleaned out." "If I can help you any in the sway of information, I shall be glad to do so." Joe and Bickford took him at his word and made many inquiries, eliciting important information. The next day they took their places farther down the river and commenced work. Their inexperience at first put them at a disadvantage, They were awkward and unskilful, as might have been expected. Still, at the end of the first day each had made about five dollars. "That's something," said Joe. "If I could have made five dollars in one day in Pumpkin Hollow," said Mr. Bickford, "I would have felt like a rich man. Here it costs a feller so much to live that he don't think much of it." "We shall improve as we go along. Wait till to-morrow night." The second day brought each about twelve dollars, and Joshua felt elated. "I'm gettin' the hang of it," said he. "As soon as I've paid up what I owe you, I'll begin to lay by somethin'." "I don't want you to pay me till you are worth five hundred dollars, Mr. Bickford. The sum is small, and I don't need it." "Thank you, Joe. You're a good friend. I'll stick by you if you ever want help." In the evening the camp presented a lively appearance. When it was chilly, logs would be brought from the woods, and a bright fire would be lighted, around which the miners would sit and talk of home and their personal adventures and experiences. One evening Mr. Bickford and Joe were returning from a walk, when, as they approached the camp-fire, they heard a voice that sounded familiar, and caught these words: "I'm from Pike County, Missouri, gentlemen. They call me the Rip-tail Roarer. I can whip my weight in wildcats." "By gosh!" exclaimed Joshua, "if it ain't that skunk from Pike. I mean to tackle him." CHAPTER XXXI JUDGE LYNCH PRONOUNCES SENTENCE The gentleman from Pike was sitting on a log, surrounded by miners, to whom he was relating his marvelous exploits. The number of Indians, grizzly bears, and enemies generally, which, according to his account, he had overcome and made way with, was simply enormous. Hercules was nothing to him. It can hardly be said that his listeners credited his stories. They had seen enough of life to be pretty good judges of human nature, and regarded them as romances which served to while away the time. "It seems to me, my friend," said Kellogg, who, it will be remembered, had been a schoolmaster, "that you are a modern Hercules." "Who's he?" demanded the Pike man suspiciously, for he had never heard of the gentleman referred to. "He was a great hero of antiquity," exclaimed Kellogg, "who did many wonderful feats." "That's all right, then," said the Pike man. "If you're friendly, then I'm friendly. But if any man insults me he'll find he's tackled the wrong man. I can whip my weight in wildcats------" Here he was subjected to an interruption. Mr. Bickford could no longer suppress his indignation when at a little distance he saw his mustang, which this treacherous braggart had robbed him of, quietly feeding. "Look here, old Rip-tail, or whatever you call yourself, I've got an account to settle with you." The Pike man started as he heard Mr. Bickford's voice, which, being of a peculiar nasal character, he instantly recognized. He felt that the meeting was an awkward one, and he would willingly have avoided it. He decided to bluff Joshua off if possible, and, as the best way of doing it, to continue his game of brag. "Who dares to speak to me thus?" he demanded with a heavy frown, looking in the opposite direction. "Who insults the Rip-tail Roarer?" "Look this way if you want to see him," said Joshua. "Put on your specs if your eyes ain't good." The man from Pike could no longer evade looking at his late comrade. He pretended not to know him. "Stranger," said he, with one hand on the handle of his knife, "are you tired of life?" "I am neither tired of life nor afraid of you," said Joshua manfully. "You don't know me, or------" "Yes, I do. You're the man that says he can whip his weight in wildcats. I don't believe you dare to face your weight in tame cats." "Sdeath!" roared the bully. "Do you want to die on the spot?" "Not particularly, old Rip-tail. Don't talk sech nonsense. I'll trouble you to tell me why you stole my horse on the way out here." "Let me get at him," said the Pike man in a terrible voice, but not offering to get up from the log. "Nobody henders your gettin' at me," said Mr. Bickford composedly. "But that ain't answerin' my question." "If I didn't respect them two gentlemen too much, I'd shoot you where you stand," said the Pike man. "I've got a shootin'-iron myself, old Rip-tail, and I'm goin' to use it if necessary." "What have you to say in answer to this man's charge?" asked one of the miners, a large man who was looked upon as the leader of the company. "He charges you with taking his horse." "He lies!" said the man from Pike. "Be keerful, old Rip-tail," said Mr. Bickford in a warning tone. "I don't take sass any more than you do." "I didn't steal your horse." "No, you didn't exactly steal it, but you took it without leave and left your own bag of bones in his place. But that wasn't so bad as stealin' all our provisions and leavin' us without a bite, out in the wilderness. That's what I call tarnation mean." "What have you to say to these charges?" asked the mining leader gravely. "Say? I say that man is mistaken. I never saw him before in my life." "Well, that's cheeky," said Joshua, aghast at the man's impudence. "Why, I know you as well as if we'd been to school together. You are the Rip-tail Roarer. You are from Pike County, Missouri, you are. You can whip your weight in wildcats. That's he, gentlemen. I leave it to you." In giving the description, Joshua imitated the boastful accents of his old comrade with such success that the assembled miners laughed and applauded. "That's he! You've got him!" they cried. "Just hear that, old Rip-tail," said Mr. Bickford. "You see these gentlemen here believe me and they don't believe you." "There's a man in this here country that looks like me," said the Pike man, with a lame excuse. "You've met him, likely." "That won't go down, old Rip-tail. There ain't but one man can whip his weight in wildcats and tell the all-firedest yarns out. That's you, and there ain't no gettin' round it." "This is a plot, gentlemen," said the man from Pike, glancing uneasily at the faces around him, in which he read disbelief of his statements. "My word is as good as his." "Maybe it is," said Mr. Bickford. "I'll call another witness. Joe, jest tell our friends here what you know about the gentleman from Pike. If I'm lyin', say so, and I'll subside and never say another word about it." "All that my friend Bickford says is perfectly true," said Joe modestly. "This man partook of our hospitality and then repaid us by going off early one morning when we were still asleep, carrying off all our provisions and exchanging his own worn-out horse for my friend's mustang, which was a much better animal." The man from Pike had not at first seen Joe. His countenance fell when he saw how Mr. Bickford's case was strengthened, and for the moment he could not think of a word to say. "You are sure this is the man, Joe?" asked, the leader of the miners. "Yes, I will swear to it. He is not a man whom it is easy to mistake." "I believe you. Gentlemen," turning to the miners who were sitting or standing about him, "do you believe this stranger or our two friends?" The reply was emphatic, and the man from Pike saw that he was condemned. "Gentlemen," he said, rising, "you are mistaken, and I am the victim of a plot. It isn't pleasant to stay where I am suspected, and I'll bid you good evening." "Not so fast!" said the leader, putting his hand heavily on his shoulder. "You deserve to be punished, and you shall be. Friends, what shall we do with him?" "Kill him! String him up!" shouted some. The Rip-tail Roarer's swarthy face grew pale as he heard these ominous words. He knew something of the wild, stern justice of those days. He knew that more than one for an offense like his had expiated his crime with his life. "It seems to me," said the leader, "that the man he injured should fix the penalty. Say you so?" "Aye, aye!" shouted the miners. "Will you two," turning to Joe and Bickford, "decide what shall be done with this man? Shall we string him up?" The Pike man's nerve gave way. He flung himself on his knees before Joshua and cried: "Mercy! mercy! Don't let them hang me!" Joshua was not hard-hearted. He consulted with Joe and then said: "I don't want the critter's life. If there was any wild-cats round, I'd like to see him tackle his weight in 'em, as he says he can. As there isn't, let him be tied on the old nag he put off on me, with his head to the horse's tail, supplied with one day's provisions, and then turned loose!" This sentence was received with loud applause and laughter. The horse was still in camp and was at once brought out. The man from Pike was securely tied on as directed, and then the poor beast was belabored with whips till he started off at the top of his speed, which his old owner, on account of his reversed position, was unable to regulate. He was followed by shouts and jeers from the miners, who enjoyed this act of retributive justice. "Mr. Bickford, you are avenged," said Joe, "So I am, Joe. I'm glad I've got my hoss back; but I can't help pityin' poor old Rip-tail, after all. I don't believe he ever killed a wildcat in his life." CHAPTER XXXII TAKING ACCOUNT OF STOCK Three months passed. They were not eventful. The days were spent in steady and monotonous work; the nights were passed around the camp-fire, telling and hearing, stories and talking of home. Most of their companions gambled and drank, but Mr. Bickford and Joe kept clear of these pitfalls. "Come, man, drink with me," more than once one of his comrades said to Joshua. "No, thank you," said Joshua. "Why not? Ain't I good enough?" asked the other, half offended. "You mean I'm puttin' on airs 'cause I won't drink with you? No, sir-ree. There isn't a man I'd drink with sooner than with you." "Come up, then, old fellow. What'll you take?" "I'll take a sandwich, if you insist on it." "That's vittles. What'll you drink?" "Nothing but water. That's strong enough for me." "Danged if I don't believe you're a minister in disguise." "I guess I'd make a cur'us preacher," said Joshua, with a comical twist of his features. "You wouldn't want to hear me preach more'n once." In this way our friend Mr. Bickford managed to evade the hospitable invitations of his comrades and still retain their good-will--not always an easy thing to achieve in those times. Joe was equally positive in declining to drink, but it was easier for him to escape. Even the most confirmed drinkers felt it to be wrong to coax a boy to drink against his will. There was still another--Kellogg--who steadfastly adhered to cold water, or tea and coffee, as a beverage. These three were dubbed by their companions the "Cold-Water Brigade," and accepted the designation good-naturedly. "Joshua," said Joe, some three months after their arrival, "have you taken account of stock lately?" "No," said Joshua, "but I'll do it now." After a brief time he announced the result. "I've got about five hundred dollars, or thereabouts," he said. "You have done a little better than I have." "How much have you?" "About four hundred and fifty." "I owe you twenty-five dollars, Joe. That'll make us even." Joshua was about to transfer twenty-five dollars to Joe, when the latter stayed his hand. "Don't be in a hurry, Mr. Bickford," he said. "Wait till we get to the city." "Do you know, Joe," said Joshua, in a tone of satisfaction, "I am richer than I was when I sot out from home?" "I am glad to hear it, Mr. Bickford. You have worked hard, and deserve your luck." "I had only three hundred dollars then; now I've got four hundred and seventy-five, takin' out what I owe you." "You needn't take it out at all." "You've done enough for me, Joe. I don't want you to give me that debt." "Remember, Joshua, I have got a business in the city paying me money all the time. I expect my share of the profits will be more than I have earned out here." "That's good. I wish I'd got a business like you. You'd be all right even if you only get enough to pay expenses here." "That's so." "I am getting rather tired of this place, Mr. Bickford," said Joe, after a little pause. "You don't think of going back to the city?" asked Joshua apprehensively. "Not directly, but I think I should like to see a little more of California. These are not the only diggings." "Where do you want to go?" "I haven't considered yet. The main thing is, will you go with me?" "We won't part company, Joe." "Good! Then I'll inquire, and see what I can find out about other places. This pays fairly, but there is little chance of getting nuggets of any size hereabouts." "I'd just like to find one worth two thousand dollars. I'd start for home mighty quick, and give Sukey Smith a chance to become Mrs. Bickford." "Success to you!" said Joe, laughing. CHAPTER XXXIII A STARTLING TABLEAU Joe finally decided on some mines a hundred miles distant in a southwesterly direction. They were reported to be rich and promising. "At any rate," said he, "even if they are no better than here, we shall get a little variety and change of scene." "That'll be good for our appetite." "I don't think, Mr. Bickford, that either of us need be concerned about his appetite. Mine is remarkably healthy." "Nothing was ever the matter with mine," said Joshua, "as long as the provisions held out." They made some few preparations of a necessary character. Their clothing was in rags, and they got a new outfit at the mining store. Each also provided himself with a rifle. The expense of these made some inroads upon their stock of money, but by the time they were ready to start they had eight hundred dollars between them, besides their outfit, and this they considered satisfactory. Kellogg at first proposed to go with them, but finally he changed his mind. "I am in a hurry to get home," he said, "and these mines are a sure thing. If I were as young as you, I would take the risk. As it is, I had better not. I've got a wife and child at home, and I want to go back to them as soon as I can." "You are right," said Joe. "I've got a girl at home," said Joshua, "but I guess she'll wait for me." "Suppose she don't," suggested Joe. "I shan't break my heart," said Mr. Bickford. "There's more than one girl in the world." "I see you are a philosopher, Mr. Bickford," said his old schoolmaster. "I don't know about that, but I don't intend to make a fool of myself for any gal. I shall say, 'Sukey, here I am; I've got a little money, and I'm your'n till death if you say so. If you don't want me, I won't commit susancide." "That's a capital joke, Joshua," said Joe. "Her name is Susan, isn't it?" "Have I made a joke? Waal, I didn't go to do it." "It is unconscious wit, Mr. Bickford," said Kellogg. "Pooty good joke, ain't it?" said Joshua complacently. "Susan-cide, and her name is Susan. Ho! ho! I never thought on't." And Joshua roared in appreciation of the joke which he had unwittingly perpetrated, for it must be explained that he thought susan-cide the proper form of the word expressing a voluntary severing of the vital cord. Years afterward, when Joshua found himself the center of a social throng, he was wont to say, "Ever heard that joke I made about Susan?" and then he would cite it amid the plaudits of his friends. Mr. Bickford and Joe had not disposed of their horses. They had suffered them to forage in the neighborhood of the river, thinking it possible that the time would come when they would require them. One fine morning they set out from the camp near the banks of the Yuba and set their faces in a southwesterly direction. They had made themselves popular among their comrades, and the miners gave them a hearty cheer as they started. "Good luck, Joe! Good luck, old man!" they exclaimed heartily. "The same to you, boy!" So with mutual good feeling they parted company. "We ain't leavin' like our friend from Pike County," said Mr. Bickford. "I often think of the poor critter trottin' off with face to the rear." "I hope we shan't meet him or any of his kind," said Joe. "So do I. He'd better go and live among the wildcats." "He is some like them. He lives upon others." It would only be wearisome to give a detailed account of the journey of the two friends. One incident will suffice. On the fourth day Joe suddenly exclaimed in excitement: "Look, Joshua!" "By gosh!" The exclamation was a natural one. At the distance of forty rods a man was visible, his hat off, his face wild with fear, and in dangerous proximity a grizzly bear of the largest size doggedly pursuing him. "It's Hogan!" exclaimed Joe in surprise. "We must save him." CHAPTER XXXIV A GRIZZLY ON THE WAR-PATH It may surprise some of my young friends to learn that the grizzly bear is to be found in California. Though as the State has increased in population mostly all have been killed off, even now among the mountains they may be found, and occasionally visit the lower slopes and attack men and beasts. Hogan had had the ill-luck to encounter one of these animals. When he first saw the grizzly there was a considerable space between them. If he had concealed himself, he might have escaped the notice of the beast, but when he commenced running the grizzly became aware of his presence and started in pursuit. Hogan was rather dilapidated in appearance. Trusting to luck instead of labor, he had had a hard time, as he might have expected. His flannel shirt was ragged and his nether garments showed the ravages of time. In the race his hat had dropped off and his rough, unkempt hair was erect with fright. He was running rapidly, but was already showing signs of exhaustion. The bear was getting over the ground with clumsy speed, appearing to take it easily, but overhauling his intended victim slowly, but surely. Joe and Bickford were standing on one side, and had not yet attracted the attention of either party in this unequal race. "Poor chap!" said Joshua. "He looks most tuckered out. Shall I shoot?" "Wait till the bear gets a little nearer. We can't afford to miss. He will turn on us." "I'm in a hurry to roll the beast over," said Joshua. "It's a cruel sight to see a grizzly hunting a man." At this moment Hogan turned his head with the terror-stricken look of a man who felt that he was lost. The bear was little more than a hundred feet behind him and was gaining steadily. He was already terribly fatigued--his breathing was reduced to a hoarse pant. He was overcome by the terror of the situation, and his remaining strength gave way. With a shrill cry he sank down upon the ground, and, shutting his eyes, awaited the attack. The bear increased his speed. "Now let him have it!" said Joe in a sharp, quick whisper. Mr. Bickford fired, striking the grizzly in the face. Bruin stood still and roared angrily. He wagged his large head from one side to the other, seeking by whom this attack was made. He espied the two friends, and, abandoning his pursuit of Hogan, rolled angrily toward them. "Give it to him quick, Joe!" exclaimed Bickford. "He's making for us." Joe held his rifle with steady hand and took deliberate aim. It was well he did, for had he failed both he and Bickford would have been in great peril. His faithful rifle did good service. The bear tumbled to the earth with sudden awkwardness. The bullet had reached a vital part and the grizzly was destined to do no more mischief. "Is he dead, or only feigning?" asked Joe prudently. "He's a gone coon," said Joshua. "Let us go up and look at him." They went up and stood over the huge beast. He was not quite dead. He opened his glazing eyes, made a convulsive movement with his paws as if he would like to attack his foes, and then his head fell back and he moved no more. "He's gone, sure enough," said Bickford. "Good-by, old grizzly. You meant well, but circumstances interfered with your good intentions." "Now let us look up Hogan," said Joe. The man had sunk to the ground utterly exhausted, and in his weakness and terror had fainted. Joe got some water and threw it in his face. He opened his eyes and drew a deep breath. A sudden recollection blanched his face anew, and he cried: "Don't let him get at me!" "You're safe, Mr. Hogan," said Joe. "The bear is dead." "Dead! Is he really dead?" "If you don't believe it, get up and look at him," said Bickford. "I can't get up--I'm so weak." "Let me help you, then. There--do you see the critter?" Hogan shuddered as he caught sight of the huge beast only twenty-five feet distant from him. "Was he as near as that?" he gasped. "He almost had you," said Bickford. "If it hadn't been for Joe and me, he'd have been munchin' you at this identical minute. Things have changed a little, and in place of the bear eatin' you you shall help eat the bear." By this time Hogan, realizing that he was safe, began to recover his strength. As he did so he became angry with the beast that had driven him such a hard race for life. He ran up to the grizzly and kicked him. "Take that!" he exclaimed with an oath. "I wish you wasn't dead, so that I could stick my knife into you." "If he wasn't dead you'd keep your distance," said Joshua dryly. "It don't require much courage to tackle him now." Hogan felt this to be a reflection upon his courage. "I guess you'd have run, too, if he'd been after you," he said. "I guess I should. Bears are all very well in their place, but I'd rather not mingle with 'em socially. They're very affectionate and fond of hugging, but if I'm going to be hugged I wouldn't choose a bear." "You seem to think I was a coward for runnin' from the bear." "No, I don't. How do I know you was runnin' from the bear? Maybe you was only takin' a little exercise to get up an appetite for dinner." "I am faint and weak," said Hogan. "I haven't had anything to eat for twelve hours." "You shall have some food," said Joe. "Joshua, where are the provisions? We may as well sit down and lunch." "Jest as you say, Joe. I most generally have an appetite." There was a mountain spring within a stone's throw. Joshua took a tin pail and brought some of the sparkling beverage, which he offered first to Hogan. Hogan drank greedily. His throat was parched and dry, and he needed it. He drew a deep breath of relief. "I feel better," said he. "I was in search of a spring when that cursed beast spied me and gave me chase." They sat down under the shade of a large tree and lunched. "What sort of luck have you had since you tried to break into my restaurant, Mr. Hogan?" asked Joe. Hogan changed color. The question was an awkward one. "Who told you I tried to enter your restaurant?" he asked. "The man you brought there." "That wasn't creditable of you, Hogan," said Joshua, with his mouth full. "After my friend Joe had given you a supper and promised you breakfast, it was unkind to try to rob him. Don't you think so yourself?" "I couldn't help it," said Hogan, who had rapidly decided on his defense. "Couldn't help it?" said Joe in a tone of inquiry. "That's rather a strange statement." "It's true," said Hogan. "The man forced me to do it." "How was that?" "He saw me comin' out of the restaurant a little while before, and when he met me, after trying to rob me and finding that it didn't pay, he asked me if I was a friend of yours. I told him I was. Then he began to ask if you slept there at night and if anybody was with you. I didn't want to answer, but he held a pistol at my head and forced me to. Then he made me go with him. I offered to get in, thinking I could whisper in your ear and warn you, but he wouldn't let me. He stationed me at the window and got in himself. You know what followed. As soon as I saw you were too strong for him I ran away, fearing that he might try to implicate me in the attempt at robbery." Hogan recited this story very glibly and in a very plausible manner. "Mr. Hogan," said Joe, "if I didn't know you so thoroughly, I might be disposed to put confidence in your statements. As it is, I regret to say I don't believe you." "Hogan," said Joshua, "I think you're one of the fust romancers of the age. If I ever start a story-paper I'll engage you to write for me." "I am sorry you do me so much injustice, gentlemen," said Hogan, with an air of suffering innocence. "I'm the victim of circumstances." "I expect you're a second George Washington. You never told a lie, did you?" "Some time you will know me better," said Hogan. "I hope not," said Joe. "I know you better now than I want to." CHAPTER XXXV THE NEW DIGGINGS When lunch-was over, Joe said: "Good day, Mr. Hogan. Look out for the grizzlies, and may you have better luck in future." "Yes, Hogan, good by," said Joshua. "We make over to you all our interest in the bear. He meant to eat you. You can revenge yourself by eatin' him." "Are you going to leave me, gentlemen?" asked Hogan in alarm. "You don't expect us to stay and take care of you, do you?" "Let me go with you," pleaded Hogan. "I am afraid to be left alone in this country. I may meet another grizzly, and lose my life." "That would be a great loss to the world," said Mr. Bickford, with unconcealed sarcasm. "It would be a great loss to me," said Hogan. "Maybe that's the best way to put it," observed Bickford. "It would have been money in my friend Joe's pocket if you had never been born." "May I go with you?" pleaded Hogan, this time addressing himself to Joe. "Mr. Hogan," said Joe, "you know very well why your company is not acceptable to us." "You shall have no occasion to complain," said Hogan earnestly. "Do you want us to adopt you, Hogan?" asked Joshua. "Let me stay with you till we reach the nearest diggings. Then I won't trouble you any more." Joe turned to Bickford. "If you don't object," he said, "I think I'll let him come." "Let the critter come," said Bickford. "He'd be sure to choke any grizzly that tackled him. For the sake of the bear, let him come." Mr. Hogan was too glad to join the party, on any conditions, to resent the tone which Mr. Bickford employed in addressing him. He obtained his suit, and the party of three kept on their way. As they advanced the country became rougher and more hilly. Here and there they saw evidences of "prospecting" by former visitors. They came upon deserted claims and the sites of former camps. But in these places the indications of gold had not been sufficiently favorable to warrant continued work, and the miners had gone elsewhere. At last, however, they came to a dozen men who were busily at work in a gulch. Two rude huts near-by evidently served as their temporary homes. "Well, boys, how do you find it?" inquired Bickford, riding up. "Pretty fair," said one of the party. "Have you got room for three more?" "Yes--come along. You can select claims alongside and go to work if you want to." "What do you say, Joe?" "I am in favor of it." "We are going to put up here, Hogan," said Mr. Bickford. "You can do as you've a mind to. Much as we value your interestin' society, we hope you won't put yourself out to stay on our account." "I'll stay," said Hogan. Joe and Joshua surveyed the ground and staked out their claims, writing out the usual notice and posting it on a neighboring tree. They had not all the requisite tools, but these they were able to purchase at one of the cabins. "What shall I do?" asked Hogan. "I'm dead broke. I can't work without tools, and I can't buy any." "Do you want to work for me?" asked Joshua. "What'll you give?" "That'll depend on how you work. If you work stiddy, I'll give you a quarter of what we both make. I'll supply you with tools, but they'll belong to me." "Suppose we don't make anything," suggested Hogan. "You shall have a quarter of that. You see, I want to make it for your interest to succeed." "Then I shall starve." The bargain was modified so that Hogan was assured of enough to eat, and was promised, besides, a small sum of money daily, but was not to participate in the gains. "If we find a nugget, it won't do you any good. Do you understand, Hogan?" "Yes, I understand." He shrugged his shoulders, having very little faith in any prospective nuggets. "Then we understand each other. That's all I want." On the second day Joe and Mr. Bickford consolidated their claims and became partners, agreeing to divide whatever they found. Hogan was to work for them jointly. They did not find their hired man altogether satisfactory. He was lazy and shiftless by nature, and work was irksome to him. "If you don't work stiddy, Hogan," said Joshua, "you can't expect to eat stiddy, and your appetite is pretty reg'lar, I notice." Under this stimulus Hogan managed to work better than he had done since he came out to California, or indeed for years preceding his departure. Bickford and Joe had both been accustomed to farm work and easily lapsed into their old habits. They found they had made a change for the better in leaving the banks of the Yuba. The claims they were now working paid them better. "Twenty-five dollars to-day," said Joshua, a week after their arrival. "That pays better than hoeing pertaters, Joe." "You are right, Mr. Bickford. You are ten dollars ahead of me. I am afraid you will lose on our partnership." "I'll risk it, Joe." Hogan was the only member of the party who was not satisfied. "Can't you take me into partnership?" he asked. "We can, but I don't think we will, Hogan," said Mr. Bickford. "It wouldn't pay. If you don't like workin' for us, you can take a claim of your own." "I have no tools." "Why don't you save your money and buy some, instead of gamblin' it away as you are doin'?" "A man must have amusement," grumbled Hogan. "Besides, I may have luck and win." "Better keep clear of gamblin', Hogan." "Mr. Hogan, if you want to start a claim of your own, I'll give you what tools you need," said Joe. Upon reflection Hogan decided to accept this offer. "But of course you will have to find your own vittles now," said Joshua. "I'll do it," said Hogan. The same day he ceased to work for the firm of Bickford & Mason, for Joe insisted on giving Mr. Bickford the precedence as the senior party, and started on his own account. The result was that he worked considerably less than before. Being his own master, he decided not to overwork himself, and in fact worked only enough to make his board. He was continually grumbling over his bad luck, although Joshua told him plainly that it wasn't luck, but industry, he lacked. "If you'd work like we do," said Bickford, "you wouldn't need to complain. Your claim is just as good as ours, as far as we can tell." "Then let us go in as partners," said Hogan. "Not much. You ain't the kind of partner I want." "I was always unfortunate," said Hogan. "You were always lazy, I reckon. You were born tired, weren't you?" "My health ain't good," said Hogan. "I can't work like you two." "You've got a healthy appetite," said Mr. Bickford. "There ain't no trouble there that I can see." Mr. Hogan had an easier time than before, but he hadn't money to gamble with unless he deprived himself of his customary supply of food, and this he was reluctant to do. "Lend me half-an-ounce of gold-dust, won't you?" he asked of Joe one evening. "What do you want it for--to gamble with?" "Yes," said Hogan. "I dreamed last night that I broke the bank. All I want is money enough to start me." "I don't approve of gambling, and can't help you." Hogan next tried Mr. Bickford, but with like result. "I ain't quite such a fool, Hogan," said the plain-spoken Joshua. About this time a stroke of good luck fell to Joe. bout three o'clock one afternoon he unearthed a nugget which, at a rough estimate, might be worth five hundred dollars. Instantly all was excitement in the mining-camp, not alone for what he had obtained, but for the promise of richer deposits. Experienced miners decided that he had, struck upon what is popularly called a "pocket," and some of these are immensely remunerative. "Shake hands, Joe," said Bickford. "You're in luck." "So are you, Mr. Bickford. We are partners, you know." In less than an hour the two partners received an offer of eight thousand dollars for their united claim, and the offer was accepted. Joe was the hero of the camp. All were rejoiced at his good fortune except one. That one was Hogan, who from a little distance, jealous and gloomy, surveyed the excited crowd. CHAPTER XXXVI HOGAN'S DISCONTENT "Why don't luck come to me?" muttered Hogan to himself. "That green country boy has made a fortune, while I, an experienced man of the world, have to live from hand to mouth. It's an outrage!" The parties to whom Joe and his partner sold their claim were responsible men who had been fortunate in mining and had a bank-account in San Francisco. "We'll give you an order on our banker," they proposed. "That will suit me better than money down," said Joe. "I shall start for San Francisco to-morrow, having other business there that I need to look after." "I'll go too, Joe," said Joshua. "With my share of the purchase-money and the nugget, I'm worth, nigh on to five thousand dollars. What will dad say?" "And what will Susan Smith say?" queried Joe. Joshua grinned. "I guess she'll say she's ready to change her name to Bickford," said he. "You must send me some of the cake, Mr. Bickford." "Just wait, Joe. The thing ain't got to that yet. I tell you, Joe, I shall be somebody when I get home to Pumpkin Hollow with that pile of money. The boys'll begin to look up to me then. I can't hardly believe it's all true. Maybe I'm dreamin' it. Jest pinch my arm, will you?" Joe complied with his request. "That'll do, Joe. You've got some strength in your fingers. I guess it's true, after all." Joe observed with some surprise that Hogan did not come near them. The rest, without exception, had congratulated them on their extraordinary good luck. "Seems to me Hogan looks rather down in the mouth," said Joe to Bickford. "He's mad 'cause he didn't find the nugget. That's what's the matter with him. I say, Hogan, you look as if your dinner didn't agree with you." "My luck don't agree with me." "You don't seem to look at things right. Wasn't you lucky the other day to get away from the bear?" "I was unlucky enough to fall in with him." "Wasn't you lucky in meetin' my friend Joe in New York, and raisin' money enough out of him to pay your passage out to Californy?" "I should be better off in New York. I am dead broke." "You'd be dead broke in New York. Such fellers as you always is dead broke." "Do you mean to insult me, Mr. Bickford?" demanded Hogan irritably. "Oh, don't rare up, Hogan. It won't do no good. You'd ought to have more respect for me, considerin' I was your boss once." "I'd give something for that boy's luck." "Joe's luck? Well, things have gone pretty well with turn; but that don't explain all his success--he's willin' to work." "So am I." "Then go to work on your claim. There's no knowin' but there's a bigger nugget inside of it. If you stand round with your hands in your pockets, you'll never find it." "It's the poorest claim in the gulch," said Hogan discontentedly. "It pays the poorest because you don't work half the time." Hogan apparently didn't like Mr. Bickford's plainness of speech. He walked away moodily, with his hands in his pockets. He could not help contrasting his penniless position with the enviable position of the two friends, and the devil, who is always in wait for such moments, thrust an evil suggestion into his mind. It was this: He asked himself why could he not steal the nugget which Joe had found? "He can spare it, for he has sold the claim for a fortune," Hogan reasoned. "It isn't fair that he should have everything and I should have nothing. He ought to have made me his partner, anyway. He would if he hadn't been so selfish. I have just as much right to a share in it as this infernal Yankee. I'd like to choke him." This argument was a very weak one, but a man easily persuades himself of what he wants to do. "I'll try for it," Hogan decided, "this very night." CHAPTER XXXVII THE NUGGET IS STOLEN. At this time Joe and Joshua were occupying a tent which they had purchased on favorable terms of a fellow miner. They retired in good season, for they wished to start early on their journey on the following morning. "I don't know as I can go to sleep," said Joshua. "I can't help thinkin' of how rich I am, and what dad and all the folks will say." "Do you mean to go home at once, Mr. Bickford?" "Jest as soon as I can get ready. I'll tell you what I am goin' to do, Joe. I'm goin' to buy a tip-top suit when I get to Boston, and a gold watch and chain, and a breast-pin about as big as a saucer. When I sail into Pumpkin Holler in that rig folks'll look at me, you bet. There's old Squire Pennyroyal, he'll be disappointed for one." "Why will he be disappointed?" "Because he told dad I was a fool to come out here. He said I'd be back in rags before a year was out. Now, the old man thinks a good deal of his opinion, and he won't like it to find how badly he's mistaken." "Then he would prefer to see you come home in rags?" "You bet he would." "How about Susan? Ain't you afraid she has married the store clerk?" Joshua looked grave for a moment. "I won't say but she has," said he; "but if she has gone and forgotten about me jest because my back is turned, she ain't the gal I take her for, and I won't fret my gizzard about her." "She will feel worse than you when she finds you have come back with money." "That's so." "And you will easily find some one else," suggested Joe. "There's Sophrony Thompson thinks a sight of me," said Mr. Bickford. "She's awful jealous of Susan. If Susan goes back on me, I'll call round and see Sophrony." Joe laughed. "I won't feel anxious about you, Joshua," he said, "since I find you have two girls to choose between." "Not much danger of breakin' my heart. It's pretty tough." There was a brief silence. Then Joshua said: "What are your plans, Joe? Shall you remain in San Francisco?" "I've been thinking, Mr. Bickford, that I would like to go home on a visit. If I find that I have left my business in good hands in the city, I shall feel strongly tempted to go home on the same steamer with you." "That would be hunky," said Bickford, really delighted. "We'd have a jolly time." I think we would. But, Mr. Bickford, I have no girls to welcome me home, as you have." "You ain't old enough yet, Joe. You're a good-lookin' feller, and when the time comes I guess you can find somebody." "I don't begin to trouble myself about such things yet," said Joe, laughing. "I am only sixteen." "You've been through considerable, Joe, for a boy of sixteen. I wish you'd come up to Pumpkin Holler and make me a visit when you're to home." "Perhaps I can arrange to be present at your wedding, Mr. Bickford--that is, if Susan doesn't make you wait too long." While this conversation was going on the dark figure of a man was prowling near the tent. "Why don't the fools stop talking and go to sleep," muttered Hogan. "I don't want to wait here all night." His wish was gratified. The two friends ceased talking and lay quite still. Soon Joe's deep, regular breathing and Bickford's snoring convinced the listener that the time had come to carry out his plans. With stealthy step he approached the tent, and stooping over gently removed the nugget from under Joshua's head. There was a bag of gold-dust which escaped his notice. The nugget was all he thought of. With beating heart and hasty step the thief melted into the darkness, and the two friends slept on unconscious of their loss. CHAPTER XXXVIII HOGAN'S FATE The sun was up an hour before Joe and Bickford awoke. When Joe opened his eyes he saw that it was later than the hour he intended to rise. He shook his companion. "Is it mornin'?" asked Bickford drowsily. "I should say it was. Everybody is up and eating breakfast. We must prepare to set out on our journey." "Then it is time--we are rich," said Joshua, with sudden remembrance. "Do you know, Joe, I hain't got used to the thought yet. I had actually forgotten it." "The sight of the nugget will bring it to mind." "That's so." Bickford felt for the nugget, without a suspicion that the search would be in vain. Of course he did not find it. "Joe, you are trying to play a trick on me," he said. "You've taken the nugget." "What!" exclaimed Joe, starting. "Is it missing?" "Yes, and you know all about it. Where have you put it, Joe?" "On my honor, Joshua, I haven't touched it," said Joe seriously. "Where did you place it?" "Under my head--the last thing before I lay down." "Are you positive of it?" "Certain, sure." "Then," said Joe, a little pale, "it must have been taken during the night." "Who would take it?" "Let us find Hogan," said Joe, with instinctive suspicion. "Who has seen Hogan?" Hogan's claim was in sight, but he was not at work. Neither was he taking breakfast. "I'll bet the skunk has grabbed the nugget and cleared out," exclaimed Bickford, in a tone of conviction. "Did you hear or see anything of him during the night?" "No--I slept too sound." "Is anything else taken?" asked Joe. "The bag of dust------" "Is safe. It's only the nugget that's gone." The loss was quickly noised about the camp. Such an incident was of common interest. Miners lived so much in common--their property was necessarily left so unguarded--that theft was something more than misdemeanor or light offense. Stern was the justice which overtook the thief in those days. It was necessary, perhaps, for it was a primitive state of society, and the code which in established communities was a safeguard did not extend its protection here. Suspicion fell upon Hogan at once. No one of the miners remembered to have seen him since rising. "Did any one see him last night?" asked Joe. Kellogg answered. "I saw him near your tent," he said. "I did not think anything of it. Perhaps if I had been less sleepy I should have been more likely to suspect that his design was not a good one." "About what hour was this?" "It must have been between ten and eleven o'clock." "We did not go to sleep at once. Mr. Bickford and I were talking over our plans." "I wish I'd been awake when the skunk come round," said Bickford. "I'd have grabbed him so he'd thought an old grizzly'd got hold of him." "Did you notice anything in his manner that led you to think he intended robbery?" asked Kellogg. "He was complainin' of his luck. He thought Joe and I got more than our share, and I'm willin' to allow we have; but if we'd been as lazy and shif'less as Hogan we wouldn't have got down to the nugget at all." An informal council was held, and it was decided to pursue Hogan. As it was uncertain in which direction he had fled, it was resolved to send out four parties of two men each to hunt him. Joe and Kellogg went together, Joshua and another miner departed in a different direction, and two other pairs started out. "I guess we'll fix him," said Mr. Bickford. "If he can dodge us all, he's smarter than I think he is." Meanwhile Hogan, with the precious nugget in his possession, hurried forward with feverish haste. The night was dark and the country was broken. From time to time he stumbled over some obstacle, the root of a tree or something similar, and this made his journey more arduous. "I wish it was light," he muttered. Then he revoked his wish. In the darkness and obscurity lay his hopes of escape. "I'd give half this nugget if I was safe in San Francisco," he said to himself. He stumbled on, occasionally forced by his fatigue to sit down and rest. "I hope I'm going in the right direction, but I don't know," he said to himself. He had been traveling with occasional rests for four hours when fatigue overcame him. He lay down to take a slight nap, but when he awoke the sun was up. "Good Heaven!" he exclaimed in alarm. "I must have slept for some hours. I will eat something to give me strength, and then I must hurry on." He had taken the precaution to take some provisions with him, and he began to eat them as he hurried along. "They have just discovered their loss," thought Hogan. "Will they follow me, I wonder? I must be a good twelve miles away, and this is a fair start. They will turn back before they have come as far as this. Besides, they won't know in what direction I have come." Hogan was mistaken in supposing himself to be twelve miles away. In reality, he was not eight. During the night he had traveled at disadvantage, and taken a round-about way without being aware of it. He was mistaken also in supposing that the pursuit would be easily abandoned. Mining communities could not afford to condone theft, nor were they disposed to facilitate the escape of the thief. More than once the murderer had escaped, while the thief was pursued relentlessly. All this made Hogan's position a perilous one. If he had been long enough in the country to understand the feeling of the people, he would not have ventured to steal the nugget. About eleven o'clock Hogan sat down to rest. He reclined on the greensward near the edge of a precipitous descent. He did not dream that danger was so close till he heard his name called and two men came running toward him. Hogan, starting to his feet in dismay, recognized Crane and Peabody, two of his late comrades. "What do you want?" he faltered, as they came within hearing. "The nugget," said Crane sternly. Hogan would have denied its possession if he could, but there it was at his side. "There it is," he said. "What induced you to steal it?" demanded Crane. "I was dead broke. Luck was against me. I couldn't help it." "It was a bad day's work for you," said Peabody. "Didn't you know the penalty attached to theft in the mining-camps?" "No," faltered Hogan, alarmed at the stem looks of his captors. "What is it?" "Death by hanging," was the terrible reply. Hogan's face blanched, and he sank on his knees before them. "Don't let me be hung!" he entreated. "You've got the nugget back. I've done no harm. No one has lost anything by me." "Eight of us have lost our time in pursuing you. You gave up the nugget because you were forced to. You intended to carry it away." "Mercy! mercy! I'm a very unlucky man. I'll go away and never trouble you again." "We don't mean that you shall," said Crane sternly. "Peabody, tie his hands; we must take him back with us." "I won't go," said Hogan, lying down. "I am not going back to be hung." It would obviously be impossible to carry a struggling man back fifteen miles, or more. "We must hang you on the spot then," said Crane, producing a cord. "Say your prayers; your fate is sealed." "But this is murder!" faltered Hogan, with pallid lips. "We take the responsibility." He advanced toward Hogan, who now felt the full horrors of his situation. He sprang to his feet, rushed in frantic fear to the edge of the precipice, threw up his arms, and plunged headlong. It was done so quickly that neither of his captors was able to prevent him. They hurried to the precipice and looked over. A hundred feet below, on a rough rock, they saw a shapeless and motionless figure, crushed out of human semblance. "Perhaps it is as well," said Crane gravely. "He has saved us an unwelcome task." The nugget was restored to its owners, to whom Hogan's tragical fate was told. "Poor fellow!" said Joe soberly. "I would rather have lost the nugget." "So would I," said Bickford. "He was a poor, shif'less critter; but I'm sorry for him." CHAPTER XXXIX HOW JOE'S BUSINESS PROSPERED Joe and his friend Bickford arrived in San Francisco eight days later without having met with any other misadventure or drawback. He had been absent less than three months, yet he found changes. A considerable number of buildings had gone up in different parts of the town during his absence. "It is a wonderful place," said Joe to his companion. "It is going to be a great city some day." "It's ahead of Pumpkin Holler already," said Mr. Bickford, "though the Holler has been goin' for over a hundred years." Joe smiled at the comparison. He thought he could foresee the rapid progress of the new city, but he was far from comprehending the magnificent future that lay before it. A short time since, the writer of this story ascended to the roof of the Palace Hotel, and from this lofty elevation, a hundred and forty feet above the sidewalk, scanned with delighted eyes a handsome and substantial city, apparently the growth of a century, and including within its broad limits a population of three hundred thousand souls. It will not be many years before it reaches half-a-million, and may fairly be ranked among the great cities of the world. Of course Joe's first visit was to his old place of business. He received a hearty greeting from Watson, his deputy. "I am glad to see you, Joe," said he, grasping our hero's hand cordially. "When did you arrive?" "Ten minutes ago. I have made you the first call." "Perhaps you thought I might have 'vamosed the ranch,'" said Watson, smiling, "and left you and the business in the lurch." "I had no fears on that score," said Joe. "Has business been good?" "Excellent. I have paid weekly your share of the profits to Mr. Morgan." "Am I a millionaire yet?" asked Joe. "Not quite. I have paid Mr. Morgan on your account"--here Watson consulted a small account-book--"nine hundred and twenty-five dollars." "Is it possible?" said Joe, gratified. "That is splendid." "Then you are satisfied?" "More than satisfied." "I am glad of it. I have made the same for myself and so have nearly half made up the sum which I so foolishly squandered at the gaming-table." "I am glad for you, Mr. Watson." "How have you prospered at the mines?" "I have had excellent luck." "I don't believe you bring home as much money as I have made for you here." "Don't bet on that, Mr. Watson, for you would lose." "You don't mean to say that you have made a thousand dollars?" exclaimed Watson, surprised. "I have made five thousand dollars within a hundred or two." "Is it possible!" ejaculated Watson. "You beat everything for luck, Joe." "So he does," said Bickford, who felt that it was time for him to speak. "It's lucky for me that I fell in with him. It brought me luck, too, for we went into partnership together." "Have you brought home five thousand dollars, too?" asked Watson. "I've got about the same as Joe, and now I'm going home to marry Susan Smith if she'll have me." "She'll marry a rich miner, Mr. Bickford. You needn't be concerned about that." "I feel pretty easy in mind," said Joshua. "How soon do you sail?" "When does the next steamer go?" "In six days." "I guess it'll carry me." Watson turned to Joe. "I suppose you will now take charge of your own business?" said lie. "I am ready to hand over my trust at any minute." "Would you object to retaining charge for--say for four months to come?" asked Joe. "Object? I should be delighted to do it. I couldn't expect to make as much money any other way." "You see, Mr. Watson, I am thinking of going home myself on a visit. I feel that I can afford it, and I should like to see my old friends and acquaintances under my new and improved circumstances." Watson was evidently elated at the prospect of continued employment of so remunerative a character. "You may depend upon it that your interests are safe in my hands," said he. "I will carry on the business as if it were my own. Indeed, it will be for my interest to do so." "I don't doubt it, Mr. Watson. I have perfect confidence In your management." Joe's next call was on his friend Morgan, by whom also he was cordially welcomed. "Have you called on Watson?" he asked. "Yes." "Then he has probably given you an idea of how your business has gone on during your absence. He is a thoroughly reliable man, in my opinion. You were fortunate to secure his services." "So I think." "Have you done well at the mines?" asked Mr. Morgan doubtfully. "You hope so, but you don't feel confident?" said Joe, smiling. "You can read my thoughts exactly. I don't consider mining as reliable as a regular business." "Nor I, in general, but there is one thing you don't take into account." "What is that?" Mr. Bickford answered the question. "Joe's luck." "Then you have been lucky?" "How much do you think I have brought home?" "A thousand dollars?" "Five times that sum." "Are you in earnest?" asked Mr. Morgan, incredulous. "Wholly so." "Then let me congratulate you--on that and something else." "What is that?" "The lots you purchased, including the one on which your restaurant is situated, have more than doubled in value." "Bully for you, Joe!" exclaimed Mr. Bickford enthusiastically. "It never rains but it pours," said Joe, quoting an old proverb. "I begin to think I shall be rich some time, Mr. Morgan." "It seems very much like it." "What would you advise me to do, Mr. Morgan--sell out the lots at the present advance?" "Hold on to them, Joe. Not only do that, but buy more. This is destined some day to be a great city. It has a favorable location, is the great mining center, and the State, I feel convinced, has an immense territory fit for agricultural purposes. Lots here may fluctuate, but they will go up a good deal higher than present figures." "If you think so, Mr. Morgan, I will leave in your hands three thousand dollars for investment in other lots. This will leave me, including my profits from the business during my absence, nearly three thousand dollars more, which I shall take East and invest there." "I will follow your instructions, Joe, and predict that your real estate investments will make you rich sooner than you think." "Joe," said Bickford, "I've a great mind to leave half of my money with Mr. Morgan to be invested in the same way." "Do it, Mr. Bickford. That will leave you enough to use at home." "Yes--I can buy a farm for two thousand dollars and stock it for five hundred more. Besides, I needn't pay more than half down, if I don't want to." "A good plan," said Joe. "Mr. Morgan, will you take my money and invest it for me just like Joe's? Of course I want you to take a commission for doing it." "With pleasure, Mr. Bickford, more especially as I have decided to open a real estate office in addition to my regular business. You and Joe will be my first customers. I shouldn't wonder if the two or three thousand dollars you leave with me should amount in ten years to ten thousand." "Ten thousand!" ejaculated Joshua, elated. "Won't I swell round Pumpkin Holler when I'm worth ten thousand dollars!" Six days later, among the passengers by the steamer for Panama, were Joseph Mason and Joshua Bickford. CHAPTER XL JOE'S WELCOME HOME On arriving in New York both Joe and Mr. Bickford bought new suits of clothes. Mr. Bickford purchased a blue dress suit, resplendent with brass buttons, and a gold watch and chain, which made a good deal of show for the money. His tastes were still barbaric, and a quiet suit of black would not have come up to his idea of what was befitting a successful California miner. He surveyed himself before the tailor's glass with abundant satisfaction. "I guess that'll strike 'em at home, eh, Joe?" he said. "You look splendid, Mr. Bickford." "Kinder scrumptious, don't I?" "Decidedly so." "I say, Joe, you'd better have a suit made just like this." Joe shuddered at the thought. In refinement of taste he was decidedly ahead of his friend and partner. "I'm going to buy a second-hand suit," he said. "What!" ejaculated Joshua. Joe smiled. "I knew you'd be surprised, but I'll explain. I want people to think at first that I have been unlucky." "Oh, I see," said Joshua, nodding; "kinder take 'em in." "Just so, Mr. Bickford." "Well, there is something in that." "Then I shall find out who my true friends are." "Just so." * * * * * It is not my purpose to describe Mr. Bickford's arrival in Pumpkin Hollow, resplendent in his new suit. Joshua wouldn't have changed places with the President of the United States on that day. His old friends gathered about him, and listened open-mouthed to his stories of mining life in California and his own wonderful exploits, which lost nothing in the telling. He found his faithful Susan unmarried, and lost no time in renewing his suit. He came, he saw, he conquered! In four weeks Susan became Mrs. Bickford, her husband became the owner of the farm he coveted, and he at once took his place among the prominent men of Pumpkin Hollow. In a few years he was appointed justice of the peace, and became known as Squire Bickford. It may be as well to state here, before taking leave of him, that his real estate investments in San Francisco proved fortunate, and in ten years he found himself worth ten thousand dollars. This to Joshua was a fortune, and he is looked upon as a solid man in the town where he resides. We now turn to Joe. Since his departure nothing definite had been heard of him. Another boy had taken his place on Major Norton's farm, but he was less reliable than Joe. "I am out of patience with that boy. I wish I had Joe back again." "Have you heard anything of Joe since he went away?" inquired Oscar. "Not a word." "I don't believe he went to California at all." "In that case we should have heard from him." "No, Joe's proud--poor and proud!" said Oscar. "I guess he's wished himself back many a time, but he's too proud to own it." "Joe was good to work," said the major. "He was too conceited. He didn't know his place. He thought himself as good as me," said Oscar arrogantly. "Most people seemed to like Joe," said the major candidly. "I didn't," said Oscar, tossing his head. "If he'd kept in his place and realized that he was a hired boy, I could have got along well enough with him." "I wish he would come back," said the major. "I would take him back." "I dare say he's had a hard time and would be humbler now," said Oscar. At this moment a knock was heard at the door, and just afterward Joe entered. He wore a mixed suit considerably the worse for wear and patched in two or three places. There was a rip under the arm, and his hat, a soft felt one, had become shapeless from long and apparently hard usage. He stood in the doorway, waiting for recognition. "How do you do, Joe?" said Major Norton cordially. "I am glad to see you." Joe's face lighted up. "Thank you, sir," he said. "Shake hands, Joe." Major Norton was mean in money matters, but he had something of the gentleman about him. Oscar held aloof. "How do you do, Oscar?" "I'm well," said Oscar. "Have you been to California?" "Yes." "You don't seem to have made your fortune," said Oscar superciliously, eying Joe's shabby clothing. "I haven't starved," said Joe. "Where did you get that suit of clothes?" asked Oscar. "I hope you'll excuse my appearance," said Joe. "Well, Joe, do you want to come back to your old place?" asked Major Norton. "I've got a boy, but he doesn't suit me." "How much would you be willing to pay me, Major Norton?" The major coughed. "Well," said he, "I gave you your board and clothes before. That's pretty good pay for a boy." "I'm older now." "I'll do the same by you, Joe, and give you fifty cents a week besides." "Thank you for the offer, Major Norton. I'll take till to-morrow to think of it." "You'd better accept it now," said Oscar. "Beggars shouldn't be choosers." "I am not a beggar, Oscar," said Joe mildly. "You look like one, anyway," said Oscar bluntly. "Oscar," said Major Norton, "if Joe has been unlucky, you shouldn't throw it in his teeth." "He went off expecting to make his fortune," said Oscar, in an exulting tone. "He looks as if he had made it. Where are you going?" "I am going to look about the village a little. I will call again." After Joe went out Oscar said: "It does me good to see Joe come in rags. Serves him right for putting on airs." On the main street Joe met Annie Raymond. "Why, Joe!" she exclaimed, delighted. "Is it really you?" "Bad pennies always come back," said Joe. "Have you---- I am afraid you have not been fortunate," said the young lady, hesitating as she noticed Joe's shabby clothes. "Do you think less of me for that?" "No," said Annie Raymond warmly. "It is you I like, not your clothes. You may have been unfortunate, but I am sure you deserved success." "You are a true friend, Miss Annie, so I don't mind telling you that I was successful." Annie Raymond looked astonished. "And these clothes--" she began. "I put on for Oscar Norton's benefit. I wanted to see how he would receive me. He evidently rejoiced at my bad fortune." "Oscar is a mean boy. Joe, you must come to our house to supper." "Thank you, I will; but I will go round to the hotel and change my clothes." "Never mind." "But I do mind. I don't fancy a shabby suit as long as I can afford to wear a good one." Joe went to the hotel, took off his ragged clothes, put on a new and stylish suit which he recently had made for him, donned a gold watch and chain, and hat in the latest style, and thus dressed, his natural good looks were becomingly set off. "How do I look now?" he asked, when he met Miss Annie Raymond at her own door. "Splendidly, Joe. I thought you were a young swell from the city." After supper Annie said, her eyes sparkling with mischief: "Suppose we walk over to Major Norton's and see Oscar." "Just what I wanted to propose." Oscar was out in the front yard, when he caught sight of Joe and Annie Raymond approaching. He did not at first recognize Joe, but thought, like the young lady, that it was some swell from the city. "You see I've come again, Oscar," said Joe, smiling. Oscar could not utter a word. He was speechless with astonishment. "I thought you were poor," he uttered, at last. "I have had better luck than you thought." "I suppose you spent all your money for those clothes." "You are mistaken, Oscar. I am not so foolish. I left between two and three thousand dollars in a New York bank, and I have more than twice that in San Francisco." "It isn't possible!" exclaimed Oscar, surprised and disappointed. "Here is my bank-book; you can look at it," and Joe pointed to a deposit of twenty-five hundred dollars. "I don't think, Oscar, it will pay me to accept your father's offer and take my old place." "I don't understand it. How did you do it?" asked the bewildered Oscar. "I suppose it was my luck," said Joe. "Not wholly that," said Annie Raymond. "It was luck and labor." "I accept the amendment, Miss Annie." Oscar's manner changed at once. Joe, the successful Californian, was very different from Joe, the hired boy. He became very attentive to our hero, and before he left town condescended to borrow twenty dollars of him, which he never remembered to repay. He wanted to go back to California with Joe, but his father would not consent. When Joe returned to San Francisco, by advice of Mr. Morgan he sold out his restaurant to Watson and took charge of Mr. Morgan's real estate business. He rose with the rising city, became a very rich man, and now lives in a handsome residence on one of the hills that overlook the bay. He has an excellent wife--our old friend, Annie Raymond--and a fine family of children. His domestic happiness is by no means the smallest part of Joe's luck. THE END 
26083	----	scans kindly provided by the Internet Archive (www.archive.org) Note: Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive American Libraries. See http://www.archive.org/details/lukewalton00alge [Frontispiece: "Luke rescues Mrs. Merton."] LUKE WALTON BY HORATIO ALGER, JR. Author of "ANDY GORDON," "THE TELEGRAPH BOY," "SAM'S CHANCE," "BOB BURTON," "FRANK MASON'S SECRET" [Insignia] MADE IN U. S. A. M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY CHICAGO :: NEW YORK CONTENTS I A CHICAGO NEWSBOY II A LETTER FROM THE DEAD III LUKE FORMS A RESOLUTION IV AN ATTACK IN THE DARK V HOW LUKE ESCAPED VI MR. AFTON'S OFFICE VII A STRANGE ENCOUNTER VIII A MARKED MAN IX STEPHEN WEBB X STEPHEN WEBB OBTAINS SOME INFORMATION XI A HOUSE ON PRAIRIE AVENUE XII A PLOT THAT FAILED XIII TOM BROOKS IN TROUBLE XIV LUKE HAS A COOL RECEPTION IN PRAIRIE AVENUE XV A WELCOME GIFT XVI THOMAS BROWNING AT HOME XVII A STRANGE VISITOR XVIII HOW JACK KING FARED XIX A SENSATIONAL INCIDENT XX AMBROSE KEAN'S IMPRUDENCE XXI A FRIEND IN NEED XXII HOW AMBROSE KEAN WAS SAVED XXIII STEPHEN WEBB IS PUZZLED XXIV MRS. MERTON PASSES A PLEASANT EVENING XXV MRS. TRACY'S BROTHER XXVI THE PRODIGAL'S RECEPTION XXVII UNCLE AND NEPHEW XXVIII HAROLD'S TEMPTATION XXIX HAROLD'S THEFT XXX LUKE WALTON IS SUSPECTED OF THEFT XXXI WHO STOLE THE MONEY? XXXII HAROLD AND FELICIE MAKE AN ARRANGEMENT XXXIII HAROLD'S PLOT FAILS XXXIV HAROLD MAKES A PURCHASE XXXV A SKILLFUL INVENTION XXXVI WARNER POWELL STARTS ON A JOURNEY XXXVII THOMAS BROWNING'S SECRET XXXVIII FELICIE PROVES TROUBLESOME XXXIX LUKE WALTON'S LETTER XL FACE TO FACE WITH THE ENEMY XLI MR. BROWNING COMES TO TERMS XLII CONCLUSION LUKE WALTON CHAPTER I A CHICAGO NEWSBOY "_News_ and _Mail_, one cent each!" Half a dozen Chicago newsboys, varying in age from ten to sixteen years, with piles of papers in their hands, joined in the chorus. They were standing in front and at the sides of the Sherman House, on the corner of Clark and Randolph Streets, one of the noted buildings in the Lake City. On the opposite side of Randolph Street stands a gloomy stone structure, the Court House and City Hall. In the shadow of these buildings, at the corner, Luke Walton, one of the largest newsboys, had posted himself. There was something about his bearing and appearance which distinguished him in a noticeable way from his companions. To begin with, he looked out of place. He was well grown, with a frank, handsome face, and was better dressed than the average newsboy. That was one reason, perhaps, why he preferred to be by himself, rather than to engage in the scramble for customers which was the habit of the boys around him. It was half-past five. The numerous cars that passed were full of business men, clerks, and boys, returning to their homes after a busy day. Luke had but two papers left, but these two for some unaccountable reason remained on his hands an unusual length of time. But at length a comfortable-looking gentleman of middle age, coming from the direction of La Salle Street, paused and said, "You may give me a _News_, my boy." "Here you are, sir," he said, briskly. The gentleman took the paper, and thrusting his hand into his pocket, began to feel for a penny, but apparently without success. "I declare," he said, smiling, "I believe I am penniless. I have nothing but a five-dollar bill." "Never mind, sir! Take the paper and pay me to morrow." "But I may not see you." "I am generally here about this time." "And if I shouldn't see you, you will lose the penny." "I will risk it, sir," said Luke, smiling. "You appear to have confidence in me." "Yes, sir." "Then it is only fair that I should have confidence in you." Luke looked puzzled, for he didn't quite understand what was in the gentleman's mind. "I will take both of your papers. Here is a five-dollar bill. You may bring me the change to-morrow, at my office, No. 155 La Salle Street. My name is Benjamin Afton." "But, sir," objected Luke, "there is no occasion for this. It is much better that I should trust you for two cents than that you should trust me with five dollars." "Probably the two cents are as important to you as five dollars to me. At any rate, it is a matter of confidence, and I am quite willing to trust you." "Thank you, sir, but----" "I shall have to leave you, or I shall be home late to dinner." Before Luke had a chance to protest further, he found himself alone, his stock of papers exhausted, and a five-dollar bill in his hand. While he stood on the corner in some perplexity, a newsboy crossed Randolph Street, and accosted him. "My eyes, if you ain't in luck, Luke Walton," he said. "Where did you get that bill? Is it a one?" "No, it's a five." "Where'd you get it?" "A gentleman just bought two papers of me." "And gave you five dollars! You don't expect me to swaller all that, do you?" "I'm to bring him the change to-morrow," continued Luke. The other boy nearly doubled up with merriment. "Wasn't he jolly green, though?" he ejaculated. "Why was he?" asked Luke, who by this time felt considerably annoyed. "He'll have to whistle for his money." "Why will he?" "Cause he will." "He won't do anything of the sort. I shall take him his change to-morrow morning." "What?" ejaculated Tom Brooks. "I shall carry him his change in the morning--four dollars and ninety-eight cents. Can't you understand that?" "You ain't going to be such a fool, Luke Walton?" "If it's being a fool to be honest, then I'm going to be that kind of a fool. Wouldn't you do the same?" "No, I wouldn't. I'd just invite all the boys round the corner to go with me to the theayter. Come, Luke, be a good feller, and give us all a blow-out. We'll go to the theayter, and afterwards we'll have an oyster stew. I know a bully place on Clark Street, near Monroe." "Do you take me for a thief, Tom Brooks?" exclaimed Luke, indignantly. "The gentleman meant you to have the money. Of course he knew you wouldn't bring it back. Lemme see, there's a good play on to Hooley's. Six of us will cost a dollar and a half, and the oyster stews will be fifteen cents apiece. That'll only take half the money, and you'll have half left for yourself." "I am ashamed of you, Tom Brooks. You want me to become a thief, and it is very evident what you would do if you were in my place. What would the gentleman think of me?" "He don't know you. You can go on State Street to sell papers, so he won't see you." "Suppose he should see me." "You can tell him you lost the money. You ain't smart, Luke Walton, or you'd know how to manage." "No, I am not smart in that way, I confess. I shan't waste any more time talking to you. I'm going home." "I know what you're going to do. You're goin' to spend all the money on yourself." "Don't you believe that I mean to return the change?" "No, I don't." "I ought not to complain of that. You merely credit me with acting as you would act yourself. How many papers have you got left?" "Eight." "Here, give me half, and I will sell them for you, that is, if I can do it in fifteen minutes." "I'd rather you'd take me to the theayter," grumbled Tom. "I've already told you I won't do it." In ten minutes Luke had sold his extra supply of papers, and handed the money to Tom. Tom thanked him in an ungracious sort of way, and Luke started for home. It was a long walk, for the poor cannot afford to pick and choose their localities. Luke took his way through Clark Street to the river, and then, turning in a north westerly direction, reached Milwaukee Avenue. This is not a fashionable locality, and the side streets are tenanted by those who are poor or of limited means. Luke paused in front of a three-story frame house in Green Street. He ascended the steps and opened the door, for this was the newsboy's home. CHAPTER II A LETTER FROM THE DEAD In the entry Luke met a girl of fourteen with fiery red hair, which apparently was a stranger to the comb and brush. She was the landlady's daughter, and, though of rather fitful and uncertain temper, always had a smile and pleasant word for Luke, who was a favorite of hers. "Well, Nancy, how's mother?" asked the newsboy, as he began to ascend the front stairs. "She seems rather upset like, Luke," answered Nancy. "What has happened to upset her?" asked Luke, anxiously. "I think it's a letter she got about noon. It was a queer letter, all marked up, as if it had been travelin' round. I took it in myself, and carried it up to your ma. I stayed to see her open it, for I was kind of curious to know who writ it." "Well?" "As soon as your ma opened it, she turned as pale as ashes, and I thought she'd faint away. She put her hand on her heart just so," and Nancy placed a rather dirty hand of her own, on which glittered a five-cent brass ring, over that portion of her anatomy where she supposed her heart lay. "She didn't faint away, did she?" asked Luke. "No, not quite." "Did she say who the letter was from?" "No; I asked her, but she said, 'From no one that you ever saw, Nancy.' I say, Luke, if you find out who's it from, let me know." "I won't promise, Nancy. Perhaps mother would prefer to keep it a secret." "Oh, well, keep your secrets, if you want to." "Don't be angry, Nancy; I will tell you if I can," and Luke hurried upstairs to the third story, which contained the three rooms occupied by his mother, his little brother, and himself. Opening the door, he saw his mother sitting in a rocking-chair, apparently in deep thought, for the work had fallen from her hands and lay in her lap. There was an expression of sadness in her face, as if she had been thinking of the happy past, when the little family was prosperous, and undisturbed by poverty or privation. "What's the matter, mother?" asked Luke, with solicitude. Mrs. Walton looked up quickly. "I have been longing to have you come back, Luke," she said. "Something strange has happened to-day." "You received a letter, did you not?" "Who told you, Luke?" "Nancy. I met her as I came in. She said she brought up the letter, and that you appeared very much agitated when you opened it." "It is true." "From whom was the letter, then, mother?" "From your father." "What!" exclaimed Luke, with a start. "Is he not dead?" "The letter was written a year ago." "Why, then, has it arrived so late?" "Your father on his deathbed intrusted it to someone who mislaid it, and has only just discovered and mailed it. On the envelope he explains this, and expresses his regret. It was at first mailed to our old home, and has been forwarded from there. But that is not all, Luke. I learn from the letter that we have been cruelly wronged. Your father, when he knew he could not live, intrusted to a man in whom he had confidence, ten thousand dollars to be conveyed to us. This wicked man could not resist the temptation, but kept it, thinking we should never know anything about it. You will find it all explained in the letter." "Let me read it, mother," said Luke, in excitement. Mrs. Walton opened a drawer of the bureau, and placed in her son's hands an envelope, brown and soiled by contact with tobacco. It was directed to her in a shaky hand. Across one end were written these words: This letter was mislaid. I have just discovered it, and mail it, hoping it will reach you without further delay. Many apologies and regrets. J. HANSHAW. Luke did not spend much time upon the envelope, but opened the letter. The sight of his father's familiar handwriting brought the tears to his eyes, This was the letter: GOLD GULCH, California. MY DEAR WIFE: It is a solemn thought to me that when you receive this letter these trembling fingers will be cold in death. Yes, dear Mary, I know very well that I am on my deathbed, and shall never more be permitted to see your sweet face, or meet again the gaze of my dear children. Last week I contracted a severe cold while mining, partly through imprudent exposure; and have grown steadily worse, till the doctor, whom I summoned from Sacramento, informs me that there is no hope, and that my life is not likely to extend beyond two days. This is a sad end to my dreams of future happiness with my little family gathered around me. It is all the harder, because I have been successful in the errand that brought me out here. "I have struck it rich," as they say out here, and have been able to lay by ten thousand dollars. I intended to go home next month, carrying this with me. It would have enabled me to start in some business which would have yielded us a liberal living, and provided a comfortable home for you and the children. But all this is over--for me at least. For you I hope the money will bring what I anticipated. I wish I could live long enough to see it in your hands, but that cannot be. I have intrusted it to a friend who has been connected with me here, Thomas Butler, of Chicago. He has solemnly promised to seek you out, and put the money into your hands. I think he will be true to his trust. Indeed I have no doubt on the subject, for I cannot conceive of any man being base enough to belie the confidence placed in him by a dying man, and despoil a widow and her fatherless children. No, I will not permit myself to doubt the integrity of my friend. If I should, it would make my last sickness exceedingly bitter. Yet, as something might happen to Butler on his way home, though exceedingly improbable, I think it well to describe him to you. He is a man of nearly fifty, I should say, about five feet ten inches in height, with a dark complexion, and dark hair a little tinged with gray. He will weigh about one hundred and sixty pounds. But there is one striking mark about him which will serve to identify him. He has a wart on the upper part of his right cheek--a mark which disfigures him and mortifies him exceedingly. He has consulted a physician about its removal, but has been told that the operation would involve danger, and, moreover, would not be effectual, as the wart is believed to be of a cancerous nature, and would in all probability grow out again. For these reasons he has given up his intention of having it removed, and made up his mind, unwillingly enough, to carry it to the grave with him. I have given you this long description, not because it seemed at all necessary, for I believe Thomas Butler to be a man of strict honesty, but because for some reason I am impelled to do so. I am very tired, and I feel that I must close. God bless you, dear wife, and guard our children, soon to be fatherless! Your loving husband, FREDERICK WALTON. P.S.--Butler has left for the East. This letter I have given to another friend to mail after my death. CHAPTER III LUKE FORMS A RESOLUTION As Luke read this letter his pleasant face became stern in its expression. They had indeed been cruelly wronged. The large sum of which they had been defrauded would have insured them comfort and saved them from many an anxiety. His mother would not have been obliged to take in sewing, and he himself could have carried out his cherished design of obtaining a college education. This man in whom his father had reposed the utmost confidence had been false to his trust. He had kept in his own hands the money which should have gone to the widow and children of his dying friend. Could anything be more base? "Mother," said Luke, "this man Thomas Butler must be a villain." Yes, Luke; he has done us a great wrong." "He thought, no doubt, that we should never hear of this money." "I almost wish I had not, Luke. It is very tantalizing to think how it would have improved our condition." "Then you are sorry to receive the letter, mother?" "No, Luke. It seems like a message from the dead, and shows me how good and thoughtful your poor father was to the last. He meant to leave us comfortable." "But his plans were defeated by a rascal. Mother, I should like to meet and punish this Thomas Butler." "Even if you should meet him, Luke, you must be prudent. He is probably a rich man." "Made so at our expense," added Luke, bitterly. "And he would deny having received anything from your father." "Mother," said Luke, sternly and deliberately, "I feel sure that I shall some day meet this man face to face, and if I do it will go hard if I don't force him to give up this money which he has falsely converted to his own use." The boy spoke with calm and resolute dignity hardly to be expected in one so young, and with a deep conviction that surprised his mother. "Luke," she said, "I hardly know you to-night. You don't seem like a boy. You speak like a man." "I feel so. It is the thought of this man triumphant in his crime, that makes me feel older than I am. Now, mother, I feel that I have a purpose in life. It is to find this man, and punish him for what he has done, unless he will make reparation." Mrs. Walton shook her head. It was not from her that Luke had inherited his independent spirit. She was a fond mother, of great amiability, but of a timid shrinking disposition, which led her to deprecate any aggressive steps. "Promise me not to get yourself into any trouble, Luke," she said, "even if you do meet this man." "I can't promise that, mother, for I may not be able to help it. Besides, I haven't met him yet, and it isn't necessary to cross a bridge till you get to it. Now let us talk of something else." "How much did you make to-day, Luke?" asked Bennie, his young brother, seven years old. "I didn't make my fortune, Bennie. Including the morning papers, I only made sixty cents." "That seems a good deal to me, Luke," said his mother. "I only made twenty-five. They pay such small prices for making shirts." "I should think they did. And yet you worked harder and more steadily than I did." "I have worked since morning, probably about eight hours." "Then you have made only three cents an hour. What a shame!" "If I had a sewing-machine, I could do more, but that is beyond our means." "I hope soon to be able to get you one, mother. I can pay something down and the rest on installments." "That would be quite a relief, Luke." "If you had a sewing-machine, perhaps I could help you," suggested Bennie. "I should hardly dare to let you try, Bennie. Suppose you spoiled a shirt. It would take off two days' earnings. But I'll tell you what you can do. You can set the table and wash the dishes, and relieve me in that way." "Or you might take in washing," said Luke, with a laugh. "That pays better than sewing. Just imagine how nice it would look in an advertisement in the daily papers: A boy of seven is prepared to wash and iron for responsible parties. Address Bennie Walton, No. 161-1/2 Green Street." "Now you are laughing at me, Luke," said Bennie, pouting. "Why don't you let me go out with you and sell papers?" "I hope, Bennie," said Luke, gravely, "you will never have to go into the street with papers. I know what it is, and how poor boys fare. One night last week, at the corner of Monroe and Clark Streets, I saw a poor little chap, no older than you, selling papers at eleven o'clock. He had a dozen papers which he was likely to have left on his hands, for there are not many who will buy papers at that hour." "Did you speak to him, Luke?" asked Benny, interested. "Yes; I told him he ought to go home. But he said that if he went home with all those papers unsold, his stepfather would whip him. There were tears in the poor boy's eyes as he spoke." "What did you do, Luke?" "I'll tell you what I did, Bennie. I thought of you, and I paid him the cost price on his papers. It wasn't much, for they were all penny papers, but the poor little fellow seemed so relieved." "Did you sell them yourself, Luke?" "I sold four of them. I went over to Madison Street, and stood in front of McVicker's Theater just as the people were coming out. It so happened that four persons bought papers, so I was only two cents out, after all. You remember, mother, that was the evening I got home so late." "Yes, Luke, I felt worried about you. But you did right. I am always glad to have you help those who are worse off than we are. How terribly I should feel if Bennie had to be out late in the streets like that!" "There are many newsboys as young, or at any rate not much older. I have sometimes seen gentlemen, handsomely dressed, and evidently with plenty of money, speak roughly to these young boys. It always makes me indignant. Why should they have so easy a time, while there are so many who don't know where their next meal is coming from? Why, what such a man spends for his meals in a single day would support a poor newsboy in comfort for a week." "My dear Luke, this is a problem that has puzzled older and wiser heads than yours. There must always be poor people, but those who are more fortunate ought at least to give them sympathy. It is the least acknowledgment they can make for their own more favored lot." "I am going out a little while this evening, mother." "Very well, Luke. Don't be late." "No, mother, I won't. I want to call on a friend of mine, who is sick." "Who it is, Luke?" "It is Jim Norman. The poor boy took cold one day, his shoes were so far gone. He has a bad cough, and I am afraid it will go hard with him. "Is he a newsboy, too, Luke?" asked Bennie Walton. "No; he is a bootblack." "I shouldn't like to black boots." "Nor I, Bennie; but if a boy is lucky there is more money to be made in that business." "Where does he live?" asked Mrs. Walton. "On Ohio Street, not very far from here. There's another boy I know lives on that street Tom Brooks; but he isn't a friend of mine. He wanted me to keep five dollars, and treat him and some other boys to an evening at the theater, and a supper afterwards." "I hope you won't associate with him, Luke." "Not more than I can help." Luke took his hat and went downstairs into the street. In the hall he met Nancy. She waylaid him with an eager look on her face. "Who was the letter from, Luke?" she asked. "From a friend of the family, who is now dead," answered Luke, gravely. "Good gracious! How could he write it after he was dead?" ejaculated Nancy. "It was given to a person to mail who forgot all about it, and carried it in his pocket for a year." "My sakes alive! If I got a letter from a dead man it would make me creep all over. No wonder your ma came near faintin'." CHAPTER IV AN ATTACK IN THE DARK Luke turned into Milwaukee Avenue, and a few steps took him to West Ohio Street, where his friend lived. On his way he met Tom Brooks, who was lounging in front of a cigar store, smoking a cigarette. "Good-evening, Tom," said Luke, politely. "Evenin'!" responded Tom, briefly. "Where you goin'?" "To see Jim Norman. He's sick." "What's the matter of him?" "He's got a bad cold and is confined to the house?" Tom shrugged his shoulders. "I don't go much on Jim Norman," he said, "He ought to be a girl. He never smoked a cigarette in his life." "Didn't he? All the better for him. I don't smoke myself." "You have smoked." "Yes, I used to, but it troubled my mother, and I promised her I wouldn't do it again." "So you broke off?" "Yes." "I wouldn't be tied to a woman's apron strings." "Wouldn't you try to oblige your mother?" "No, I wouldn't. What does a woman know about boys? If I was a gal it would be different." "Then we don't agree, that is all." "I say, Luke, won't you take me to the theayter?" "I can't afford it." "That's all bosh! Haven't you got five dollars? I'd feel rich on five dollars." "Perhaps I might if it were mine, but it isn't." "You can use it all the same," said Tom, in an insinuating voice. "Yes, I can be dishonest if I choose, but I don't choose." "What Sunday school do you go to?" asked Tom, with a sneer. "None at present." "I thought you did by your talk. It makes me sick!" "Then," said Luke, good-naturedly, "there is no need to listen to it. I am afraid you are not likely to enjoy my company, so I will walk along." Luke kept on his way, leaving Tom smoking sullenly. "That feller's a fool!" he muttered, in a disgusted tone. "What feller?" Tom turned, and saw his friend and chum, Pat O'Connor, who had just come up. "What feller? Why, Luke Walton, of course." "What's the matter of him?" "He's got five dollars, and he won't pay me into the theayter." "Where did he get such a pile of money?" asked Pat, in surprise. "A gentleman gave it to him for a paper, tellin' him to bring the change to-morrer." "Is he goin' to do it?" "Yes; that's why I call him a fool." "I wish you and I had his chance," said Pat, enviously. "We'd paint the town red, I guess." Tom nodded. He and Pat were quite agreed on that point. "Where's Luke goin'?" asked Pat. "To see Jim Norman. Jim's sick with a cold." "What time's he comin' home?" "I don't know. Why?" "Do you think he's got the money with him--the five-dollar bill?" "What are you up to?" asked Tom, with a quick glance at his companion. "I was thinkin' we might borrer the money," answered Pat, with a grin. To Tom this was a new suggestion, but it was favorably received. He conferred with Pat in a low tone, and then the two sauntered down the street in the direction of Jim Norman's home. Meanwhile we will follow Luke. He kept on till he reached a shabby brick house. Jim and his mother, with two smaller children, occupied two small rooms on the top floor. Luke had been there before, and did not stop to inquire directions, but ascended the stairs till he came to Jim's room. The door was partly open, and he walked in. "How's Jim, Mrs. Norman?" he asked. Mrs. Norman was wearily washing dishes at the sink. "He's right sick, Luke," she answered, turning round, and recognizing the visitor. "Do you hear him cough?" From a small inner room came the sound of a hard and rasping cough. "How are you feeling, Jim?" inquired Luke, entering, and taking a chair at the bedside. "I don't feel any better, Luke," answered the sick boy, his face lighting up with pleasure as he recognized his friend. "I'm glad you come." "You've got a hard cough." "Yes; it hurts my throat when I cough, and I can't get a wink of sleep." "I've brought you a little cough medicine. It was some we had in the house." "Thank you, Luke. You're a good friend to me. Give me some, please." "If your mother'll give me a spoon, I'll pour some out." When the medicine was taken, the boys began to talk. "I ought to be at work," said Jim, sighing. "I don't know how we'll get along if I don't get out soon. Mother has some washing to do, but it isn't enough to pay all our expenses. I used to bring in seventy-five cents a day, and that, with what mother could earn, kept us along." "I wish I was rich enough to help you, Jim, but you know how it is. All I can earn I have to carry home. My mother sews for a house on State Street, but sewing doesn't pay as well as washing." "I know you'd help me if you could, Luke. You have helped me by bringing in the medicine, and it does me good to have you call." "But I would like to do more. I'll tell you what I will do. I know a rich gentleman, one of my customers. I! am to call upon him to-morrow. I'll tell him about you, and perhaps he will help you." "Any help would be acceptable, Luke, if you don't mind asking him." "I wouldn't like to ask for myself, but I don't mind asking for you." Luke stayed an hour, and left Jim much brighter and more cheerful for his visit. When he went out into the street it was quite dark, although the moon now and then peeped out from behind the clouds that a brisk breeze sent scurrying across the sky. Having a slight headache, he thought he would walk it off, so he sauntered slowly in the direction of the business portion of the city. Walking farther than he intended, he found himself, almost before he was aware, crossing one of the numerous bridges that span the river. He was busy with thoughts of Jim, and how he could help him, and did not notice that two boys were following him stealthily. It was a complete surprise to him therefore when they rushed upon him, and, each seizing an arm, rendered him helpless. "Hand over what money you've got, and be quick about it!" demanded one of the boys. CHAPTER V HOW LUKE ESCAPED The attack was so sudden and unexpected that Luke was for the moment incapable of resistance, though in general quite ready to defend himself. It was not till he felt a hand in his pocket that he "pulled himself together," as the English express it, and began to make things lively for his assailants. "What are you after?" he demanded. "Do you want to rob me?" "Give us the money, and be quick about it." "How do you know I have any money?" asked Luke, beginning to suspect in whose hands he was. "Never mind how! Hand over that five-dollar bill," was the reply in the same hoarse whisper. "I know you now. You're Tom Brooks," said Luke. "You're in bad business." "No, I'm not Tom Brooks." It was Pat who spoke now. "Come, we have no time to lose. Stephen, give me your knife." The name was a happy invention of Pat's to throw Luke off the scent. He was not himself acquainted with our hero, and did not fear identification. "One of you two is Tom Brooks," said Luke, firmly. "You'd better give up this attempt at highway robbery. If I summon an officer you're liable to a long term of imprisonment. I'll save you trouble by telling you that I haven't any money with me, except a few pennies." "Where's the five-dollar bill?" It was Tom who spoke now. "I left it at home with my mother. It's lucky I did, though you would have found it hard to get it from me." "I don't believe it," said Tom, in a tone betraying disappointment. "You may search me if you like; but if a policeman comes by you'd better take to your heels." The boys appeared disconcerted. "Is he lying?" asked Pat. "No," responded Tom. "He'd own up if he had the money." "Thank you for believing me. It is very evident that one of you knows me. Good-night. You'd better find some other way of getting money." "Wait a minute! Are you going to tell on us? It wouldn't be fair to Tom Brooks. He ain't here, but you might get him into trouble." "I shan't get you into trouble, Tom, but I'm afraid you bring trouble on yourself." Apparently satisfied with this promise, the two boys slunk away in the darkness, and Luke was left to proceed on his way unmolested. "I wouldn't have believed that of Tom," thought Luke. "I'm sorry it happened. If it had been anyone but me, and a cop had come by, it would have gone hard with him. It's lucky I left the money with mother, though I don't think they'd have got it at any rate." Luke did not acquaint his mother with the attempt that had been made to rob him. He merely told of his visit and of the sad plight of the little bootblack. "I would like to have helped him, mother," Luke concluded. "If we hadn't been robbed of that money father sent us----" "We could afford the luxury of doing good," said his mother, finishing the sentence for him. Luke's face darkened with justifiable anger. "I know it is wrong to hate anyone, mother," he said; "but I am afraid I hate that man Thomas Butler, whom I have never seen." "It is sometimes hard to feel like a Christian, Luke," said his mother. "This man must be one of the meanest of men. Suppose you or I should fall sick! What would become of us?" "We won't borrow trouble, Luke. Let us rather thank God for our present good health. If I should be sick it would not be as serious as if you were to become so, for you earn more than twice as much as I do." "It ought not to be so, mother, for you work harder than I do." "When I get a sewing machine I shall be able to contribute more to the common fund." "I hope that will be soon. Has Bennie gone to bed?" "Yes, he is fast asleep." "I hope fortune will smile on us before he is much older than I. I can't bear the idea of sending him into the street among bad boys." "I have been accustomed to judge of the newsboys by my son. Are there many bad boys among them?" "Many of them are honest, hard-working boys, but there are some black sheep among them. I know one boy who tried to commit highway robbery, stopping a person whom he had seen with money." "Did he get caught?" "No, he failed of his purpose, and no complaint was made of him, though his intended victim knew who his assailant was." "I am glad of that. It would have been hard for his poor mother if he had been convicted and sent to prison." This Mrs. Walton said without a suspicion that it was Luke that the boy had tried to rob. When Luke heard his mother's comment he was glad that he had agreed to overlook Tom's fault. The next morning Luke went as usual to the vicinity of the Sherman House, and began to sell papers. He looked in vain for Tom Brooks, who did not show up. "Where is Tom Brooks?" he asked of one of Tom's friends. "Tom's goin' to try another place," said the boy. "He says there's too many newsboys round this corner. He thinks he can do better somewheres else." "Where is he? Do you know?" "I seed him near the corner of Dearborn, in front of the 'Saratoga.'" "Well, I hope he'll make out well," said Luke. Luke had the five-dollar bill in his pocket, but he knew that it was too early for the offices on La Salle Street to be open. Luke's stock of morning papers included the Chicago _Tribune_, the _Times_, _Herald_, and _Inter-Ocean_. He seldom disposed of his entire stock as early as ten o'clock, but this morning another newsboy in addition to Tom was absent, and Luke experienced the advantage of diminished competition. As he sold the last paper the clock struck ten. "I think it will do for me to go to Mr. Afton's office now," thought Luke. "If I don't find him in I will wait." La Salle Street runs parallel with Clark. It is a busy thoroughfare, and contains many buildings cut up into offices. This was the case with No. 155. Luke entered the building and scanned the directory on either side of the door. He had no difficulty in finding the name of Benjamin Afton. He had to go up two flights of stairs, for Mr. Afton's office was on the third floor. CHAPTER VI MR. AFTON'S OFFICE Mr. Afton's office was of unusual size, and fronted on La Salle Street. As Luke entered he observed that it was furnished better than the ordinary business office. On the floor was a handsome Turkey carpet. The desks were of some rich dark wood, and the chairs were as costly as those in his library. In a closed bookcase at one end of the room, surmounted by bronze statuettes, was a full library of reference. At one desk stood a tall man, perhaps thirty-five, with red hair and prominent features. At another desk was a young fellow of eighteen, bearing a marked resemblance to the head bookkeeper. There was besides a young man of perhaps twenty-two, sitting at a table, apparently filing bills. "Mr. Afton must be a rich man to have such an elegant office," thought Luke. The red-haired bookkeeper did not take the trouble to look up to see who had entered the office. "Is Mr. Afton in?" Luke asked, in a respectful tone. The bookkeeper raised his eyes for a moment, glanced at Luke with a supercilious air, and said curtly, "No!" "Do you know when he will be in?" continued the newsboy. "Quite indefinite. What is your business, boy?" "My business is with Mr. Afton," Luke answered. "Humph! is it of an important nature?" "It is not very important," he answered, "but I wish to see Mr. Afton personally." "Whose office are you in?" "He isn't in any office, Uncle Nathaniel," put in the red-haired boy. "He is a newsboy. I see him every morning round the Sherman House." "Ha! is that so? Boy, we don't want to buy any papers, nor does Mr. Afton. You can go." As the bookkeeper spoke he pointed to the door. "I have no papers to sell," said Luke, "but I come here on business with Mr. Afton, and will take the liberty to wait till he comes." "Oh, my eyes! Ain't he got cheek?" ejaculated the red-haired boy. "I say, boy, do you black boots as well as sell papers?" "No, I don't." "Some of the newsboys do. I thought, perhaps, you had got a job to black Mr. Afton's boots every morning." Luke who was a spirited boy, was fast getting angry. "I don't want to interfere with you in any way," he said. "What do you mean?" demanded the red-haired boy, his cheeks rivaling his hair in color. "I thought that might be one of your duties." "Why, you impudent young vagabond! Uncle Nathaniel, did you hear that?" "Boy, you had better go," said the bookkeeper. "You can leave your card," added Eustis Clark, the nephew. A friend of Luke's had printed and given him a dozen cards a few days previous, and he had them in his pocket at that moment. "Thank you for the suggestion," he said, and walking up to the boy's desk he deposited on it a card bearing this name in neat script: LUKE WALTON. "Be kind enough to hand that to Mr. Afton." Eustis held up the card, and burst into a guffaw. "Well, I never!" he ejaculated. "Mr. Walton," he concluded, with a ceremonious bow. "The same to you!" said Luke, with a smile. "I never saw a newsboy put on such airs before," he said, as Luke left the office. "Did you, Uncle Nathaniel? Do you think he really had any business with the boss?" "Probably he wanted to supply the office with papers. Now stop fooling, and go to work." "They didn't seem very glad to see me," thought Luke. "I want to see Mr. Afton this morning, or he may think that I have not kept my word about the money." Luke stationed himself in the doorway at the entrance to the building, meaning to intercept Mr. Afton as he entered from the street. He had to wait less than ten minutes. Mr. Afton smiled in instant recognition as he saw Luke, and seemed glad to see him. "I am glad the boy justified my idea of him," he said to himself. "I would have staked a thousand dollars on his honesty. Such a face as that doesn't belong to a rogue." "I am rather late," he said. "Have you been here long?" "Not very long, sir; I have been up in your office." "Why didn't you sit down and wait for me?" "I don't think the red-haired gentleman cared to have me. The boy asked me to leave my card." Mr. Afton looked amused. "And did you?" he asked. "Yes, sir." "Do you generally carry visiting cards?" "Well, I happened to have some with me this morning." "Please show me one. So your name is Luke Walton?" he added, glancing at the card. "Yes, sir; office corner Clark and Randolph Streets." "I will keep the card and bear it in mind." "I have brought your change, sir," said Luke. "You can come upstairs and pay it to me in the office. It will be more business-like." Luke was glad to accept the invitation, for it would prove to the skeptical office clerks that he really had business with their employer. Eustis Clark and his uncle could not conceal their surprise when they saw Luke follow Mr. Afton into the office. There was a smaller room inclosed at one corner, which was especially reserved for Mr. Afton. "Come here, Luke," said he, pleasantly. Luke followed him inside. He drew from his pocket four dollars and ninety-eight cents, and laid it on the table behind which his patron had taken a seat. "Won't you please count it and see if it is right?" he asked. "I can see that it is, Luke. I am afraid I have put you to more trouble than the profit on the two papers I bought would pay for." "Not at all, sir. Besides, it's all in the way of business. I thank you for putting confidence in me." "I thought I was not mistaken in you, and the result shows that I was right. My boy, I saw that you had an honest face. I am sure that the thought of keeping back the money never entered your head." "No, sir, it did not, though one of the newsboys advised me to keep it." "It would have been very shortsighted as a matter of policy. I will take this money, but I want to encourage you in the way of well-doing." He drew from his vest pocket a bill, and extended it to Luke. "It isn't meant as a reward for honesty, but only as a mark of the interest I have begun to feel in you." "Thank you, sir," said Luke; and as he took the bill, he started in surprise, for it was ten dollars. "Did you mean to give as much as this?" "How much is it?" "Ten dollars." "I thought it was five, but I am glad it is more. Yes, Luke, you are welcome to it. Have you anyone dependent upon you?" "My mother. She will be very much pleased." "That's right, my lad. Always look out for your mother. You owe her a debt which you can never repay." "That is true, sir. But I would like to use a part of this money for some one else." "For yourself?" "No; for a friend." Then he told in simple language of Jim Norman, and how seriously his family was affected by his sickness and enforced idleness. "Jim has no money to buy medicine," he concluded. "If you don't object, Mr. Afton, I will give Jim's mother half this money, after buying some cough medicine out of it." The merchant listened with approval. "I am glad, Luke, you feel for others," he said, "but I can better afford to help your friend than you. Here is a five-dollar bill. Tell the boy it is from a friend, and if he should need more let me know." "Thank you, sir," said Luke, fairly radiant as he thought of Jim's delight. "I won't take up any more of your time, but will bid you good-morning." Probably Mr. Afton wished to give his clerks a lesson, for he followed Luke to the door of the outer office, and shook hands cordially with him, saying: "I shall be glad to have you call, when you wish to see me, Luke;" adding, "I may possibly have some occasional work for you to do. If so, I know where to find you." "Thank you, sir." "What's got into the old man?" thought Eustis Clark. As Mr. Afton returned to his sanctum, Eustis said with a grin, holding up the card: "Mr. Walton left his card for you, thinking you might not be in time to see him." "Give it to me, if you please," and the rich man took the card without a smile, and put it into his vest pocket, not seeming in the least surprised. "Mr. Walton called to pay me some money," he said, gravely. "Whenever he calls invite him to wait till my return." CHAPTER VII A STRANGE ENCOUNTER Luke went home that evening in high spirits. The gift he had received from Mr. Afton enabled him to carry out a plan he had long desired to realize. It was to secure a sewing machine for his mother, and thus increase her earnings while diminishing her labors. He stopped at an establishment not far from Clark Street, and entering the showroom, asked: "What is the price of your sewing machines?" "One in a plain case will cost you twenty-five dollars." "Please show me one." "Do you want it for your wife?" "She may use it some time. My mother will use it first." The salesman pointed out an instrument with which Luke was well pleased. "Would you like to see how it works?" "Yes, please." "Miss Morris, please show this young man how to operate the machine." In the course of ten minutes Luke got a fair idea of the method of operating. "Do you require the whole amount down?" asked Luke. "No; we sell on installments, if preferred." "What are your terms?" "Five dollars first payment, and then a dollar a week, with interest on the balance till paid." "Then I think I will engage one," Luke decided. "Very well! Come up to the desk, and give me your name and address. On payment of five dollars, we will give you a receipt on account, specifying the terms of paying the balance, etc." Luke transacted his business, and made arrangements to have the machine delivered any time after six o'clock, when he knew he would be at home. As Luke was coming out of the sewing-machine office he saw Tom Brooks just passing. Tom looked a little uneasy, not feeling certain whether Luke had recognized him as one of his assailants or not the evening previous. Luke felt that he had a right to be angry. Indeed, he had it in his power to have Tom arrested, and charged with a very serious crime--that of highway robbery. But his good luck made him good-natured. "Good-evening, Tom," he said. "I didn't see you selling papers to-day." "No; I was on Dearborn Street." "He doesn't know it was me," thought Tom, congratulating himself, and added: "Have you been buying a sewing machine?" This was said in a joke. "Yes," answered Luke, considerably to Tom's surprise. "I have bought one." "How much?" "Twenty-five dollars." "Where did you raise twenty-five dollars? You're foolin'." "I bought it on the installment plan--five dollars down." "Oho!" said Tom, nodding significantly. "I know where you got that money?" "Where did I?" "From the gentleman that bought a couple of papers yesterday." "You hit it right the first time." "I thought you weren't no better than the rest of us--you that pretended to be so extra honest." "What do you mean by that, Tom Brooks?" "You pretended that you were going to give back the man's change, and spent it, after all. I thought you weren't such a saint as you pretended to be." "I see you keep on judging me by yourself, Tom Brooks. I took round the money this morning, and he gave it to me." "Is that true?" "Yes; I generally tell the truth." "Then you're lucky. If I'd returned it, he wouldn't have given me a cent." "It's best to be honest on all occasions," said Luke, looking significantly at Tom, who colored up, for he now saw that he had been recognized the night before. Tom sneaked off on some pretext, and Luke kept on his way home. "Did you do well to-day, Luke?" asked Bennie. "Yes, Bennie; very well." "How much did you make?" "I'll tell you by and by. Mother, can I help you about the supper?" "You may toast the bread, Luke. I am going to have your favorite dish--milk toast." "All right, mother. Have you been sewing to-day?" "Yes, Luke. I sat so long in one position that I got cramped." "I wish you had a sewing machine." "So do I, Luke; but I must be patient. A sewing machine costs more money than we can afford." "One can be got for twenty-five dollars, I have heard." "That is a good deal of money for people in our position." "We may as well hope for one. I shouldn't be surprised if we were able to buy a sewing machine very soon." Meanwhile Luke finished toasting the bread and his mother was dipping it in milk when a step was heard on the stairway, the door was opened, and Nancy's red head was thrust into the room. "Please, Mrs. Walton," said Nancy, breathlessly, "there's a man downstairs with a sewing machine which he says is for you." "There must be some mistake, Nancy. I haven't ordered any sewing machine." "Shall I send him off, ma'am?" "No, Nancy," said Luke; "it's all right. I'll go down stairs and help him bring it up." "How is this, Luke?" asked Mrs. Walton, bewildered. "I'll explain afterwards, mother." Up the stairs and into the room came the sewing machine, and was set down near the window. Bennie surveyed it with wonder and admiration. When the man who brought it was gone, Luke explained to his mother how it had all come about. "You see, mother, you didn't have to wait long," he concluded. "I feel deeply thankful, Luke," said Mrs. Walton. "I can do three times the work I have been accustomed to do, and in much less time. This Mr. Afton must be a kind and charitable man." "I like him better than his clerks," said Luke. "There is a red-headed bookkeeper and a boy there who tried to snub me, and keep me out of the office. I try to think well of red-headed people on account of Nancy, but I can't say I admire them." After supper Luke gave his mother a lesson in operating the machine. Both found that it required a little practice. The next morning as Luke was standing at his usual corner, he had a surprise. A gentleman came out of the Sherman House and walked slowly up Clark Street. As he passed Luke, he stopped and asked, "Boy, have you the _Inter-Ocean?_" Luke looked up in his customer's face. He paused in the greatest excitement. The man was on the shady side of fifty, nearly six feet in height, with a dark complexion, hair tinged with gray, and a wart on the upper part of his right cheek! CHAPTER VIII A MARKED MAN At last, so Luke verily believed, he stood face to face with the man who had deceived his dying father, and defrauded his mother and himself of a sum which would wholly change their positions and prospects. But he wanted to know positively, and he could not think of a way to acquire this knowledge. Meanwhile the gentleman noticed the boy's scrutiny, and it did not please him. "Well, boy!" he said gruffly, "you seem determined to know me again. You stare hard enough. Let me tell you this is not good manners." "Excuse me," said Luke, "but your face looked familiar to me. I thought I had seen you before." "Very likely you have. I come to Chicago frequently, and generally stop at the Sherman House." "Probably that explains it," said Luke. "Are you not Mr. Thomas, of St. Louis?" The gentleman laughed. "You will have to try again," he said. "I am Mr. Browning, of Milwaukee. Thomas is my first name." "Browning!" thought Luke, disappointed. "Evidently I am on the wrong track. And yet he answers father's description exactly." "I don't know anyone in Milwaukee," he said aloud. "Then it appears we can't claim acquaintance." The gentleman took his paper and turned down Randolph Street toward State. "Strange!" he soliloquized, "that boy's interest in my personal appearance. I wonder if there can be a St. Louis man who resembles me. If so, he can't be a very good-looking man. This miserable wart ought to be enough to distinguish me from anyone else." He paused a minute, and then a new thought came into his mind. "There is something familiar in that boy's face. I wonder who he can be. I will buy my evening papers of him, and take that opportunity to inquire." Meanwhile Luke, to satisfy a doubt in his mind, entered the hotel, and, going up to the office, looked over the list of arrivals. He had to turn back a couple of pages and found this entry: "THOMAS BROWNING, Milwaukee." "His name is Browning, and he does come from Milwaukee," he said to himself. "I thought, perhaps, he might have given me a false name, though he could have no reason for doing so." Luke felt that he must look farther for the man who had betrayed his father's confidence. "I didn't think there could be two men of such a peculiar appearance," he reflected. "Surely there can't be three. If I meet another who answers the description I shall be convinced that he is the man I am after." In the afternoon the same man approached Luke, as he stood on his accustomed corner. "You may give me the _Mail_ and _Journal_," he said. "Yes, sir; here they are. Three cents." "I believe you are the boy who recognized me, or thought you did, this morning." "Yes, sir." "If you ever run across this Mr. Thomas, of St. Louis, present him my compliments, will you?" "Yes, sir," answered Luke, with a smile. "By the way, what is your name?" "Luke Walton." The gentleman started. "Luke Walton!" he repeated, slowly, eying the newsboy with a still closer scrutiny. "Yes, sir." "It's a new name to me. Can't your father find a better business for you than selling papers?" "My father is dead, sir." "Dead!" repeated Browning, slowly. "That is un fortunate for you. How long has he been dead?" "About two years." "What did he die of?" "I don't know, sir, exactly. He died away from home--in California." There was a strange look, difficult to read, on the gentleman's face. "That is a long way off," he said. "I have always thought I should like to visit California. When my business will permit I will take a trip out that way." Here was another difference between Mr. Browning and the man of whom Luke's father had written. The stranger had never been in California. Browning handed Luke a silver quarter in payment for the papers. "Never mind about the change," he said, with a wave of his hand. "Thank you, sir. You are very kind." "This must be the son of my old California friend," Browning said to himself. "Can he have heard of the money intrusted to me? I don't think it possible, for I left Walton on the verge of death. That money has made my fortune. I invested it in land which has more than quadrupled in value. Old women say that honesty pays," he added, with a sneer; "but it is nonsense. In this case dishonesty has paid me richly. If the boy has heard anything, it is lucky that I changed my name to Browning out of deference to my wife's aunt, in return for a beggarly three thousand dollars. I have made it up to ten thousand dollars by judicious investment. My young newsboy acquaintance will find it hard to identify me with the Thomas Butler who took charge of his father's money." If Browning had been possessed of a conscience it might have troubled him when he was brought face to face with one of the sufferers from his crime; but he was a hard, selfish man, to whom his own interests were of supreme importance. But something happened within an hour which gave him a feeling of anxiety. He was just coming out of the Chicago post-office, at the corner of Adams and Clark Streets, when a hand was laid upon his shoulder. "How are you, Butler?" said a tall man, wearing a Mexican sombrero. "I haven't set eyes upon you since we were together at Gold Gulch, in California." Browning looked about him apprehensively. Fortunately he was some distance from the corner where Luke Walton was selling papers. "I am well, thank you," he said. "Are you living in Chicago?" "No; I live in Wisconsin." "Have you seen anything of the man you used to be with so much--Walton?" "No; he died." "Did he, indeed? Well, I am sorry to hear that. He was a good fellow. Did he leave anything?" "I am afraid not." "I thought he struck it rich." "So he did; but he lost all he made." "How was that?" "Poor investments, I fancy." "I remember he told me one day that he had scraped together seven or eight thousand dollars." Browning shrugged his shoulders. "I think that was a mistake," he said. "Walton liked to put his best foot foremost." "You think, then, he misrepresented?" "I think he would have found it hard to find the sum you mention." "You surprise me, Butler. I always looked upon Walton as a singularly reliable man." "So he was--in most things. But let me correct you on one point. You call me Butler?" "Isn't that your name?" "It was, but I had a reason--a good, substantial, pecuniary reason--for changing it. I am now Thomas Browning." "Say you so? Are you engaged this evening?" "Yes, unfortunately." "I was about to invite you to some theater." "Another time--thanks." "I must steer clear of that man," thought Browning. "I won't meet him again, if I can help it." CHAPTER IX STEPHEN WEBB The more Browning thought of the newsboy in whom he had so strangely recognized the son of the man whom he had so cruelly wronged, the more uneasy he felt. "He has evidently heard of me," he soliloquized. "His father could not have been so near death as I supposed. He must have sent the boy or his mother a message about that money. If it should come to his knowledge that I am the Thomas Butler to whom his father confided ten thousand dollars which I have failed to hand over to the family, he may make it very disagreeable for me." The fact that so many persons were able to identify him as Thomas Butler made the danger more imminent. "I must take some steps--but what?" Browning asked himself. He kept on walking till he found himself passing the entrance of a low poolroom. He never played pool, nor would it have suited a man of his social position to enter such a place, but that he caught sight of a young man, whose face and figure were familiar to him, in the act of going into it. He quickened his pace, and laid a hand on the young man's shoulder. The latter turned quickly, revealing a face bearing the unmistakable marks of dissipation. "Uncle Thomas!" he exclaimed, apparently ill at ease. "Yes, Stephen, it is I. Where are you going?" The young man hesitated. "You need not answer. I see you are wedded to your old amusements. Are you still in the place I got for you?" Stephen Webb looked uneasy and shamefaced. "I have lost my place," he answered, after a pause. "How does it happen that you lost it?" "I don't know. Some one must have prejudiced my employer against me." "It is your own habits that have prejudiced him, I make no doubt." This was true. One morning Stephen, whose besetting sin was intemperance, appeared at the office where he was employed in such a state of intoxication that he was summarily discharged. It may be explained that he was a son of Mr. Browning's only sister. "When were you discharged?" asked his uncle. "Last week." "And have you tried to get another situation?" "Yes." "What are your prospects of success?" "There seem to be very few openings just now, Uncle Thomas." "The greater reason why you should have kept the place I obtained for you. Were you going to play pool in this low place?" "I was going to look on. A man must have some amusement," said Stephen, sullenly. "Amusement is all you think of. However, it so happens that I have something that I wish you to do." Stephen regarded his uncle in surprise. "Are you going to open an office in Chicago?" he asked. "No; the service is of a different nature. It is--secret and confidential. It is, I may say, something in the detective line." "Then I'm your man," said his nephew, brightening up. "The service is simple, so that you will probably be qualified to do what I require." "I've read lots of detective stories," said Stephen, eagerly. "It's just the work I should like." "Humph! I don't think much is to be learned from detective stories. You will understand, of course, that you are not to let anyone know you are acting for me." "Certainly. You will find that I can keep a secret." "I leave Chicago to-morrow morning, and will give you directions before I go. Where can we have a private conference?" "Here is an oyster house. We shall be quiet here." "Very well! We will go in." They entered a small room, with a sanded floor, provided with a few unpainted tables. Stephen and his uncle went to the back of the room, and seated themselves at the rear table. "We must order something," suggested Stephen. "Get what you please," said Browning, indifferently. "Two stews!" ordered Stephen. "We can talk while they are getting them ready." "Very well! Now, for my instructions. At the corner of Clark and Randolph Streets every morning and evening you will find a newsboy selling papers." "A dozen, you mean." "True, but I am going to describe this boy so that you may know him. He is about fifteen, I should judge, neatly dressed, and would be considered good-looking." "Do you know his name?" "Yes, it is Luke Walton." "Is he the one I am to watch?" "You are to make his acquaintance, and find out all you can about his circumstances." "Do you know where he lives?" "No; that is one of the things you are to find out for me." "What else do you want me to find out?" "Find out how many there are in family, also how they live; whether they have anything to live on except what this newsboy earns." "All right, Uncle Thomas. You seem to have a great deal of interest in this boy." "That is my business," said Browning, curtly. "If you wish to work for me, you must not show too much curiosity. Never mind what my motives are. Do you understand?" "Certainly, Uncle Thomas. It shall be as you say. I suppose I am to be paid?" "Yes. How much salary did you receive where you were last employed?" "Ten dollars a week." "You shall receive this sum for the present. It is very good pay for the small service required of you." "All right, uncle." The stews were ready by this time. They were brought and set before Stephen and his uncle. The latter toyed with his spoon, only taking a taste or two, but Stephen showed much more appreciation of the dish, not being accustomed, like his uncle, to dining at first-class hotels. "How am I to let you know what I find out?" asked Stephen. "Write me at Milwaukee. I will send you further instructions from there." "Very well, sir." "Oh, by the way, you are never to mention me to this Luke Walton. I have my reasons." "I will do just as you say." "How is your mother, Stephen?" "About the same. She isn't a very cheerful party, you know. She is always fretting." "Has she any lodgers?" "Yes, three, but one is a little irregular with his rent." "Of course, I expect that you will hand your mother half the weekly sum I pay you. She has a right to expect that much help from her son." Stephen assented, but not with alacrity, and as he had now disposed of the stew, the two rose from their seats and went outside. A few words of final instructions, and they parted. "I wonder why Uncle Thomas takes such an interest in that newsboy," thought Stephen. "I will make it my business to find out." CHAPTER X STEPHEN WEBB OBTAINS SOME INFORMATION Luke was at his post the following morning, and had disposed of half his papers when Stephen Webb strolled by. He walked past Luke, and then, as if it was an after thought, turned back, and addressed him. "Have you a morning _Tribune?_" he asked. Luke produced it. "How's business to-day?" asked Stephen in an offhand manner. "Pretty fair," answered Luke, for the first time taking notice of the inquirer, who did not impress him very favorably. "I have often wondered how you newsboys make it pay," said Stephen, in a sociable tone. "We don't make our fortunes, as a rule," answered Luke, smiling, "so I can't recommend you to go into it." "I don't think it would suit me. I don't mind owning up that I am lazy. But, then, I am not obliged to work for the present, at least." "I should like to be able to live without work," said the newsboy. "But even then I would find something to do. I should not be happy if I were idle." "I am not wholly without work," said Stephen. "My uncle, who lives at a distance, occasionally sends to me to do something for him. I have to hold myself subject to his orders. In the meantime I get an income from him. How long have you been a newsboy?" "Nearly two years." "Do you like it? Why don't you get a place in a store or an office?" "I should like to, if I could make enough; but boys get very small salaries." "I was about to offer to look for a place for you. I know some men in business." "Thank you! You are very kind, considering that we are strangers." "Oh, well, I can judge of you by your looks. I shouldn't be afraid to recommend you." "Thank you!" he replied; "but unless you can offer me as much as five dollars a week, I should feel obliged to keep on selling papers. I not only have myself to look out for, but a mother and little brother." Stephen nodded to himself complacently. It was the very information of which he was in search. "Then your father isn't living?" he said. "No. He died in California." "Uncle Thomas made his money in California," Stephen said to himself. "I wonder if he knew this newsboy's father." "Five dollars is little enough for three persons to live upon," he went on, in a sympathetic manner. "Mother earns something by sewing," Luke answered, unsuspiciously; "but it takes all we can make to support us." "Then they can't have any other resources," thought Stephen. "I am getting on famously." "Well, good-morning, Luke!" he said. "I'll see you later." "How do you know my name?" asked Luke, in surprise. "I'm an idiot!" thought Stephen. "I ought to have appeared ignorant of his name. I have seen you before to-day," he replied, taking a little time to think. "I heard one of the other newsboys calling you by name. I don't pretend to be a magician." This explanation satisfied Luke. It appeared very natural. "I have a great memory for names," proceeded Stephen. "That reminds me that I have not told you mine--I am Stephen Webb, at your service." "I will remember it." "Have a cigarette, Luke?" added Stephen, producing a packet from his pocket." "Thank you; I don't smoke." "Don't smoke, and you a newsboy! I thought all of you smoked." "Most of us do, but I promised my mother I wouldn't smoke till I was twenty-one." "Then I'm old enough to smoke. I've smoked ever since I was twelve years old--well, good morning!" "That'll do for one day," thought Stephen Webb. It was three days before Stephen Webb called again on his new acquaintance. He did not wish Luke to suspect anything, he said to himself. Really, however, he found other things to take up his attention. At the rate his money was going it seemed very doubtful whether he would be able to give his mother any part of his salary, as suggested by his uncle. "Hang it all!" he said to himself, as he noted his rapidly diminishing hoard. "Why can't my uncle open his heart and give me more than ten dollars a week? Fifteen dollars wouldn't be any too much, and to him it would be nothing--positively nothing." On the second evening Luke went home late. It had been a poor day for him, and his receipts were less than usual, though he had been out more hours. When he entered the house, however, he assumed a cheerful look, for he never wished to depress his mother's spirits. "You are late, Luke," said Mrs. Walton; "but I have kept your supper warm." "What makes you so late, Luke?" asked Bennie. "The papers went slow, Bennie. They will, sometimes. There's no very important news just now. I suppose that explains it." After a while Luke thought he noticed that his mother looked more serious than usual. "What's the matter, mother?" he asked. "Have you a headache?" "No, Luke. I am perfectly well, but I am feeling a little anxious." "About what, mother?" "I went around this afternoon to take half a dozen shirts that I had completed, and asked for more. They told me they had no more for me at present, and they didn't know when I could have any more." This was bad news, for Luke knew that he alone did not earn enough to support the family. However, he answered cheerfully: "Don't be anxious, mother! There are plenty of other establishments in Chicago besides the one you have been working for." "That is true, Luke; but I don't know whether that will help me. I stopped at two places after leaving Gusset & Co.'s, and was told that their list was full." "Well, mother, don't let us think of it to-night! To morrow we can try again." Luke's cheerfulness had its effect on his mother, and the evening was passed socially. The next morning Luke went out to work at the usual time. He had all his papers sold out by half-past ten o'clock, and walked over to State Street, partly to fill up the time, arid partly in search of some stray job. He was standing in front of the Bee Hive, a well-known drygoods store on State Street, when his attention was called to an old lady, who, in attempting to cross the street, had imprudently placed herself just in the track of a rapidly advancing cable car. Becoming sensible of her danger, the old lady uttered a terrified cry, but was too panic-stricken to move. On came the car, with gong sounding out its alarm, and a cry of horror went up from the bystanders. Luke alone seemed to have his wits about him. He saw that there was not a moment to lose, and, gathering up his strength, dashed to the old lady's assistance. CHAPTER XI A HOUSE ON PRAIRIE AVENUE The old lady had just become conscious of her peril when Luke reached her. She was too bewildered to move, and would inevitably have been crushed by the approaching car had not Luke seized her by the arm and fairly dragged her out of danger. Then, as the car passed on, he took off his hat, and said, apologetically: "I hope you will excuse my roughness, madam, but I could see no other way of saving you." "Please lead me to the sidewalk," gasped the old lady. Luke complied with her request. "I am deeply thankful to you, my boy," she said, as soon as she found voice. "I can see that I was in great danger. I was busily thinking, or I should not have been so careless." "I am glad that I was able to help you," responded Luke, as he prepared to leave his new acquaintance. "Don't leave me!" said the old lady. "My nerves are so upset that I don't like being left alone." "I am quite at your service, madam," replied Luke, politely. "Shall I put you on board the cars?" "No, call a carriage, please." This was easily done, for they were in front of the Palmer House, where a line of cabs may be found. Luke called one, and assisted the old lady inside. "Where shall I tell the driver to take you?" he asked. The old lady named a number on Prairie Avenue, which contains some of the finest residences in Chicago. "Can I do anything more for you?" asked our hero. "Yes," was the unexpected reply. "Get in yourself, if you can spare the time." "Certainly," assented Luke. He took his seat beside the old lady. "I hope you have recovered from your fright," he said, politely. "Yes, I begin to feel myself again. Probably you wonder why I have asked you to accompany me?" "Probably because you may need my services," suggested Luke. "Not altogether. I shudder as I think of the danger from which you rescued me, but I have another object in view." Luke waited for her to explain. "I want to become better acquainted with you." "Thank you, madam." "I fully recognize that you have done me a great service. Now, if I ask you a fair question about yourself, you won't think it an old woman's curiosity?" "I hope I should not be so ill-bred, madam." "Really, you are a very nice boy." "Now, tell me where you live?" "On Green Street." "Where is that?" "Only a stone's throw from Milwaukee Avenue." "I don't think I was ever in that part of the city." "It is not a nice part of the city, but we cannot afford to live in a better place." "You say 'we.' Does that mean your father and mother?" "My father is dead. Our family consists of my mother, my little brother, and myself." "And you are--excuse my saying so--poor?" "We are poor, but thus far we have not wanted for food or shelter." "I suppose you are employed in some way?" "Yes; I sell papers." "Then you are a newsboy?" "Yes, madam." "I suppose you cannot save very much?" "If I make seventy-five cents a day I consider myself quite lucky. It is more than I average." "Surely you can't live on that--I mean the three of you?" "Mother earns something by making shirts; at least, she has done so; but yesterday she was told that she would not have any more work at present." "And your brother--he is too young to work, I suppose?" "Yes, madam." While this conversation was going en, the cab was making rapid progress, and as the last words were spoken the driver reined up in front of a handsome residence. "Is this the place, madam?" The old lady looked out of the hack. "Yes," she answered. "I had no idea we had got along so far." Luke helped her out of the cab. She paid the man his fare, and then signed Luke to help her up the steps. "I want you to come into the house with me," she said. "I have not got through talking with you." A maidservant answered the bell. She looked surprised when she saw the old lady's young companion. "Is my niece in?" asked the old lady. "No, Mrs. Merton--Master Harold is in." "Never mind! You may come upstairs with me, young man." Luke followed the old lady up the broad, handsome staircase, stealing a curious glance at an elegantly-furnished drawing-room, the door of which opened into the hall. His companion led the way into the front room on the second floor. "Remain here until I have taken off my things," she said. Luke seated himself in a luxurious armchair. He looked about him and wondered how it would seem to live in such luxury. He had little time for thought, for in less than five minutes Mrs. Merton made her appearance. "You have not yet told me your name," she said. "Luke Walton." "That's a good name--I am Mrs. Merton." "I noticed that the servant called you so," said Luke. "Yes; I am a widow. My married niece lives here with me. She is also a widow, with one son, Harold. I think he might be about your age. Her name is Tracy. You wonder why I give you all these particulars? I see you do. It is because I mean to keep up our acquaintance." "Thank you, Mrs. Merton." "My experience this morning has shown me that I am hardly fit to go about the city alone. Yet I am not willing to remain at home. It has occurred to me that I can make use of your services with advantage both to you and myself. What do you say?" "I shall be glad of anything that will increase my income," said Luke, promptly. "Please call here to-morrow morning, and inquire for me. I will then tell you what I require." "Very well, Mrs. Merton. You may depend upon me." "And accept a week's pay in advance." She put a sealed envelope into his hand. Luke took it, and, with a bow, left the room. CHAPTER XII A PLOT THAT FAILED As the distance was considerable to the business part of the city, Luke boarded a car and rode downtown. It did not occur to him to open the envelope till he was half way to the end of his journey. When he did so, he was agreeably surprised. The envelope contained a ten-dollar bill. "Ten dollars! Hasn't Mrs. Merton made a mistake?" he said to himself. "She said it was a week's pay. But, of course, she wouldn't pay ten dollars for the little I am to do." Luke decided that the extra sum was given him on account of the service he had already been fortunate enough to render the old lady. Next to him sat rather a showily dressed woman, with keen, sharp eyes. She took notice of the bank-note which Luke drew from the envelope, and prepared to take advantage of the knowledge. No sooner had Luke replaced the envelope in his pocket than this woman put her hand in hers, and, after a pretended search, exclaimed, in a loud voice: "There is a pickpocket in this car. I have been robbed!" Of course, this statement aroused the attention of all the passengers. "What have you lost, madam?" inquired an old gentleman. "A ten-dollar bill," answered the woman. "Was it in your pocketbook?" "No," she replied, glibly. "It was in an envelope. It was handed to me by my sister just before I left home." As soon as Luke heard this declaration, he understood that the woman had laid a trap for him, and he realized his imprudence in displaying the money. Naturally he looked excited and disturbed. He saw that in all probability the woman's word would be taken in preference to his. He might be arrested, and find it difficult to prove his innocence. "Have you any suspicion as to who took it?" asked the old gentleman. "I think this boy took it," said the woman pointing to Luke. "It's terrible, and he so young!" said an old lady with a severe cast of countenance, who sat next to the old gentleman. "What is the world coming to?" "What, indeed, ma'am?" echoed the old gentleman. Luke felt that it was time for him to say something. "This lady is quite mistaken," he declared, pale but resolute. "I'm no thief." "It can easily be proved," said the woman, with a cunning smile. "Let the boy show the contents of his pockets." "Yes, that is only fair." Luke saw that his difficulties were increasing. "I admit that I have a ten-dollar bill in an envelope," he said. "I told you so!" said the woman, triumphantly. "But it is my own." "Graceless boy!" said the old gentleman, severely, "Do not add falsehood to theft." "I am speaking the truth, sir." "How the boy brazens it out!" murmured the sour-visaged lady. "Return the lady her money, unless you wish to be arrested," said the old gentleman. "I don't intend to give this person"--Luke found it hard to say lady--"what she has no claim to." "Young man, you will find that you are making a grand mistake. Probably if you give up the money the lady will not prosecute you." "No, I will have pity upon his youth," said the woman. "I can tell exactly where I got the money," went on Luke, desperately. "Where did you get it?" asked the old maid, with a sarcastic smile. "From Mrs. Merton, of Prairie Avenue." "What did she give it to you for?" "I am in her employment." "Gentlemen," said the woman, shrugging her shoulders, "you can judge whether this is a probable story." "I refer to Mrs. Merton herself," said Luke. "No doubt! You want to gain time. Boy, I am getting out of patience. Give me my money!" "I have no money of yours, madam," replied Luke, provoked; "and you know that as well as I do." "So you are impertinent, as well as a thief," said the old gentleman. "I have no more pity for you. Madam, if you will take my advice, you will have the lying rascal arrested." "I would prefer that he should give up the money quietly." "I will take it upon myself to call a policeman when the car stops." "You do me great injustice, sir," said Luke. "Why do you judge so severely of one whom you do not know?" "Because, young man, I have lived too long to be easily deceived. I pride myself upon my judgment of faces, and I can see the guilt in yours." Luke looked about him earnestly. "Is there no one in this car who believes me innocent?" he asked. "No," said the old gentleman. "We all believe that this very respectable lady charges you justly." "I say amen to that," added the old maid, nodding sharply. Next to the old maid sat a man of about thirty-five, in a business suit, who, though he had said nothing, had listened attentively to the charges and counter-charges. In him Luke was to find a powerful and effective friend. "Speak for yourself, old gentleman," he said. "You certainly are old enough to have learned a lesson of Christian charity." "Sir," exclaimed the old gentleman, in a lofty tone, "I don't require any instruction from you." "Why do you think the boy a thief? Did you see him take the money?" "No, but its presence in his pocket is proof enough for me of his guilt." "Of course it is!" said the old maid, triumphantly. The young man did not appear in the least disconcerted. "I have seldom encountered more uncharitable people," he said. "You are ready to pronounce the boy guilty without any proof at all." "Don't it occur to you that you are insulting the lady who brings the charge?" asked the old gentleman, sternly. The young man laughed. "The woman has brought a false charge," he said. "Really, this is outrageous!" cried the old maid. "If I were in her place I would make you suffer for this calumny." "Probably I know her better than you do. I am a salesman in Marshall Field's drygoods store, and this lady is a notorious shoplifter. She is varying her performances to-day. I have a great mind to call a policeman. She deserves arrest." Had a bombshell exploded in the car, there would not have been a greater sensation. The woman rose without a word, and signaled to have the car stopped. "Now, sir," went on the young man, sternly, "if you are a gentleman, you will apologize to this boy for your unworthy suspicions, and you, too, madam." The old maid tossed her head, but could not find a word to say, while the old gentleman looked the picture of mortification. "We are all liable to be mistaken!" he muttered, in a confused tone. "Then be a little more careful next time, both of you! My boy, I congratulate you on your triumphant vindication." "Thank you, sir, for it. I should have stood a very poor chance without your help." The tide was turned, and the uncharitable pair found so many unfriendly glances fixed upon them that they were glad to leave the car at the next crossing. CHAPTER XIII TOM BROOKS IN TROUBLE "I begin to think I am the favorite of fortune," thought Luke. "Ten dollars will more than pay a month's rent. Mother will feel easy now about her loss of employment." Some boys would have felt like taking a holiday for the balance of the day, perhaps, or going to a place of amusement, but Luke bought his evening papers as usual. He had but half a dozen left when his new acquaintance, Stephen Webb, sauntered along. "How's business, Luke?" he asked. "Very fair, thank you." "Give me a _News._" Stephen passed over a penny in payment, but did not seem inclined to go away. "I meant to see you before," he said, "but my time got filled up." "Have you taken a situation, then?" asked Luke. "No, I am still a man of leisure. Why don't you hire a small store, and do a general periodical business? It would pay you better." "No doubt it would, but it would take money to open and stock such a store." "I may make a proposition to you some time to go in with me, I furnishing the capital, and you managing the business." "I am always open to a good offer," said Luke, smiling. "I suppose I ought to have some business, but I'm a social kind of fellow, and should want a partner, a smart, enterprising, trustworthy person like you." "Thank you for the compliment." "Never mind that! I am a judge of human nature, and I felt confidence in you at once." Somehow Luke was not altogether inclined to take Stephen Webb at his own valuation. His new acquaintance did not impress him as a reliable man of business, but he had no suspicion of anything underhand. By this time Luke had disposed of his remaining papers. "I am through for the day," he said, "and shall go home." "Do you walk or ride?" "I walk." "If you don't mind, I will walk along with you. I haven't taken much exercise to-day." Luke had no reason for declining this proposal, and accepted Stephen's companionship. They walked on Clark Street to the bridge, and crossed the river. Presently they reached Milwaukee Avenue." "Isn't the walk too long for you?" asked Luke. "Oh, no! I can walk any distance when I have company. I shall take a car back." Stephen accompanied the newsboy as far as his own door. He would like to have been invited up, but Luke did not care to give him an invitation. Though Stephen seemed very friendly, he was not one whom he cared to cultivate. "Well, so long!" said Stephen, with his "good-night," "I shall probably see you to-morrow." "I have found out where they live," thought Stephen. "I am making a very good detective. I'll drop a line to Uncle Thomas this evening." Meanwhile Luke went upstairs two steps at a time. He was the bearer of good tidings, and that always quickens the steps. He found his mother sitting in her rocking-chair with a sober face. "Well, mother," he asked, gayly, "how have you passed the day?" "Very unprofitably, Luke. I went out this afternoon, and visited two places where I thought they might have some sewing for me, but I only met with disappointment. Now that I have a sewing machine, it is a great pity that I can't make use of it." "Don't be troubled, mother! We can get along well enough." "But we have only your earnings to depend upon." "If I always have as good a day as this, we can depend on those very easily." "Did you earn much, Luke?" "I earned a lot of money." Mrs. Walton looked interested, and Luke's manner cheered her. "There are always compensations, it seems. I was only thinking of my own bad luck." "What do you say to that, mother?" and Luke displayed the ten-dollar bill. "I don't understand how you could have taken in so much money, Luke." "Then I will explain," and Luke told the story of the adventure on State Street, and his rescue of the old lady from the danger of being run over. "The best of it is," he concluded, "I think I shall get regular employment for part of my time from Mrs. Merton. Whatever I do for her will be liberally paid for." Luke went to a bakery for some cream cakes, of which Bennie was particularly fond. At the same time Stephen Webb was busily engaged In the writing room of the Palmer House, inditing a letter to his uncle. DEAR UNCLE THOMAS:--I have devoted my whole time to the task which you assigned me, and have met with very good success. I found the boy uncommunicative, and had to exert all my ingenuity. Of the accuracy of this and other statements, the reader will judge for himself. The boy has a mother and a younger brother. They depend for support chiefly upon what he can earn, though the mother does a little sewing, but that doesn't bring in much. They live in Green Street, near Milwaukee Avenue. I have been there, and seen the house where they reside. It is a humble place, but as good, I presume, as they can afford. No doubt they are very poor, and have all they can do to make both ends meet. I have learned this much, but have had to work hard to do it. Of course, I need not say that I shall spare no pains to meet your expectations. If you should take me into your confidence, and give me an idea of what more you wish to know, I feel sure that I can manage to secure all needed information. Your dutiful nephew, STEPHEN WEBB. Thomas Browning, in his Milwaukee home, read this letter with satisfaction. He wrote briefly to his nephew: "You have done well thus far, and I appreciate your zeal. Get the boy to talking about his father, if you can. Let me hear anything he may say on this subject. As to my motive, I suspect that Mr. Walton may have been an early acquaintance of mine. If so, I may feel disposed to do something for the family." On his way to the Sherman House, the next morning, Luke witnessed rather an exciting scene, in which his old friend, Tom Brooks, played a prominent part. There was a Chinese laundry on Milwaukee Avenue kept by a couple of Chinamen who were peaceably disposed if not interfered with. But several boys, headed by Tom Brooks, had repeatedly annoyed the laundrymen, and excited their resentment. On this particular morning Tom sent a stone crashing through the window of Ah King. The latter had been on the watch, and, provoked beyond self-control, rushed out into the street, wild with rage, and pursued Tom with a flatiron in his hand. "Help! help! murder!" exclaimed Tom, panic-stricken, running away as fast as his legs would carry him. But anger, excited by the broken window, lent wings to the Chinaman's feet, and he gained rapidly upon the young aggressor. CHAPTER XIV LUKE HAS A COOL RECEPTION IN PRAIRIE AVENUE Tom Brooks had reason to feel alarmed for his Chinese pursuer fully intended to strike Tom with the flatiron. Though this was utterly wrong, some excuse must be made for Ah King, who had frequently been annoyed by Tom. It was at this critical juncture that Luke Walton appeared on the scene. He had no reason to like Tom, but he instantly prepared to rescue him. Fortunately, he knew Ah King, whom he had more than once protected from the annoyance of the hoodlums of the neighborhood. Luke ran up and seized the Chinaman by the arm. "What are you going to do?" he demanded, sternly. "Fool boy bleak my window," said Ah King. "I bleak his head." "No, you mustn't do that. The police will arrest you." "Go way! Me killee white boy," cried Ah King, impatiently trying to shake off Luke's grasp. "He bleak window--cost me a dollee." "I'll see that he pays it, or is arrested," said Luke. Unwillingly Ah King suffered himself to be persuaded, more readily, perhaps, that Tom was now at a safe distance. "You plomise me?" said Ah King. "Yes; if he don't pay, I will. Go and get the window mended." Luke easily overtook Tom, who was looking round the corner to see how matters were going. "Has he gone back?" asked Tom, rather anxiously. "Yes, but if I hadn't come along, he would, perhaps, have killed you." "You only say that to scare me," said Tom, uneasily. "No, I don't; I mean it. Do you know how I got you off?" "How?" "I told Ah King you would pay for the broken window. It will cost a dollar." "I didn't promise," said Tom, significantly. "No," said Luke, sternly, "but if you don't do it, I will myself have you arrested. I saw you throw the stone at the window." "What concern is it of yours?" asked Tom, angrily. "Why do you meddle with my business?" "If I hadn't meddled with your business, you might have a fractured skull by this time. It is a contemptibly mean thing to annoy a poor Chinaman." "He's only a heathen." "A well-behaved heathen is better than a Christian such as you are." "I don't want any lectures," said Tom in a sulky tone. "I presume not. I have nothing more to say except that I expect you to hand me that dollar to-night." "I haven't got a dollar." "Then you had better get one. I don't believe you got a dollar's worth of sport in breaking the window, and I advise you hereafter to spend your money better." "I don't believe I will pay it," said Tom, eying Luke closely, to see if he were in earnest. "Then I will report your case to the police." "You're a mean fellow," said Tom, angrily. "I begin to be sorry I interfered to save you. How ever, take your choice. If necessary, I will pay the dollar myself, for I have promised Ah King; but I shall keep my word about having you arrested." It was a bitter pill for Tom to swallow, but he managed to raise the money, and handed it to Luke that evening. Instead of being grateful to the one who had possibly saved his life, he was only the more incensed against him, and longed for an opportunity to do him an injury. "I hate that Luke Walton," he said to one of his intimate friends. "He wants to boss me, and all of us, but he can't do it. He's only fit to keep company with a heathen Chinee." Luke spent a couple of hours in selling papers. He had not forgotten his engagement with Mrs. Merton, and punctually at ten o'clock he pulled the bell of the house in Prairie Avenue. Just at that moment the door was opened, and he faced a boy of his own age, a thin, dark-complexioned youth, of haughty bearing. This, no doubt, he concluded, was Harold Tracy. "What do you want?" he asked, superciliously. "I should like to see Mrs. Merton." "Humph! What business have you with Mrs. Merton?" Luke was not favorably impressed with Harold's manner, and did not propose to treat him with the consideration which he evidently thought his due. "I come here at Mrs. Merton's request," he said, briefly. "As to what business we have together, I refer you to her." "It strikes me that you are impudent," retorted Harold, angrily. "Your opinion of me is of no importance to me. If you don't care to let Mrs. Merton know I am here, I will ring again and ask the servant to do so." Here a lady, bearing a strong personal resemblance to Harold, made her appearance, entering the hall from the breakfast room in the rear. "What is it, Harold?" she asked, in a tone of authority. "Here is a boy who says he wants to see Aunt Eliza." "What can he want with her?" "I asked him, but he won't tell." "I must trouble him to tell me," said Mrs. Tracy, closing her thin mouth with a snap. "Like mother--like son," thought Luke. "Do you hear?" demanded Mrs. Tracy, unpleasantly. "I am here by Mrs. Merton's appointment, Mrs. Tracy," said Luke, firmly. "I shall be glad to have her informed that I have arrived." "And who are you, may I ask?" "Perhaps you've got your card about you?" sneered Harold. "I have," answered Luke, quietly. With a comical twinkle in his eye, he offered one to Harold. "Luke Walton," repeated Harold. "Yes, that is my name." "I don't think my aunt will care to see you," said Mrs. Tracy, who was becoming more and more provoked with the "upstart boy," as she mentally termed him. "Perhaps it would be better to let her know I am here." "It is quite unnecessary. I will take the responsibility." Luke was quite in doubt as to what he ought to do. He could not very well prevent Harold's closing the door, in obedience to his mother's directions, but fortunately the matter was taken out of his hands by the old lady herself, who, unobserved by Harold and his mother, had been listening to the conversation from the upper landing. When she saw her visitor about to be turned out of the house, she thought it quite time to interfere. "Louisa," she called, in a tone of displeasure, "you will oblige me by not meddling with my visitors. Luke, come upstairs." Luke could not forbear a smile of triumph as he passed Harold and Mrs. Tracy, and noticed the look of discomfiture on their faces. "I didn't know he was your visitor, Aunt Eliza," said Mrs. Tracy, trembling with the anger she did not venture to display before her wealthy relative. "Didn't he say so?" asked Mrs. Merton, sharply. "Yes, but I was not sure that he was not an impostor." "You had only to refer the matter to me, and I could have settled the question. Luke is in my employ----" "In your employ?" repeated Mrs. Tracy, in surprise. "Yes; he will do errands for me, and sometimes accompany me to the city." "Why didn't you call on Harold? He would be very glad to be of service to you." "Harold had other things to occupy him. I prefer the other arrangement. Luke, come into my room and I will give you directions." Mrs. Tracy and Harold looked at each other as the old lady and Luke disappeared. "This is a new freak of Aunt Eliza's," said Mrs. Tracy. "Why does she pass over you, and give the preference to this upstart boy?" "I don't mind that, mother," replied Harold. "I don't want to be dancing attendance on an old woman." "But she may take a fancy to this boy--she seems to have done so already--and give him part of the money that ought to be yours." "If we find there is any danger of that, I guess we are smart enough to set her against him. Let her have the boy for a servant if she wishes." "I don't know but you are right, Harold. We must be very discreet, for Aunt Eliza is worth half a million." "And how old is she, mother?" "Seventy-one." "That's pretty old. She can't live many years." "I hope she will live to a good old age," said Mrs. Tracy, hypocritically, "but when she dies, it is only fair that we should have her money." CHAPTER XV A WELCOME GIFT When Luke and Mrs. Merton were alone, the old lady said, with a smile: "You seemed to have some difficulty in getting into the house." "Yes," answered Luke. "I don't think your nephew likes me." "Probably not. Both he and his mother are afraid someone will come between me and them. They are selfish, and cannot understand how I can have any other friends or beneficiaries. You are surprised that I speak so openly of such near relatives to such a comparative stranger. However, it is my nature to be outspoken. And now, Luke, if you don't think it will be tiresome to escort an old woman, I mean to take you downtown with me." "I look upon you as a kind friend, Mrs. Merton," responded Luke, earnestly. "I want to thank you for the handsome present you made me yesterday. I didn't expect anything like ten dollars." "You will find it acceptable, however, I don't doubt. Seriously, Luke, I don't think it's too much to pay for saving my life. Now, if you will wait here five minutes, I will be ready to go out with you." Five minutes later Mrs. Merton came into the room attired for the street. They went downstairs together, and Luke and she got on a street car. They were observed by Mrs. Tracy and Harold as they left the house. "Aunt Eliza's very easily imposed upon," remarked the latter. "She scarcely knows anything of that boy, and she has taken him out with her. How does she know but he is a thief?" "He looks like one," said Harold, in an amiable tone. "If aunt is robbed, I shan't pity her. She will deserve it." "Very true; but you must remember that it will be our loss as well as hers. Her property will rightfully come to us, and if she is robbed we shall inherit so much the less." "I have been thinking, Harold, it may be well for you to find out something of this boy. If you can prove to Aunt Eliza that he is of bad character, she will send him adrift." "I'll see about it, mother." Meanwhile Mrs. Merton and Luke were on their way to the business portion of the city. "I think I will stop at Adams Street, Luke," said the old lady. "I shall have to go to the Continental Bank. Do you know where it is?" "I believe it is on La Salle Street, corner of Adams." "Quite right. I shall introduce you to the paying teller as in my employ, as I may have occasion to send you there alone at times to deposit or draw money." "I wish Harold was more like you," she said. "His mother's suggestion that I should take him with me as an escort would be just as disagreeable to him as to me." "Is he attending school?" asked Luke. "Yes. He is preparing for college, but he is not fond of study, and I doubt whether he ever enters. I think he must be about your age." "I am nearly sixteen." "Then he is probably a little older." They entered the bank, and Mrs. Merton, going to the window of the paying teller, presented a check for a hundred dollars. "How will you have it, Mrs. Merton?" asked the teller. "In fives and tens. By the way, Mr. Northrop, please take notice of this boy with me. I shall occasionally send him by himself to attend to my business. His name is Luke Walton." "His face looks familiar. I think we have met before." "I have sold you papers more than once, Mr. Northrop," said Luke. "I stand on Clark Street, near the Sherman." "Yes, I remember, now. We bank officials are apt to take notice of faces." "Here, Luke, carry this money for me," said Mrs. Merton, putting a lady's pocketbook into the hand of her young escort. "You are less likely to be robbed than I." Luke was rather pleased at the full confidence his new employer seemed to repose in him. "I am now going up on State Street," said Mrs. Merton, as they emerged into the street. "You know the store of Marshall Field?" "Oh, yes; everybody in Chicago knows that," said Luke. In a few minutes they stood before the large store, and Mrs. Merton entered, followed by Luke. Mrs. Merton went to that part of the establishment where woolens are sold, and purchased a dress pattern. To Luke's surprise, the salesman was the same one who had come to his assistance in the car the day previous when he was charged with stealing. The recognition was mutual. "I believe we have met before," said the young man, with a smile. "Yes, fortunately for me," answered Luke, gratefully. "The two parties who were determined to find you guilty looked foolish when they ascertained the real character of your accuser." "What is this, Luke? You didn't tell me of it," said Mrs. Merton. The story was related briefly. "I should like to meet that woman," said Mrs. Merton, nodding energetically. "I'd give her a piece of my mind. Luke, you may hand me ten dollars." The goods were wrapped up and the change returned. "Where shall I send the bundle, Mrs. Merton?" asked the salesman, deferentially. "Luke will take it." As they left the store Mrs. Merton said: "Did you think I was buying this dress for myself, Luke?" "I thought so," Luke answered. "No, I have dresses enough to last me a lifetime, I may almost say. This dress pattern is for your mother." "For my mother?" repeated Luke, joyfully. "Yes; I hope it will be welcome." "Indeed it will. Mother hasn't had a new dress for over a year." "Then I guessed right. Give it to her with my compliments, and tell her I give it to her for your sake. Now, I believe I will go home." No present made to Luke could have given him so much pleasure as this gift to his mother, for he knew how much she stood in need of it. When they reached the house on Prairie Avenue, they met Mrs. Tracy on the steps. She had been out for a short call. "Did you have a pleasant morning, Aunt Eliza?" she asked, quite ignoring Luke. "Yes, quite so. Luke, I won't trouble you to come in. I shall not need you to-morrow. The next day you may call at the same hour." Luke turned away, but was called back sharply by Mrs. Tracy. "Boy!" she said, "you are taking away my aunt's bundle. Bring it back directly." "Louisa," said the old lady, "don't trouble yourself. That bundle is meant for Luke's mother." "Something you bought for her?" "Yes, a dress pattern." "Oh!" sniffed Mrs. Tracy, eying Luke with strong disapproval. CHAPTER XVI THOMAS BROWNING AT HOME In one of the handsomest streets in Milwaukee stood a private residence which was quite in harmony with its surroundings. It looked like the home of a man of ample means. It was luxuriously furnished, and at one side was a conservatory. It was apt to attract the attention of strangers, and the question was asked: "Who lives there?" And the answer would be: "Thomas Browning. He will probably be mayor some day." Yes, this was the residence of Thomas Browning, formerly Thomas Butler, the man to whom the dead father of Luke Walton had intrusted the sum of ten thousand dollars to carry to his wife and children. How he fulfilled his trust, or, rather, did not fulfill it, we already know. But in Milwaukee, where Mr. Browning had become a leading citizen, it was not known. It was entirely inconsistent with what was believed to be his character. For Mr. Browning was president of one charitable society and treasurer of another. At the annual meetings of these societies he was always called upon to speak, and his allusions to the poverty and privations of those who were cared for by these societies never failed to produce an impression. It was popularly supposed that he gave away large sums in charity. Indeed, he admitted the fact, but explained the absence of his name from subscription papers by saying: "All my gifts are anonymous. Instead of giving my name, I prefer to put down 'Cash,' so much, or 'A Friend,' such another sum. I don't wish to influence others, but it jars upon me to have my name ostentatiously paraded in the public prints." Now, in all subscriptions there are donations ascribed to "Cash" and "A Friend," and whenever these occurred, it was generally supposed they represented Mr. Browning. But, to let the reader into a little secret, this was only a shrewd device of Mr. Browning's to have the reputation of a philanthropist at little or no expense, for, as a matter of fact, he never contributed at all to the charities in which he seemed to take such an interest! In a pleasant room on the second floor sat the pseudo-philanthropist. The room was furnished as a library. At a writing table, poring over what looked like an account book, he looked the picture of comfort and respectability. A few well-chosen engravings adorned the walls. A pleasant light was diffused about the room from a chandelier suspended over the table. Thomas Browning leaned back in his chair, and a placid smile overspread his naturally harsh features. He looked about him, and his thoughts somehow ran back to a time when he was very differently situated. "Five years ago to-night," he said, "I was well-nigh desperate. I hadn't a cent to bless myself with, nor was the prospect of getting one particularly bright. How I lived, for a considerable time, I hardly know. I did have a notion at one time, when I was particularly down on my luck, of committing suicide, and so ending the struggle once for all. It would have been a great mistake!" he added after a pause. "I didn't foresee at the time the prosperous years that lay before me. Frederick Walton's money changed my whole life. Ten thousand dollars isn't a fortune, but it proved the basis of one. It enabled me to float the Excelsior Mine. I remember there were a hundred thousand shares at two dollars a share, all based upon a few acres of mining land which I bought for a song. With the ten thousand dollars, I hired an office, printed circulars, distributed glowing accounts of imaginary wealth, etc. It cost considerable for advertising, but I sold seventy thousand shares, and when I had gathered in the money I let the bottom fall out. There was a great fuss, of course, but I figured as the largest loser, being the owner of thirty thousand shares (for which I hadn't paid a cent), and so shared the sympathy extended to losers. It was a nice scheme, and after deducting all expenses, I made a clean seventy-five thousand dollars out of it, which, added to my original capital, made eighty-five thousand. Then I came to Milwaukee and bought this house. From that time my career has been upward and onward. My friends say some day I shall be mayor of the city. Well, stranger things have happened, and who knows but my friends may be right!" At this moment a servant entered the library. "Well, Mary, what is it?" asked the philanthropist. "Please, sir, there's a poor woman at the door, and she would like to see you." "Ah, yes, she wants relief from the Widows' and Orphans' Society, probably. Well, send her up. I am always at home to the poor." "What a good man he is!" thought Mary. "It's strange he gives such low wages to the girls that work for him. He says it's because he gives away so much money in charities." Mary ushered in, a moment later, a woman in a faded dress, with a look of care and sorrow on her thin features. "Take a seat, madam," said Thomas Browning, urbanely. "Did you wish to see me?" "Yes, sir. I am in difficulties, and have ventured to call upon you." "I am glad to see you. I am always ready to see the unfortunate." "Yes, sir; I know you have the reputation of being a philanthropist. "No, no," said Mr. Browning, modestly. "Don't mention it. I am fully aware of the flattering estimation which is placed on my poor services, but I really don't deserve it. It is, perhaps, as the President of the Widows' and Orphans' Charitable Society that you wish to speak to me." "No, sir. It is as President of the Excelsior Mining Company that I wish to make an appeal to you." "Oh!" ejaculated Browning, with a perceptible change of countenance. "Of course you remember it, sir. I was a widow, with a small property of five thousand dollars left me by my late husband. It was all I had on which to support myself and two children. The banks paid poor interest, and I was in search of a profitable investment. One of your circulars fell into my hands. The shares were two dollars each, and it was stated that they would probably yield fifty per cent dividends. That would support me handsomely. But I didn't decide to invest until I had written a private letter to you." She took it from the pocket of her dress, and offered it to Thomas Browning, but that gentleman waved it aside. She continued: "You indorsed all that the circular contained. You said that within a year you thought he shares would rise to at least ten dollars. So I invested all the money I had. You know what followed. In six months the shares went down to nothing, and I found myself penniless." "I know it, my good woman," said Thomas Browning. "I know it, to my cost. I myself had sixty thousand dollars invested in the stock. I lost it all." "But you seem to be a rich man," said the poor woman, looking about her. "I have made it out of other ventures. But the collapse of the mine was a sad blow to me. As the president, I might have had something from the wreck, but I did not. I suffered with the rest. Now, may I ask what I can do for you?" "It was on account of your advice that I bought stock. Don't you think you ought to make up to me a part of the loss?" "Impossible!" said Browning, sharply. "Didn't I tell you I lost much more heavily than you?" "Then you can do nothing for me?" "Yes; I can put you on the pension list of the Widows' and Orphans' Society. That will entitle you to receive a dollar a week for three months." "I am not an object of charity, sir. I wish you good-night." "Good-night. If you change your mind come to me." "Very unreasonable, upon my word," soliloquized Thomas Browning. At eleven o'clock Mr. Browning went to his bedchamber. He lit the gas and was preparing to disrobe, when his sharp ear detected the sound of suppressed breathing, and the point from which it proceeded. He walked quickly to the bed, bent over, and looked underneath. In an instant he had caught a man who had been concealed beneath it. The intruder was a wretchedly dressed tramp. Browning allowed the man to get upon his feet, and then, facing him, demanded, sternly: "Why are you here? Did you come to rob me?" CHAPTER XVII A STRANGE VISITOR "Did you come to rob me?" repeated Mr. Browning, as he stood facing the tramp, whom he had brought to the light from under the bed. There was an eager, questioning look on the face of the tramp, as he stared at the gentleman upon whose privacy he had intruded--not a look of fear, but a look of curiosity. Thomas Browning misinterpreted it. He thought the man was speechless from alarm. "Have you nothing to say for yourself?" demanded Browning, sternly. The answer considerably surprised him. "Why, pard, it's you, is it?" said the man, with the air of one to whom a mystery was made plain. "What do you mean by your impertinence?" asked the respectable Mr. Browning, angrily. "Well, that's a good one! Who'd have thought that this 'ere mansion belonged to my old friend and pard?" "What do you mean? Are you crazy, fellow?" "No, I ain't crazy, as I know of, but I'm flabbergasted--that's what I am." "Have done with this trifling and tell me why I shouldn't hand you over to the police?" "I guess you won't do that, Tom Butler!" returned the burglar, coolly. Browning stared in surprise and dismay at hearing his old name pronounced by this unsavory specimen of humanity. "Who are you?" he demanded, quickly. "Don't you know me?" "No, I don't. I never saw you before. I don't associate with men of your class." "Hear him now!" chuckled the tramp, in an amazed tone. "Why, Tom Butler, you an' me used to be pards. Don't you remember Jack King? Why, we've bunked together, and hunted for gold together, and almost starved together; but that was in the old days." Browning looked the amazement he felt. "Are you really Jack King?" he ejaculated, sinking back into an easy-chair, and staring hard at his unexpected visitor. "I'm the same old coon, Tom, but I'm down at the heel, while you--do you really own this fine house, and these elegant fixin's?" "Yes," answered Browning, mechanically. "Well, you've fared better than I. I've been goin' down, down, till I've got about as far down as I can get." "And you have become a burglar?" "Well, a man must live, you know." "You could work." "Who would give such a lookin' man as I any work?" "How did you get in?" "That's my secret! You mustn't expect me to give myself away." "And you had no idea whose house you were in?" "I was told it belonged to a Mr. Browning." "I am Mr. Browning--Thomas Browning." "You! What has become of Butler?" "I had good substantial reasons for changing my name--there was money in it, you understand." "I'd like to change my own name on them terms. And now, Tom Butler, what are you going to do for me?" Mr. Browning's face hardened. He felt no sympathy for the poor wretch with whom he had once been on terms of intimacy. He felt ashamed to think that they had ever been comrades, and he resented the tone of familiarity with which this outcast addressed him--a reputable citizen, a wealthy capitalist, a man whose name had been more than once mentioned in connection with the mayor's office. "I'll tell you what I ought to do," he said, harshly. "Well?" "I ought to call a policeman, and give you in charge for entering my house as a burglar." "You'd better not do that," he said without betraying alarm. "Why not? Why should I not treat you like any other burglar?" "Because--but I want to ask you a question." "What did you do with that money Walton gave you on his deathbed?" "What do you mean?" he faltered. "Just what I say. What did you do with Walton's money?" "I am at a loss to understand your meaning." "No, you are not. However, I am ready to explain. On his deathbed Walton gave you ten thousand dollars to carry to his wife and family. Did you do it?" "Who told you this?" "It is unnecessary for me to say. It is enough that I know it. At the time you were poor enough. You might have had a few hundred dollars of your own, but certainly not much more. Now--it isn't so many years ago--I find you a rich man. Of course, I have my own ideas of how this came about." "Do you mean to accuse me of dishonesty?" demanded Browning, angrily. "I don't accuse you of anything. I am only thinking of what would be natural under the circumstances. I'm not an angel myself, Tom Butler, and I can't say but the money might have miscarried if it had been handed to me instead of to you. I wish it had; I wouldn't be the miserable-looking wretch I am now." "Walton handed me some money," said Browning, cautiously--"not ten thousand dollars--and I handed it to his family." "Where did they live?" "In a country town," he answered, glibly. "I was thinking I might run across Mrs. Walton some day," he said, significantly. "She would be glad to see me, as I knew her late husband in California." "She is dead," said Browning, hastily. "Dead! How long since?" "She died soon after she heard of her husband's death. Died of grief, poor woman!" "Were there no children?" "Yes, there was a girl, but she was adopted by a relative in Massachusetts." "I don't believe a word of it!" thought Jack King. "He wants to put me off the scent." "Humph! And you gave the wife the money?" "Of course." "I may meet the girl some time; I might advertise for any of the family." "Do you think they would be glad to see you?" "They might help me, and I stand in need of help." "There is no need of that. You are an old comrade in distress. I haven't forgotten the fact, though I pretended to, to try you. Here's a five-dollar bill. I'll let you out of the house myself. Considering how you entered it, you may count yourself lucky." "That's all right, as far as it goes, Tom, but I want to remind you of a little debt you owe me. When you were out of luck at Murphy's diggings I lent you twenty-five dollars, which you have never paid back." "I had forgotten it." "I haven't. That money will come mighty convenient just now. It will buy me a better-looking suit, second hand, and make a different man of me. With it I can get a place and set up for a respectable human being." "Here's the money," said Browning, reluctantly drawing the additional bills from his wallet. "Now that we are square, I hope you won't annoy me by further applications. I might have sent you out of the house under very different circumstances." "You were always considerate, Tom," said the tramp, stowing away the bills in the pocket of his ragged vest. "May I refer to you if I apply for a situation?" "Yes; but remember I am Thomas Browning. I prefer not to have it known that my name was ever Butler." "All right! Now, if you'll do me the favor of showing me the door I'll leave you to your slumbers." "It's very awkward, that man's turning up," muttered Browning, as he returned from letting out his unsavory visitor. "How could he have heard about Walton's money?" CHAPTER XVIII HOW JACK KING FARED Jack King left the house with the money Browning had unwillingly given him. He sought a cheap lodging and the next morning proceeded to make himself respectable. When he had donned some clean linen, a suit of clothes which he bought cheap at a second-hand store, taken a bath, and called into requisition the services of a barber, it would have been hard to recognize him as the same man who had emerged from under the bed of the well-known philanthropist, a typical tramp and would-be burglar. Jack King counted over the balance of his money, and found that he had nine dollars and thirty-seven cents left. "This won't support me forever," he reflected. "I must get something to do." While sauntering along, he fell in with an old acquaintance named Stone. "What are you up to, King?" he asked. "Looking for a job." "You are my man, then. I am keeping a cigar store at the Prairie Hotel, but I have some business calling me away from the city for six weeks or two months. Will you take my place?" "What are the inducements?" "Board and lodging and five dollars a week." "Agreed." "Come over, then, and I will show you the place." The hotel was a cheap one, not far from the railway station, and though comfortable, was not patronized by fastidious travelers. "When do you want me to take hold?" he asked. "To-morrow." "All right." "Come around at ten o'clock. I want to leave Milwaukee in the afternoon." King could not help reflecting about the extraordinary prosperity of his old comrade, Tom Butler, now Thomas Browning, Esq. "What does it mean?" he asked himself. "He seemed very uneasy when I asked him about Walton's money. I believe he kept it himself. I wish I knew. If I could prove it, it would be a gold mine for me. I must make inquiries, and, if possible, find out Walton's family." "Do you know anything of Thomas Browning?" he asked Stone. "The philanthropist? Yes. What of him?" "I called on him last evening." Jack did not think it best to mention the circumstances of his visit. "Indeed! How did you know him?" "In California." "I suppose he laid the foundation of his fortune there." "Is he so rich, then?" "Yes, probably worth a quarter of a million." This was an exaggeration, but rich men's wealth is generally overstated. "How does he stand in the city?" "First-class. He has been mentioned for mayor. I shouldn't be surprised if he might get the office some day." "He has certainly been very lucky." "I should say so. Was he rich in California?" "Not when I knew him. At one time there he had to borrow money of me. He paid me back last evening." "He is on the top of the ladder now, at any rate." "His respectability would suffer a little," thought Jack King, "if I could prove that he had appropriated Walton's money. I must think the matter over, and secure some information if I can." The next Sunday evening he called at the house of the philanthropist, and sent in his name. Thomas Browning went himself to the door. He was afraid King might be wearing the same disreputable suit in which he had made his former visit. But to his relief his visitor looked quite respectable. "Do you wish to see me?" he asked. "Yes; but only for a social call. I am not acquainted in Milwaukee, and it does me good to see an old friend and comrade." "I have not much time to spare, but come in!" They went into the philanthropist's library, formerly described. "Have you found anything to do?" asked Browning. "Yes." "What is it?" King answered the question. "It is not much," he added, "but will do for the present." "At any rate, it is considerably better than entering a house at night and hiding under the bed," said Browning, dryly. "So it is," answered King, smiling. "You must make allowance for my destitute condition. I little thought that I was in the house of an old friend. I have been asking about you, Tom Butler--I beg pardon, Mr. Browning--and I find that you stand very high in Milwaukee." A shade of annoyance showed itself on the philanthropist's face when King referred to him under his former name, but when his high standing was referred to he smiled complacently. "Yes," he said, "I have been fortunate enough to win the good opinion of my fellow-citizens." "Some one told me that you would probably run for mayor some day." "It may be. I have been sounded on the subject." "The worst of running for office is that if a man has ever done anything discreditable it is sure to be brought out against him." "I hope you don't mean to imply that I have ever done anything discreditable," said Browning, sharply. "Oh, dear, no! How could I think such a thing? But sometimes false charges are brought. If you had ever betrayed a trust, or kept money belonging to another, of course, it would hurt you." "Certainly it would," said the philanthropist, his voice betraying some nervousness, "but I am glad to say that my conscience is clear on that point." "By the way, Jack, let me send for a bottle of wine. We'll drink to the memory of old time." "With all my heart, Tom. I see you're the right sort. When you are nominated for office I will work for you." Browning smiled graciously on his visitor, and the interview closed pleasantly. "He's afraid of me!" thought Jack, as he left the house. CHAPTER XIX A SENSATIONAL INCIDENT When Luke brought home the dress pattern his mother was much pleased. "I have needed a dress for a good while," she said, "but I never felt that I could spare the money to buy even a common one. This material is very nice." "It cost seventy-five cents a yard. I was with Mrs. Merton when she bought it." "I hope you didn't hint to Mrs. Merton that I needed one." "No, that isn't like me, mother, but I own that I was very glad when she thought of it." "Please tell her how grateful I am." "I will certainly do so. Now, mother, I want you to have it made up at once. I can spare the money necessary." "It will cost very little. I will have it cut by a dress maker and make it up myself. I hope you will long retain the friendship of Mrs. Merton." "It won't by my fault if I don't. But I can't help seeing that her niece, Mrs. Tracy, and Harold, a boy about my age, look upon me with dislike." "Why should they? I don't see how anyone can dislike you." "You are my mother and are prejudiced in my favor. But I am sure they have no reason to dislike me. I think, however, they are jealous, and fear the old lady will look upon me with too much favor. She is very rich, I hear, and they expect to inherit all her fortune." "Money makes people mean and unjust." "If I can only get hold of some, I'll run the risk of that," said Luke. "I should feel a good deal more comfortable if I hadn't two enemies in the house." "Do your duty, my son, and leave the rest to God. It isn't well to borrow trouble." "No doubt you are right, mother. I will follow your advice." The next morning Luke was at his usual stand near the Sherman House when a boy who was passing uttered a slight exclamation of surprise. Looking up, Luke recognized Harold Tracy. "So it's you, is it?" said Harold, not over politely. "Yes," answered Luke. "I hope you are well." "I didn't know you were a newsboy." "I spend a part of my time in selling papers." "Does Mrs. Merton know you are a newsboy?" "I think I have told her, but I am not certain." "It must be inconvenient for you to come so far as our house every day?" "Of course it takes up some time, but Mrs. Merton does not allow me to work for nothing." "How much does Aunt Eliza pay you?" "I would rather you would ask Mrs. Merton. I am not sure that she would care to have me tell." "You seem to forget that I am her nephew that is, her grandnephew. It is hardly likely she would keep such a thing secret from me." "That may be, but I would rather you would ask her." "Does she pay you more than two dollars a week?" "Again I must refer you to her." "It is ridiculous to make a secret of such a trifle," said Harold, annoyed. "How much do you make selling papers?" he asked. "I averaged about seventy-five cents a day before I began to work for Mrs. Merton. Now I don't make as much." "Why don't you black boots, too? Many of the newsboys do?" "I never cared to take up that business." "If you should go into it, I would give you a job now and then." "I am not likely to go into that business, but I shall be glad to sell you a paper whenever you need one." "You are not too proud to black boots, are you?" persisted Harold. "I don't think it necessary to answer that question. I have always got along without it so far." Harold carried the news home to his mother that Luke was a newsboy, and Mrs. Tracy found an opportunity to mention it at the supper table. "Harold saw your paragon this morning, Aunt Eliza," she commenced. "Have I a paragon? I really wasn't aware of it," returned the old lady. "Your errand boy." "Oh, Luke. Where did you see him, Harold?" "He was selling papers near the Sherman House." "I hope you bought one of him." "I didn't have any change." "Did you know he was a newsboy, Aunt Eliza?" asked Mrs. Tracy. "Yes; he told me so. You speak of it as if it were something to his discredit." "It is a low business, of course." "Why is it a low business?" "Oh, well, of course it is only poor street boys who engage in it." "I am aware that Luke is poor, and that he has to contribute to the support of his mother and brother. I hope, if you were poor, that Harold would be willing to work for you." "I wouldn't sell papers," put in Harold. "I don't suppose Luke sells papers from choice." "Aunt Eliza, I don't see why you should so persistently compare Harold with that ragged errand boy of yours." "Is he ragged? I am glad you noticed it. I must help him to a new suit." This was far from a welcome suggestion to Mrs. Tracy, and she made haste to add: "I don't think he's ragged. He dresses well enough for his position in life." "Still, I think he needs some new clothes, and I thank you for suggesting it, Louisa." The next day, Luke, to his surprise, was asked to ac company Mrs. Merton to a ready-made clothing house on Clark Street, where he was presented with a fine suit, costing twenty dollars. "How kind you are, Mrs. Merton!" said Luke. "I didn't notice that you needed a new suit," returned the old lady, "but my niece, Mrs. Tracy, spoke of it, and I was glad to take the hint." It was in the afternoon of the same day that Luke, having an errand that carried him near the lake shore, strolled to the end of North Pier. He was fond of the water, but seldom had an opportunity to go out on it. "How are you, Luke?" said a boy in a flat-bottomed boat a few rods away. In the boy who hailed him Luke recognized John Hagan, an acquaintance of about his own age. "Won't you come aboard?" asked John. "I don't mind, if you'll come near enough." In five minutes Luke found himself on board the boat, He took the oars and relieved John, who was disposed to rest. They rowed hither and thither, never very far from the pier. Not far away was a boat of the same build, occupied by a man of middle size, whose eccentric actions attracted their attention. Now he would take the oars and row with feverish haste, nearly fifty strokes to a minute; then he would let his oars trail, and seem wrapped in thought. Suddenly the boys were startled to see him spring to his feet and, flinging up his arms, leap head first into the lake. CHAPTER XX AMBROSE KEAN'S IMPRUDENCE Luke and his companion were startled by the sudden attempt at suicide, and for an instant sat motionless in their boat. Luke was the first to regain his self-possession. "Quick, let us try to save him," he called to John Hagan. They plunged their oars into the water, and the boat bounded over the waves. Fortunately they were but half a dozen rods from the place where the would-be suicide was now struggling to keep himself up. For, as frequently happens, when he actually found himself in the water, the instinct of self-preservation impelled the would-be self-destroyer to attempt to save himself. He could swim a very little, but the waters of the lake were in lively motion, his boat had floated away, and he would inevitably have drowned but for the energetic action of Luke and John. They swept their boat alongside, and Luke thrust his oar in the direction of the struggling man. "Take hold of it," he said, "and we will tow you to your own boat." Guided and sustained by the oar, the man gripped the side of Luke's boat, leaving the oar free. His weight nearly overbalanced the craft, but with considerable difficulty the boys succeeded in reaching the other boat, and, though considerably exhausted, its late occupant managed to get in. As he took his place in the boat he presented a sorry spectacle, for his clothes were wet through and dripping. "You will take your death of cold unless you go on shore at once," said Luke. "It wouldn't matter much if I did," said the young man, gloomily. "We will row to shore also," said Luke to John Hagan. "He may make another attempt to drown himself. I will see what I can do to reason him out of it." They were soon at the pier, and the three landed. "Where do you live?" asked Luke, taking his position beside the young man. The latter named a number on Vine Street. It was at a considerable distance, and time was precious, for the young man was trembling from the effects of his immersion. "There is no time to lose. We must take a carriage," said Luke. He summoned one, which fortunately had just returned from the pier, to which it had conveyed a passenger, and the two jumped in. Luke helped him up to his room, a small one on the third floor, and remained until he had changed his clothes and was reclining on the bed. "You ought to have some hot drink," he said. "Can any be got in the house?" "Yes; Mrs. Woods, the landlady, will have some hot water." Luke went downstairs and succeeded in enlisting the sympathetic assistance of the kind-hearted woman by representing that her lodger had been upset in the lake and was in danger of a severe cold. When the patient had taken down a cup of hot drink, he turned to Luke and said: "How can I thank you?" "There is no need to thank me. I am glad I was at hand when you needed me." "What is your name?" "Luke Walton." "Mine is Ambrose Kean. You must think I am a fool," "I think," said Luke, gently, "that you have some cause of unhappiness." "You are right there. I have been unfortunate, but I am also an offender against the law, and it was the fear of exposure and arrest that made me take the step I did. I thought I was ready to die, but when I found myself in the water life seemed dearer than it had before, and I tried to escape. Thanks to you, I am alive, but now I almost wish that I had succeeded. I don't know how to face what is before me." "Would you mind telling me what it is?" "No; I need someone to confide in, and you deserve my confidence. Let me tell you, then, that I am employed in an office on Dearborn Street. My pay is small, twelve dollars a week, but it would be enough to support me if I had only myself to look out for. But I have a mother in Milwaukee, and I have been in the habit of sending her four dollars a week. That left me only eight dollars, which I found it hard to live on, and there was nothing left for clothes." "I can easily believe that," said Luke. "I struggled along, however, as best I might, but last week I received a letter from my mother saying that she was sick. Of course her expenses were increased, and she wrote to know if I could send her a little extra money. I have been living so close up to my income that I absolutely had less than a dollar in my pocket. Unfortunately, temptation came at a time when I was least prepared to resist it. One of our customers from the country came in when I was alone, and paid me fifty dollars in bills, for which I gave him a receipt. No one saw the payment made. It flashed upon me that this sum would make my mother comfortable even if her sickness lasted a considerable time. Without taking time to think, I went to an express office, and forwarded to her a package containing the bills. It started yesterday, and by this time is in my mother's hands. You see the situation I am placed in. The one who paid the money may come to the office at any time and reveal my guilt." "I don't wonder that you were dispirited," returned Luke. "But can nothing be done? Can you not replace the money in time?" "How can I? I have told you how small my salary is." "Have you no friend or friends from whom you could borrow the money?" "I know of none. I have few friends, and such as they are, are, like myself, dependent on small pay. I must tell you, by the way, how we became poor. My mother had a few thousand dollars, which, added to my earnings, would have made us comparatively independent, but in an evil hour she invested them in a California mine, on the strength of the indorsement of a well-known financier of Milwaukee, Mr. Thomas Browning----" "Who?" asked Luke, in surprise. "Thomas Browning. Do you know him?" "I have seen him. He sometimes comes to Chicago, and stops at the Sherman House." "He recommended the stock so highly--in fact, he was the president of the company that put it on the market--that my poor mother thought it all right, and invested all she had. The stock was two dollars a share. Now it would not fetch two cents. This it was that reduced us to such extreme poverty." "Do you think Mr. Browning was honest in his recommendation of the mine?" asked Luke, thoughtfully. "I don't know. He claimed to be the principal loser himself. But it is rather remarkable that he is living like a rich man now. Hundreds lost their money through this mine. As Mr. Browning had himself been in California----" "What is that?" asked Luke, in excitement. "You say this Browning was once in California? Can you tell when?" "Half a dozen years ago, more or less." "And he looks like the man to whom my poor father confided ten thousand dollars for us," thought Luke. "It is very strange. Everything tallies but the name. The wretch who swindled us was named Butler." "Why do you ask when Mr. Browning was in California?" asked the young man. "Because my father died in California," answered Luke, evasively, "and I thought it possible that Mr. Browning might have met him." CHAPTER XXI A FRIEND IN NEED "Mr. Browning is a man of very peculiar appearance," said Kean. "You refer to the wart on the upper part of his right cheek?" "Yes, it gives him a repulsive look." "And yet he is popular in Milwaukee?" "Yes, among those who were not swindled by his mining scheme. He has done more harm than he can ever repair. For instance," added the young man, bitterly, "this crime which I have committed--I will call it by its right name--I was impelled to do by my mother's poverty, brought on by him." "How does it happen that you are not at the office to day?" "I felt sick--sick at heart, rather than sick in body, and I sent word to my employer that I could not be there. I dread entering the office, for at any time exposure may come." "If you could only raise the fifty dollars, you could replace the money before it was inquired for." Ambrose Kean shook his head. "I can't possibly raise it," he said, despondently. "I would let you have it if I possessed as much money, but, as you may suppose, I am poor." "I am no less grateful to you, Luke. You have a good heart, I am sure. You don't despise me?" "No, why should I?" "I have been guilty of a crime." "But you are sorry for it. Is there positively no one with whom you are acquainted who is rich enough to help you?" "There is one lady in Chicago--a rich lady--who was a schoolmate of my mother. She was older and in better circumstances, but they were good friends." "Who is this lady?" "A Mrs. Merton." "Mrs. Merton!" exclaimed Luke, in excitement. "Of Prairie Avenue?" "Yes; I believe she lives there." "Why, I know her--I am in her employ," said Luke. Ambrose Kean stared at Luke in open amazement. "Is this true?" he asked. "Yes." "Is she a kind lady? Do you think she would help me in this trouble of mine?" "She is very kind-hearted, as I know from my own experience. I will go to her at once, and see what I can do." Ambrose Kean grasped Luke's hand with fervor. "You are a friend sent from heaven, I truly believe," he said. "You have given me hope of retrieving myself." "I will leave you for a time," said Luke. "There is no time to be lost." "I shall be full of anxiety till I see you again." "Be hopeful. I think I shall bring you good news." When Luke reached the house on Prairie Avenue he was about to ring the bell when Harold Tracy opened the door. "You here again!" he said, in a tone of displeasure. "Weren't you here this morning?" "Yes." "Did Aunt Eliza ask you to come this afternoon?" "No." "Then what brings you?" "Business," answered Luke, curtly, and he quietly entered the hall, and said to a servant who was passing through, "Will you be kind enough to ask Mrs. Merton if she will see me?" "Well, you're cheeky!" ejaculated Harold, who had in tended to keep him out. "As long as Mrs. Merton doesn't think so, I shall not trouble myself," said Luke, coldly. "Sooner or later Aunt Eliza will see you in your true colors," said Harold, provoked. "I think she does now." At this moment the servant returned. "You are to go upstairs," she said. "Mrs. Merton will see you." The old lady was sitting back in an easy-chair when Luke entered. She smiled pleasantly. "This is an unexpected pleasure," she said, "this after-noon call." "I will tell you at once what brought me, Mrs. Merton." "It isn't sickness at home, I hope?" "No, I came for a comparative stranger." Then Luke told the story of Ambrose Kean, his sudden yielding to temptation, his repentance and remorse. "I am interested in your friend," said Mrs. Merton. "You say he appropriated fifty dollars?" "Yes, but it was to help his mother." "True, but it was a dangerous step to take. It won't be considered a valid excuse." "He realizes all that. His employer is a just but strict man, and if the theft is discovered Kean will be arrested, and, of course, convicted." "And you think I will help him? Is that why you have come to me with this story?" "I don't think I would have done so if he had not mentioned you as an old friend and schoolmate of his mother." "What's that?" added Mrs. Merton, quickly. "His mother an old schoolmate of mine?" "That is what he says." "What was her name before marriage?" "Mary Robinson." "You don't say so!" Mrs. Merton exclaimed with vivacity. "Why, Mary was my favorite at school. And this young man is her son? "I would have helped him without knowing this, but now I won't hesitate a moment. Mary's boy! You must bring him here. I want to question him about her." "I can tell you something about her. She lost her money by investing in a California mine--I think it was the Excelsior Mine." "She, too?" Luke looked surprised. He did not understand the meaning of this exclamation. "I have a thousand shares of that worthless stock myself," continued the old lady. "It cost me two thousand dollars, and now it is worth nothing." "The one who introduced the stock was a Mr. Browning, of Milwaukee." "I know. He was an unscrupulous knave, I have no doubt. I could afford the loss, but hundreds invested, like poor Mary, who were ruined. Is the man living, do you know?" "Yes, he is living in Milwaukee. He is rich, and is prominently spoken of as a candidate for mayor." "If he is ever a candidate I will take care that his connection with this swindling transaction is made known. A man who builds up a fortune on the losses of the poor is a contemptible wretch, in my opinion." "And mine, too," said Luke. "It is very strange that he answers the description of a man who cheated our family out of ten thousand dollars." "Indeed! How was that?" Luke told the story, and Mrs. Merton listened with great interest. "So all corresponds except the name?" "Yes." "He may have changed his name." "I have thought of that. I mean to find out some time." "I won't keep you any longer. Your friend is, no doubt, in great anxiety. I have the money here in bills. I will give them to you for him." Mrs. Merton was in the act of handing a roll of bills to Luke when the door opened suddenly, and Mrs. Tracy entered. She frowned in surprise and displeasure when she saw her aunt giving money to "that boy," as she contemptuously called him. CHAPTER XXII HOW AMBROSE KEAN WAS SAVED "I didn't know you were occupied, Aunt Eliza," said Mrs. Tracy, in a significant tone, as she paused at the door. "My business is not private," returned the old lady. "Come in, Louisa." Mrs. Tracy did come in, but she regarded Luke with a hostile and suspicious glance. "That is all, Luke," said his patroness. "You may go. You can report to me to-morrow." "All right, ma'am." When Luke had left the room, Mrs. Tracy said: "You appear to repose a great deal of confidence in that boy." "Yes; I think he deserves it." Mrs. Tracy coughed. "You seem to trust him with a great deal of money." "Yes." "Of course, I don't want to interfere, but I think you will need to be on your guard. He is evidently bent on getting all he can out of you." "That is your judgment, is it, Louisa?" "Yes. Aunt Eliza, since you ask me." "He has done me a service this morning. He has brought to my notice a son of one of my old school mates who is in a strait, and I have just sent him fifty dollars." "By that boy?" "Yes. Why not?" "Are you sure the person to whom you sent the money will ever get it?" "Please speak out what you mean. Don't hint. I hate hints." "In plain terms, then, I think the boy will keep the money himself, or, at any rate, a part of it." "I don't fear it." "Have you any more to say?" "Nothing, except to warn you against that designing boy." "You are very kind, Louisa, but I am not quite a simpleton. I have seen something of the world, and I don't think I am easily taken in." Mrs. Tracy left the room, not very well satisfied. She really thought Luke had designs upon the old lady's money, and was averse even to his receiving a legacy, since it would take so much from Harold and herself. "Harold, when I entered your aunt's room, what do you think I saw?" This she said to Harold, who was waiting below. "I don't know." "Aunt Eliza was giving money to that boy." "Do you know how much?" "Fifty dollars." "Whew! Was it for himself?" "He came to her with a trumped-up story of an old schoolmate of aunt's who was in need of money." "Do you think he will keep it himself?" "I am afraid so." "What a cheeky young rascal he is, to be sure! I have no doubt you are right." "Yes; there is too much reason to think he is an unscrupulous adventurer, young as he is." "Why don't you tell aunt so?" "I have." "And what does she say?" "It doesn't make the least impression upon her." "What do you think the boy will do?" "Get her to make a will in his favor, or at least to leave him a large legacy." Harold turned pale. "That would be robbing us," he said. "Of course it would. He wouldn't mind that, you know." "He was very impertinent to me this morning." "I presume so. He depends upon his favor with aunt." "Isn't there anything we can do, mother?" "I must consider." Meanwhile Luke returned at once to the room of Ambrose Kean. He found the young man awaiting him with great anxiety. "What success?" he asked, quickly. "I have got the fifty dollars," answered Luke. "Thank God! I am saved!" ejaculated the young man. "Would you mind taking it round to the office with a note from me?" asked Kean. "I will do so cheerfully." "Then I shall feel at ease." "Mrs. Merton would like to have you call on her. She remembered your mother at once." "I shall be glad to do so, but shall be ashamed to meet her now that she knows of my yielding to temptation." "You need not mind that. She also suffered from the rascality of Thomas Browning, and she will make allowances for you." "Then I will go some day with you." "You had better give me a letter to take to your employer with the money." "I will." Ambrose Kean wrote the following note: JAMES COOPER: DEAR SIR:--Hiram Crossley called at the office yesterday and paid in fifty dollars due to you. Being busy, I thrust it into my pocket, and inadvertently took it with me. I think I shall be able to be at the office to-morrow, but think it best to send the money by a young friend. I gave Mr. Crossley a receipt. Yours respectfully, AMBROSE KEAN. When Luke reached the office, Mr. Cooper was conversing with a stout, broad-shouldered man, of middle age, and Luke could not help hearing some of their conversation. "You say you paid fifty dollars to my clerk, Mr. Crossley?" asked the merchant. "Yes." "Have you his receipt?" "Here it is." Mr. Cooper examined it. "Yes, that is his signature." "Isn't he here to-day?" "No; he sent word that he had a headache." "And you don't find the money?" "No." "That is singular." And the two men exchanged glances of suspicion. "What sort of a young man is he?" "I never had any cause to suspect him." "I hope it is all right." "If it isn't, I will discharge him," said Cooper, nodding emphatically. "He probably didn't think I would be here so soon. I didn't expect to be, but a telegram summoned me to the city on other business." Of course Luke understood that the conversation related to Kean, and that he had arrived none too soon. He came forward. "I have a letter for you from Mr. Kean," he said. "Ha! Give it to me!" Mr. Cooper tore open the envelope, saw the bank bills, and read the letter. "It's all right, Mr. Crossley," he said, his brow clearing. "Read that letter." "I am really glad," said Crossley. "How is Mr. Kean?" asked Cooper, in a friendly tone. "He had a severe headache, but he is better, and hopes to be at the office to-morrow." "Tell him I shall be glad to see him, but don't want him to come unless he is really able." "Thank you, sir. I will do so." And Luke left the office. He went back to Ambrose Kean, and told him what had happened at the office. "I have escaped better than I deserved," he said. "It will be a lesson to me. Please tell Mrs. Merton that her timely aid has saved my reputation and rescued my poor mother from sorrow and destitution." "I will, and I am sure she will consider the money well spent." The next morning, as Luke stood at his usual post, he saw Thomas Browning, of Milwaukee, come out of the Sherman House. He knew him at once by the wart on the upper part of his right cheek, which gave him a remarkable appearance. "Can there be two persons answering this description?" Luke asked himself. Thomas Browning came across the street, and paused in front of Luke. CHAPTER XXIII STEPHEN WEBB IS PUZZLED "Will you have a morning paper?" asked Luke. He wanted to have a few words with Mr. Browning, even upon an indifferent subject, as he now thought it probable that this was the man who had defrauded his mother and himself. Browning, too, on his part, wished for an opportunity to speak with the son of the man he had so shamefully swindled. "Yes," he said, abruptly, "you may give me the _Times._" When the paper had been paid for, he said: "Do you make a good living at selling papers?" "It gives me about seventy-five cents a day," answered Luke. "You can live on that, I suppose?" "I have a mother to support." "That makes a difference. Why do you stay in Chicago? You could make a better living farther West." "In California?" asked Luke, looking intently at Browning. Thomas Browning started. "What put California into your head?" he asked. "My father died in California." "A good reason for your not going there." "I thought you might be able to tell me something about California," continued Luke. "Why should I?" "I thought perhaps you had been there." "You are right," said Browning, after a pause. "I made a brief trip to San Francisco at one time. It was on a slight matter of business. But I don't know much about the interior and can't give you advice." "I wonder if this is true," thought Luke. "He admits having been to California, but says he has never been in the interior. If that is the case, he can't have met my father." "I may at some time have it in my power to find you a place farther West, but not in California," resumed Browning. "I will take it into consideration. I frequently come to Chicago, and I presume you are to be found here." "Yes, sir." Thomas Browning waved his hand by way of good-by, and continued on his way. "The boy seems sharp," he said to himself. "If he had the slightest hint of my connection with his father's money, he looks as if he would follow it up. Luckily there is no witness and no evidence. No one can prove that I received the money." At the corner of Adams Street Mr. Browning encountered his nephew, Stephen Webb, who was gazing in at a window with a cigar in his mouth, looking the very image of independent leisure. "You are profitably employed," said Browning, dryly. Stephen Webb wheeled round quickly. "Glad to see you, Uncle Thomas," he said, effusively. "I suppose you received my letter?" "Yes." "I hope you are satisfied. I had hard work to find out about the boy." "Humph! I don't see how there could be anything difficult about it. I hope you didn't mention my name?" "No. I suppose you are interested in the boy," said Stephen, with a look of curious inquiry. "Yes; I always feel interested in the poor, and those who require assistance." "I am glad of that, uncle, for you have a poor nephew." "And a lazy one," said Browning, sharply. "Where would I be if I had been as indolent as you?" "I am sure I am willing to do whatever you require, Uncle Thomas. Have you any instructions?" "Well, not just now, except to let me know all you can learn about the newsboy. Has he any other source of income except selling papers?" "I believe he does a few odd jobs now and then, but I don't suppose he earns much outside." "I was talking with him this morning." "You were!" ejaculated Stephen in a tone of curiosity. "Did you tell him you felt an interest in him?" "No, and I don't want you to tell him so. I suggested that he could make a better income by leaving Chicago, and going farther West." "I think I might like to do that, Uncle Thomas." "Then why don't you?" "I can't go without money." "You could take up a quarter-section of land and start in as a farmer. I could give you a lift that way if I thought you were in earnest." "I don't think I should succeed as a farmer," said Stephen, with a grimace. "Too hard work, eh?" "I am willing to work hard, but that isn't in my line." "Well, let that go. You asked if I had any instructions. Find opportunities of talking with the boy, and speak in favor of going West." "I will. Is there anything more?" "No. I believe not." "You couldn't let me have a couple of dollars extra, could you, uncle?" "Why should I?" "I--I felt sick last week, and had to call in a doctor, and then get some medicine." "There's one dollar! Don't ask me for any more extras." "He's awfully close-fisted," grumbled Stephen. "I am afraid King might visit Chicago, and find out the boy," said Browning to himself as he continued his walk. "That would never do, for he is a sharp fellow, and would put the boy on my track if he saw any money in it. My best course is to get this Luke out of Chicago, if I can." Stephen Webb made it in his way to fall in with Luke when he was selling afternoon papers. "This is rather a slow way of making a fortune, isn't it, Luke?" he asked. "Yes; I have no thoughts of making a fortune at the newspaper business." "Do you always expect to remain in it?" continued Webb. "Well, no," answered Luke, with a smile. "If I live to be fifty or sixty I think I should find it rather tiresome." "You are right there." "But I don't see any way of getting out of it just yet. There may be an opening for me by and by." "The chances for a young fellow in Chicago are not very good. Here am I twenty-five years old and with no prospects to speak of." "A good many people seem to make good livings, and many grow rich, in Chicago." "Yes, if you've got money you can make money. Did you ever think of going West?" Luke looked a little surprised. "A gentleman was speaking to me on that subject this morning," he said. "What did he say to you?" asked Stephen, curiously. "He recommended me to go West, but did not seem to approve of California." "Why not. Had he ever been there?" "He said he had visited San Francisco, but had never been in the interior." "What a whopper that was!" thought Stephen Webb. "Why should Uncle Thomas say that?" "What sort of a looking man was he? Had you ever seen him before?" he inquired. "He is a peculiar-looking man--has a wart on his right cheek." "Did he mention the particular part of the West?" "No; he said he would look out for a chance for me." "It is curious Uncle Thomas feels such an interest in that boy," Webb said to himself, meditatively. CHAPTER XXIV MRS. MERTON PASSES A PLEASANT EVENING Ambrose Kean called with Luke an evening or two later to thank Mrs. Merton in person for her kindness. They arrived ten minutes after Mrs. Tracy and Harold had started for Hooley's Theater, and thus were saved an embarrassing meeting with two persons who would have treated them frigidly. They were conducted upstairs by the servant, and were ushered into Mrs. Merton's room. Ambrose Kean was naturally ill at ease, knowing that Mrs. Merton was acquainted with the error he had committed. But the old lady received him cordially. "I am glad to meet the son of my old schoolmate, Mary Robinson," she said. "In spite of his unworthiness?" returned Ambrose, his cheek flushing with shame. "I don't know whether he is unworthy. That remains to be seen." "You know I yielded to temptation and committed a theft." "Yes; but it was to help your mother." "It was, but that does not relieve me from guilt." "You are right; still it greatly mitigates it. Take my advice; forget it, and never again yield to a similar temptation." "I will not, indeed, Mrs. Merton," said the young many earnestly. "I feel that I have been very fortunate in escaping the consequences of my folly, and in enlisting your sympathy." "That is well! Let us forget this disagreeable circumstance, and look forward to the future. How is Mary your mother?" "She is an invalid." "And poor. There is a remedy for poverty. Let us also hope there is a remedy for her ill-health. But tell me, why did you not come to see me before? You have been some time in Chicago." "True, but I knew you were a rich lady. I didn't think you would remember or care to hear from one so poor and obscure as my mother." "Come, I consider that far from a compliment," said the old lady. "You really thought as badly of me as that?" "I know you better now," said Ambrose, gratefully. "It is well you do. You have no idea how intimate your mother and I used to be. She is five years my junior, I think, so that I regarded her as a younger sister. It is many years since we met. And how is she looking?" "She shows the effects of bad health, but I don't think she looks older than her years." "We have both changed greatly, no doubt. It is to be expected. But you can tell her that I have not forgotten the favorite companion of my school days." "I will do so, for I know it will warm her heart and brighten her up." "When we were girls together our worldly circumstances did not greatly differ. But I married, and my husband was very successful in business." "While she married and lost all she had." "It is often so. It might have been the other way. Your mother might have been rich, and I poor; but I don't think she would have been spoiled by prosperity any more than I have been. Now tell me how you are situated." "I am a clerk, earning twelve dollars a week." "And your employer--is he kind and considerate?" "He is just, but he has strict notions. Had he learned my slip the other day he would have discharged me, perhaps had me arrested. Now, thanks to your prompt kindness, he knows and will know nothing of it." "Is he likely to increase your salary?" "He will probably raise me to fifteen dollars a week next January. Then I can get along very well. At present it is difficult for me, after sending my mother four dollars a week, to live on the balance of my salary." "I should think it would be." "Still, I would have made it do, but for mother's falling sick, and so needing a larger allowance." "I hope she is not seriously ill," said Mrs. Merton, with solicitude. "No, fortunately not. I think she will be as well as usual in a few weeks." "Tell her I inquired particularly for her, and that I send her my love and remembrance." "I shall be only too glad to do so." The time slipped away so rapidly that Luke was surprised when, looking at the French clock on the mantel, he saw that it lacked but a quarter of ten o'clock. "Mr. Kean," he said, glancing at the clock, "it is getting late." "So it is," said Ambrose, rising. "I am afraid we have been trespassing upon your kindness, Mrs. Merton." "Not at all!" said Mrs. Merton, promptly. "I have enjoyed the evening, I can assure you. Mr. Kean, you must call again." "I shall be glad to do so, if you will permit me." "I wish you to do so. Luke will come with you. I shall want to hear more of your mother, and how she gets along." As they were leaving, Mrs. Merton slipped into the hand of Ambrose Kean an envelope. "The contents is for your mother," she said. "I have made the check payable to you." "Thank you. It is another mark of your kindness." When Ambrose Kean examined the check, he ascertained to his joy that it was for a hundred dollars. "What a splendid old lady she is, Luke!" he said, enthusiastically. "She is always kind, Mr. Kean. I have much to be grateful to her for. I wish I could say the same of other members of the family." "What other members of the family are there?" "A niece, Mrs. Tracy, and her son, Harold." "Why didn't we see them to-night?" "I don't know. I suppose they were out." The next day Ambrose handed the check to his employer and asked if he would indorse it, and so enable him to draw the money. James Cooper took the check and examined the signature. "Eliza Merton," said he. "Is it the rich Mrs. Merton who lives on Prairie Avenue?" "Yes, sir." "Indeed; I did not know that you were acquainted with her." "She and my mother were schoolmates." "And so you keep up the acquaintance?" "I spent last evening at her house. This check is a gift from her to my mother." Ambrose Kean rose greatly in the estimation of his employer when the latter learned that Kean had such an aristocratic friend, and he was treated with more respect and consideration than before. Meanwhile Harold and his mother had enjoyed themselves at the theater. "I suppose Aunt Eliza went to bed early, Harold," said Mrs. Tracy, as they were on their way home. "Went to roost with the hens," suggested Harold, laughing at what he thought to be a good joke. "Probably it is as well for her," said his mother. "It isn't good for old people to sit up late." It was about half-past eleven when they were admitted by the drowsy servant. "I suppose Mrs. Merton went to bed long ago, Laura," said Mrs. Tracy. "No, ma'am, she set up later than usual." "That is odd. I thought she would feel lonely." "Oh, she had company, ma'am." "Company! Who?" "Master Luke was here all the evenin', and a young man with him." Mrs. Tracy frowned ominously. "The sly young artful!" she said to Harold when they were alone. "He is trying all he can to get on aunt's weak side. Something will have to be done, or we shall be left out in the cold." CHAPTER XXV MRS. TRACY'S BROTHER A day or two later, while Mrs. Merton was in the city shopping, accompanied by Luke, a man of thirty years of age ascended the steps of the house on Prairie Avenue and rang the bell. "Is Mrs. Tracy at home?" he asked of the servant who answered the bell. "Yes, sir; what name shall I give?" "Never mind about the name. Say it is an old friend." "Won't you come in, sir?" "Yes, I believe I will." Mrs. Tracy received the message with surprise mingled with curiosity. "Who can it be?" she asked herself. She came downstairs without delay. The stranger, who had taken a seat in the hall, rose and faced her. "Don't you know me, Louisa?" he asked. "Is it you, Warner?" she exclaimed, surprised and! startled. "Yes," he answered, laughing. "It's a good while since we met." "Five years. And have you----" "What--reformed?" "Yes." "Well, I can't say as to that. I can only tell you that I am not wanted by the police at present. Is the old lady still alive?" "Aunt Eliza?" "Of course." "Yes, she is alive and well." "I thought perhaps she might have died, and left you in possession of her property." "Not yet. I don't think she has any intention of dying for a considerable number of years." "That is awkward. Has she done nothing for you?" "We have a free home here, and she makes me a moderate allowance, but she is not disposed to part with much money while she lives." "I am sorry for that. I thought you might be able to help me to some money. I am terribly hard up." "You always were, no matter how much money you had." "I never had much. The next thing is, how does the old lady feel toward me?" "I don't think she feels very friendly, though nothing has passed between us respecting you for a long time. She has very strict notions about honesty, and when you embezzled your employer's money you got into her black books." "That was a youthful indiscretion," said Warner, smiling. "Can't you convince her of that?" "I doubt if I can lead her to think of it in that light." "I know what that means, Louisa. You want to get the whole of the old lady's property for yourself and that boy of yours. You always were selfish." "No, Warner, though I think I am entitled to the larger part of aunt's money, I don't care to have you left out in the cold. I will do what I can to reconcile her to you." "Come, that's fair and square. You're a trump, Louisa. You have not forgotten that I am your brother." "No, I am not so selfish as you think. If I don't succeed in restoring you to Aunt Eliza's good graces, and she chooses to leave me all her property, I promise to take care of you and allow you a fair income." "That's all right, but I would rather the old lady would provide for me herself." "Do you doubt my word?" "No, but your idea of what would be a fair income might differ from mine. How much do you think the old lady's worth?" "Quarter of a million, I should think," replied Mrs. Tracy, guardedly. "Yes, and considerably more, too." "Perhaps so. I have no means of judging." "Supposing it to be the figure you name, how much would you be willing to give me, if she leaves me out in the cold?" "I am not prepared to say, Warner. I would see that you had no good reason to complain." "I should prefer to have you name a figure, so that I might know what to depend upon." But this Mrs. Tracy declined to do, though her brother continued to urge her. "Where have you been for a few years past, Warner?" she asked. "Floating about. At first I didn't dare to come back. It was a year at least before I heard that aunt had paid up the sum I got away with. When I did hear it I was in Australia." "What did you do there?" "I was a bookkeeper in Melbourne for a time. Then I went into the country. From Australia I came to California, and went to the mines. In fact, I have only just come from there." "Didn't you manage to make money anywhere?" "Yes, but it didn't stick by me. How much money do you think I have about me now?" "I can't guess," said Mrs. Tracy, uneasily. "Five dollars and a few cents. However, I am sure you will help me," he continued. "Really, Warner, you mustn't hope for too much from me. I have but a small allowance from Aunt Eliza--hardly enough to buy necessary articles for Harold and myself." "Then you can speak to aunt in my behalf." "Yes, I can do that." "Where is she?" "She has gone out shopping this morning." "Alone, or is Harold with her?" "Neither," answered Mrs. Tracy, her brow darkening. "She has picked up a boy from the street, and installed him as a first favorite." "That's queer, isn't it?" "Yes; but Aunt Eliza was always queer." "What's the boy's name?" "Luke Walton." "What's his character?" "Sly--artful. He is scheming to have aunt leave him Something in her will." "If she leaves him a few hundred dollars it won't hurt us much." "You don't know the boy. He won't be satisfied with that." "You don't mean to say that his influence over aunt is dangerous?" "Yes, I do." "Can't you get her to bounce him?" "I have done what I could, but she seems to be infatuated. If he were a gentleman's son I shouldn't mind so much, but Harold saw him the other day selling papers near the Sherman House." "Do you think aunt's mind is failing?" "She seems rational enough on all other subjects. She was always shrewd and sharp, you know." "Well, that's rather an interesting state of things. I haven't returned to Chicago any too soon." "Why do you say that?" "Because it will be my duty to spoil the chances of this presuming young man." "That is easier said than done. You forget that Aunt Eliza thinks a great deal more of him than she does of you." "I haven't a doubt that you are right." "Then what can you do?" "Convince her that he is a scapegrace. Get him into a scrape, in other words." "But he is too smart to be dishonest, if that is what you mean." "It is not necessary for him to be dishonest. It is only necessary for her to think he is dishonest." There was some further conversation. As Warner Powell was leaving the house, after promising to call in the evening, he met on the steps Mrs. Merton, under the escort of Luke Walton. The old lady eyed him sharply. CHAPTER XXVI THE PRODIGAL'S RECEPTION "Don't you know me, Aunt Eliza?" asked Warner Powell casting down his eyes under the sharp glance of the old lady. "So it is you, is it?" responded Mrs. Merton, in a tone which could not be considered cordial. "Yes, it is I. I hope you are not sorry to see me?" "Humph! It depends on whether you have improved or not." Luke Walton listened with natural interest and curiosity. This did not suit Mrs. Tracy, who did not care to have a stranger made acquainted with her brother's peccadilloes. "Warner," she said, "I think Aunt Eliza will do you the justice to listen to your explanation. I imagine, young man, Mrs. Merton will not require your services any longer to-day." The last words were addressed to Luke. "Yes, Luke; you can go," said the old lady, in a very different tone. Luke bowed and left the house. "Louisa," said Mrs. Merton, "in five minutes you may bring your brother up to my room." "Thank you, aunt." When they entered the apartment they found the old lady seated in a rocking-chair awaiting them. "So you have reformed, have you?" she asked, abruptly. "I hope so, Aunt Eliza." "I hope so, too. It is full time. Where have you been?" "To Australia, California, and elsewhere." "A rolling stone gathers no moss." "In this case it applies," said Warner. "I have earned more or less money, but I have none now." "How old are you?" "Thirty." "A young man ought not to be penniless at that age. If you had remained in your place at Mr. Afton's, and behaved yourself, you would be able to tell a different story." "I know it, aunt." "Don't be too hard upon him, Aunt Eliza," put in Mrs. Tracy. "He is trying to do well now." "I am very glad to hear it." "Would you mind my inviting him to stay here for a time? The house is large, you know." Mrs. Merton paused. She didn't like the arrangement, but she was a just and merciful woman, and it was possible that Warner had reformed, though she was not fully satisfied on that point. "For a time," she answered, "till he can find employment." "Thank you, Aunt Eliza," said the young man, relieved, for he had been uncertain how his aunt would treat him. "I hope to show that your kindness is appreciated." "I am rather tired now," responded Mrs. Merton, as an indication that the interview was over. "We'd better go and let aunt rest," said Warner, with alacrity. He did not feel altogether comfortable in the society of the old lady. When they were alone Mrs. Tracy turned to her brother with a smile of satisfaction. "You have reason to congratulate yourself on your reception," she said. "I don't know about that. The old woman wasn't very complimentary." "Be careful how you speak of her. She might hear you, or the servants might, and report." "Well, she is an old woman, isn't she?" "It is much better to refer to her as the old lady--better still to speak of her as Aunt Eliza." "I hope she will make up her mind to do something for me." "She has; she gives you a home in this house." "I would a good deal rather have her pay my board outside, where I would feel more independent." "I have been thinking, Warner, you might become her secretary and man of business. In that case she would dispense with this boy, whose presence bodes danger to us all." "I wouldn't mind being her man of business, to take charge of her money, but as to trotting round town with her like a tame poodle, please excuse me." "Warner," said his sister, rather sharply, "just remember, if you please, that beggars can't be choosers." "Perhaps not, but this plan of yours would be foolish. She wouldn't like it, nor would I. Why don't you put Harold up to offering his services? He's as large as this boy, isn't he?" "He is about the same size." "Then it would be a capital plan. You would get rid of the boy that way." "You forget that Harold has not finished his education. He is now attending a commercial school. I should like to have him go to college, but he doesn't seem to care about it." "So, after all, the boy seems to be a necessity." "I would prefer a different boy--less artful and designing." "How much does the old woman--beg pardon, the old lady--pay him?" "I don't know. Harold asked Luke, but he wouldn't tell. I have no doubt he manages to secure twice as much as his services are worth. He's got on Aunt Eliza's blind side." "Just what I would like to do, but I have never been able to discover that she had any." "Did you take notice of the boy?" "Yes; he's rather a good-looking youngster, it seems to me." "How can you say so?" demanded Mrs. Tracy, sharply. "There's a very common look about him, I think. He isn't nearly as good-looking as Harold." "Harold used to look like you," said Warner, with a smile. "Natural you should think him good-looking. But don't it show a little self-conceit, Louisa?" "That's a poor joke," answered his sister, coldly. "What are you going to do?" "Going out to see if I can find any of my old acquaintances." "You had much better look out for a position, as Aunt Eliza hinted." "Don't be in such a hurry, Louisa. Please bear in mind that I have only just arrived in Chicago after an absence of five years." "Dinner will be ready in half an hour." "Thank you. I don't think I should like a second interview with Aunt Eliza quite so soon. I will lunch outside." "A lunch outside costs money, and you are not very well provided in that way." "Don't trouble yourself about that, Louisa. I intend to be very economical. "My estimable sister is about as mean as anyone I know," said Warner to himself, as he left the house. "Between her and the old woman, I don't think I shall find it very agreeable living here. A cheap boarding house would be infinitely preferable." On State Street Warner Powell fell in with Stephen Webb, an old acquaintance. "Is it you, Warner?" asked Webb, in surprise. "It's an age since I saw you." "So it is. I haven't been in Chicago for five years." "I remember. A little trouble, wasn't there?" "Yes; but I'm all right now, except that I haven't any money to speak of." "That's my situation exactly." "However, I've got an old aunt worth a million, more or less, only she doesn't fully appreciate her nephew." "And I have an uncle, pretty well to do, who isn't so deeply impressed with my merits as I wish he were." "I am staying with my aunt just at present, but hope to have independent quarters soon. One trouble is, she takes a fancy to a boy named Luke Walton." "Luke Walton!" repeated Stephen in amazement. "Do you know him?" "Yes, my uncle has set me to spy on him--why, I haven't been able to find out. So he is in favor with your aunt?" "Yes, he calls at the house every day, and is in her employ. Sometimes she goes out shopping with him." "That's strange. Let us drop into the Saratoga and compare notes." They turned into Dearborn Street, and sat down to lunch in the Saratoga. CHAPTER XXVII UNCLE AND NEPHEW "So this boy is an object of interest to your uncle?" resumed Warner Powell. "Yes." "Does he give any reason for his interest?" "No, except that he is inclined to help him when there is an opportunity." "Does the boy know him?" "No." "Has he met your uncle?" "Yes; Uncle Thomas frequently visits Chicago--he lives in Milwaukee--and stays at the Sherman when he is here. He has stopped and bought a paper of Luke once or twice." "I remember my sister told me this boy Luke was a newsboy." "How did he get in with your aunt?" "I don't know. I presume it was a chance acquaintance. However that may be, the young rascal seems to have got on her blind side, and to be installed first favorite." "Your sister doesn't like it?" "Not much. Between you and me, Louisa--Mrs. Tracy--means to inherit all the old lady's property, and doesn't like to have anyone come in, even for a trifle. She'll have me left out in the cold if she can, but I mean to have something to say to that. In such matters you can't trust even your own sister." "I agree with you, Warner." The two young men ate a hearty dinner, and then adjourned to a billiard room, where they spent the afternoon over the game. Warner reached home in time for supper. "Where have you been, Warner?" asked Mrs. Tracy. "Looking for work," was the answer. "What success did you meet with?" "Not much as yet. I fell in with an old acquaintance, who may assist me in that direction." "I am glad you have lost no time in seeking employment. It will please aunt." Warner Powell suppressed a smile. He wondered what Mrs. Merton would have thought could she have seen in what manner he prosecuted his search for employment. "This is Harold," said Mrs. Tracy, proudly, as her son came in. "Harold, this is your Uncle Warner." "So you are Harold," said his uncle. "I remember you in short pants. You have changed considerably in five years." "Yes, I suppose so," answered Harold, curtly. "Where have you been?" "In Australia, California, and so on." "How long are you going to stay in Chicago?" "That depends on whether I can find employment. If you hear of a place let me know." "I don't know of any unless Aunt Eliza will take you into her employ in place of that newsboy, Luke Walton." "She can have me if she will pay me enough salary. How much does Luke get?" "I don't know. He won't tell." "Do you like him?" "I don't consider him a fit associate for me. He is a common newsboy." "Does Aunt Eliza know that?" "Yes; it makes no difference to her. She's infatuated with him." "I wish she were infatuated with me. I shall have to ask Luke his secret. Aunt Eliza doesn't prefer him to you, does she?" "I have no doubt she does. She's very queer about some things." "Harold," said his mother, solicitously, "I don't think you pay Aunt Eliza enough attention. Old persons, you know, like to receive courtesies." "I treat her politely, don't I?" asked Harold, aggressively. "I can't be dancing attendance upon her and flattering her all the time." "From what I have seen of Luke Walton," thought Warner Powell, "I should decidedly prefer him to this nephew of mine. He seems conceited and disagreeable. Of course, it won't do to tell Louisa that, for she evidently admires her graceless cub, because he is hers." "Are you intimate with this Luke?" asked Warner, mischievously. "What do you take me for?" demanded Harold, of fended. "I am not in the habit of getting intimate with street boys." Warner Powell laughed. "I am not so proud as you, Nephew Harold," he said. "Travelers pick up strange companions. In San Francisco I became intimate with a Chinaman." "You don't mean it?" exclaimed Harold, in incredulity and disgust." "Yes, I do." "You weren't in the laundry business with him, were you?" went on Harold, with a sneer. "No," he answered aloud. "The laundry business may be a very good one--I should like the income it produces even now--but I don't think I have the necessary talent for it. My Chinese friend was a commission merchant worth at least a hundred thousand dollars. I wasn't above borrowing money from him sometimes." "Of course, that makes a difference," said Mrs. Tracy, desiring to make peace between her brother and son. "He must have been a superior man. Harold thought you meant a common Chinaman, such as we have in Chicago." The reunited family sat down to supper together. After supper Warner made an excuse for going out. "I have an engagement with a friend who knows of a position he thinks I can secure," he said. "I hope you won't be late," said Mrs. Tracy. "No, I presume not, but you had better give me a pass key." Mrs. Tracy did so reluctantly. She was afraid Harold might want to join his uncle; but the nephew was not taken with his new relative, and made no such proposal. In reality, Warner Powell had made an engagement to go to McVicker's Theater with his friend Stephen Webb, who had arranged to meet him at the Sherman House. While waiting, Warner, who had an excellent memory for faces, recognized Luke, who was selling papers at his usual post. There was some startling news in the evening papers--a collision on Lake Michigan--and Luke had ordered an unusual supply, which occupied him later than his ordinary hour. He had taken a hasty supper at Brockway & Milan's, foreseeing that he would not be home till late. "Aunt Eliza's boy!" thought Warner. "I may as well take this opportunity to cultivate his acquaintance." He went up to Luke and asked for a paper. "You don't remember me?" he said, with a smile. "No," answered Luke, looking puzzled. "I saw you on Prairie Avenue this morning. Mrs. Merton is my aunt." "I remember you now. Are you Mrs. Tracy's brother?" "Yes, and the uncle of Harold. How do you and Harold get along?" "Not at all. He takes very little notice of me." "He is a snob. Being his uncle, I take the liberty to say it." "There is no love lost between us," Luke said. "I would like to be more friendly, but he treats me like an enemy." "He is jealous of your favor with my aunt." "There is no occasion for it. He is a relative, and I am only in her employ." "She thinks a good deal of you, doesn't she?" "She treats me very kindly." "Harold suggested to me this evening at supper that I should take your place. You needn't feel anxious. I have no idea of doing so, and she wouldn't have me if I had." "I think a man like you could do better." "I am willing to. But here comes my friend, who is going to the theater with me." Looking up, Luke was surprised to see Stephen Webb. CHAPTER XXVIII HAROLD'S TEMPTATION Mrs. Merton was rather astonished when her grand-nephew Harold walked into her room one day and inquired for her health. (She had been absent from the dinner table on account of a headache.) "Thank you, Harold," she said. "I am feeling a little better." "Have you any errand you would like to have me do for you?" Mrs. Merton was still more surprised, for offers of services were rare with Harold. "Thank you, again," she said, "but Luke was here this morning, and I gave him two or three commissions." "Perhaps you would like me to read to you, Aunt Eliza." "Thank you, but I am a little afraid it wouldn't be a good thing for my head. How are you getting on at school, Harold?" "Pretty well." "You don't want to go to college?" "No. I think I would rather be a business man." "Well, you know your own tastes best." "Aunt Eliza," said Harold, after a pause, "I want to ask a favor of you." "Speak out, Harold." "Won't you be kind enough to give me ten dollars?" "Ten dollars," repeated the old lady, eying Harold closely. "Why do you want ten dollars?" "You see, mother keeps me very close. All the fellows have more money to spend than I." "How much does your mother give you as an allowance?" "Two dollars a week." "It seems to me that is liberal, considering that you don't have to pay for your board or clothes." "A boy in my position is expected to spend money." "Who expects it?" "Why, everybody." "By the way, what is your position?" asked the old lady, pointedly. "Why," said Harold, uneasily, "I am supposed to be rich, as I live in a nice neighborhood on a fashionable street." "That doesn't make you rich, does it?" "No," answered Harold, with hesitation. "You don't feel absolutely obliged to spend more than your allowance, do you?" "Well, you see, the fellows think I am mean if I don't. There's Ben Clark has an allowance of five dollars a week, and he is three months younger than I am." "Then I think his parents or guardians are very unwise. How does he spend his liberal allowance?" "Oh, he has a good time." "I am afraid it isn't the sort of good time I would approve." "Luke has more money than I have, and he is only a newsboy," grumbled Harold. "How do you know?" "I notice he always has money." "I doubt whether he spends half a dollar a week on his own amusement. He has a mother and young brother to support." "He says so!" "So you doubt it?" "It may be true." "If you find it isn't true you can let me know." "I am sorry that you think so much more of Luke than of me," complained Harold. "How do you know I do?" "Mother thinks so as well as I." "Suppose we leave Luke out of consideration. I shall think as much of you as you deserve." Harold rose from his seat. "As you have no errand for me, Aunt Eliza, I will go," he said. Mrs. Merton unlocked a drawer in a work table, took out a pocketbook, and extracted therefrom a ten-dollar-bill. "You have asked me a favor, and I will grant it--for once," she said. "Here are ten dollars." "Thank you," said Harold, joyfully. "I won't even ask how you propose to spend it. I thought of doing so, but it would imply distrust, and for this occasion I won't show any." "You are very kind, Aunt Eliza." "I am glad you think so. You are welcome to the money." Harold left the room in high spirits. He decided not to let his mother know that he had received so large a sum, as she might inquire to what use he intended to put it; and some of his expenditures, he felt pretty sure, would not be approved by her. He left the house, and going downtown, joined a couple of friends of his own stamp. They adjourned to a billiard saloon, and between billiards, bets upon the game, and drinks, Harold managed to spend three dollars before suppertime. Three days later the entire sum given him by his aunt was gone. When Harold made the discovery, he sighed. His dream was over. It had been pleasant as long as it lasted, but it was over too soon. "Now I must go back to my mean allowance," he said to himself, in a discontented tone. "Aunt Eliza might give me ten dollars every week just as well as not. She is positively rolling in wealth, while I have to grub along like a newsboy. Why, that fellow Luke has a great deal more money than I." A little conversation which he had with his Uncle Warner made his discontent more intense. "Hello, Harold, what makes you look so blue?" he asked one day. "Because I haven't got any money," answered Harold. "Doesn't your mother or Aunt Eliza give you any?" "I get a little, but it isn't as much as the other fellows get." "How much?" "Two dollars a week." "It is more than I had when I was of your age." "That doesn't make it any better." "Aunt Eliza isn't exactly lavish; still, she pays Luke Walton generously." "Do you know how much he gets a week?" asked Harold, eagerly. "Ten dollars." "Ten dollars!" ejaculated Harold. "You don't really mean it." "Yes, I do. I saw her pay him that sum yesterday. I asked her if it wasn't liberal. She admitted it, but said he had a mother and brother to support." "It's a shame!" cried Harold, passionately. "Why is it? The money is her own, isn't it?" "She ought not to treat a stranger better than her own nephew." "That means me, I judge," said Warner, smiling. "Well, there isn't anything we can do about it, is there?" "No, I don't know as there is," replied Harold, slowly. But he thought over what his uncle had told him, and it made him very bitter. He brooded over it till it seemed to him as if it were a great outrage. He felt that he was treated with the greatest injustice. He was incensed with his aunt, but still more so with Luke Walton, whom he looked upon as an artful adventurer. It was while he was cherishing these feelings that a great temptation came to him. He found, one day in the street, a bunch of keys of various sizes attached to a small steel ring. He picked it up, and quick as a flash there came to him the thought of the drawer in his aunt's work table, from which he had seen her take out the morocco pocketbook. He had observed that the ten-dollar bill she gave him was only one out of a large roll, and his cupidity was aroused. He rapidly concocted a scheme by which he would be enabled to provide himself with money, and throw suspicion upon Luke. CHAPTER XXIX HAROLD'S THEFT The next morning, Mrs. Merton, escorted by Luke, went to make some purchases in the city. Mrs. Tracy went out, also, having an engagement with one of her friends living on Cottage Grove Avenue. Harold went out directly after breakfast, but returned at half-past ten. He went upstairs and satisfied himself that except the servants, he was alone in the house. "The coast is clear," he said, joyfully. "Now if the key only fits." He went to his aunt's sitting room, and, not anticipating any interruption, directed his steps a once to the small table, from a drawer in which he had seen Mrs. Merton take the morocco pocketbook. He tried one key after another, and finally succeeded in opening the drawer. He drew it out with nervous anxiety, fearing that the pocket-book might have been removed, in which case all his work would have been thrown away. But no! Fortune favored him this time, if it can be called a favor. There, in plain sight, was the morocco pocketbook. Harold, pale with excitement, seized and opened it. His eyes glistened as he saw that it was well filled. He took out the roll of bills, and counted them. There were five ten-dollar bills and three fives--sixty-five dollars in all. There would have been more, but Mrs. Merton, before going out, had taken four fives, which she intended to use. It was Harold's first theft, and he trembled with agitation as he thrust the pocketbook into his pocket. He would have trembled still more if he had known that his mother's confidential maid and seamstress, Felicie Lacouvreur, had seen everything through the crevice formed by the half-open door. Felicie smiled to herself as she moved noiselessly away from her post of concealment. "Master Harold is trying a dangerous experiment," she said to herself. "Now he is in my power. He has been insolent to me more than once, as if he were made of superior clay, but Felicie, though only a poor servant, is not, thank Heaven, a thief, as he is. It is a very interesting drama. I shall wait patiently till it is quite played out." In his hurry, Harold came near leaving the room with the table drawer open. But he bethought himself in time, went back, and locked it securely. It was like shutting the stable door after the horse was stolen. Then, with the stolen money in his possession, he left the house. He did not wish to be found at home when his aunt returned. Harold had sixty-five dollars in his pocket--an amount quite beyond what he had ever before had at his disposal--but it must be admitted that he did not feel as happy as he had expected. If he had come by it honestly--if, for instance, it had been given him--his heart would have beat high with exultation, but as it was, he walked along with clouded brow. Presently he ran across one of his friends, who noticed his discomposure. "What's the matter, Harold?" he asked. "You are in the dumps." "Oh, no," answered Harold, forcing himself to assume a more cheerful aspect. "I have no reason to feel blue." "You are only acting, then? I must congratulate you on your success. You look for all the world like the Knight of the Sorrowful Countenance." "Who is he?" asked Harold, who was not literary. "Don Quixote. Did you never hear of him?" "No." "Then your education has been neglected. What are you going to do to-day?" "I don't know." "Suppose we visit a dime museum?" "All right." "That is, if you have any money. I am high and dry." "Yes, I have some money." They went to a dime museum on Clark Street. Harold surprised his companion by paying for the two tickets out of a five-dollar bill. "You're flush, Harold," said his friend. "Has anybody left you a fortune?" "No," answered Harold, uneasily. "I've been saving up money lately." "You have? Why, I've heard of your being at theaters, playing billiards, and so on." "Look here, Robert Greve, I don't see why you need trouble yourself so much about where I get my money." "Don't be cranky, Harold," said Robert, good-humoredly, "I won't say another word. Only I am glad to find my friends in a healthy financial condition. I only wish I could say the same of myself." There happened to be a matinee at the Grand Opera House, and Harold proposed going. First, however, they took a nice lunch at Brockway & Milan's, a mammoth restaurant on Clark Street, Harold paying the bill. As they came out of the theater, Luke Walton chanced to pass. "Good-afternoon, Harold," he said. Harold tossed his head, but did not reply. "Who is that boy--one of your acquaintances?" asked Robert Greve. "He works for my aunt," answered Harold. "It is like his impudence to speak to me." "Why shouldn't he speak to you, if you know him?" said Robert Greve, who did not share Harold's foolish pride. "He appears to think he is my equal," continued Harold. "He seems a nice boy." "You don't know him as I do. He is a common newsboy." "Suppose he is; that doesn't hurt him, does it?" "You don't know what I mean. You don't think a common newsboy fit to associate with on equal terms, do you?" Robert Greve laughed. "You are too high-toned, Harold," he said. "If he is a nice boy, I don't care what sort of business a friend of mine follows." "Well, I do," snapped Harold, "and so does my mother. I don't believe in being friends with the ragtag and bobtail of society." Luke Walton did not allow his feelings to be hurt by the decided rebuff he had received from Harold. "I owe it to myself to act like a gentleman," he reflected. "If Harold doesn't choose to be polite, it is his lookout, not mine. He looks down upon me because I am a working boy. I don't mean always to be a newsboy or an errand boy. I shall work my way upwards as fast as I can, and, in time, I may come to fill a good place in society." It will be seen that Luke was ambitious. He looked above and beyond the present, and determined to improve his social condition. It was six o'clock when Harold ascended the steps of the mansion on Prairie Avenue. He had devoted the day to amusement, but had derived very little pleasure from the money he had expended. He had very little left of the five-dollar bill which he had first changed at the dime museum. It was not easy to say where his money had gone, but it had melted away, in one shape or another. "I wonder whether Aunt Eliza has discovered her loss," thought Harold. "I hope I shan't show any signs of nervousness when I meet her. I don't see how she can possibly suspect me. If anything is said about the lost pocketbook, I will try to throw suspicion on Luke Walton." Harold did not stop to think how mean this would be. Self-preservation, it has been said, is the first law of nature, and self-preservation required that he should avert suspicion from himself by any means in his power. He went into the house whistling, as if to show that his mind was quite free from care. In the hall he met Felicie. "What do you think has happened, Master Harold?" asked the French maid. "I don't know, I'm sure." "Your aunt has been robbed. Some money has been taken from her room." CHAPTER XXX LUKE WALTON IS SUSPECTED OF THEFT Harold was prepared for the announcement, as he felt confident his aunt would soon discover her loss, but he felt a little nervous, nevertheless. "You don't mean it?" he ejaculated, in well-counterfeited, surprise. "It's a fact." "When did Aunt Eliza discover her loss, Felicie?" "As soon as she got home. She went to her drawer to put back some money she had on hand, and found the pocketbook gone." "Was there much money in it?" "She doesn't say how much." "Well," said Harold, thinking it time to carry on the programme he had determined upon, "I can't say I am surprised." "You are not surprised!" repeated Felicie, slowly. "Why? Do you know anything about it?" "Do I know anything about it?" said Harold, coloring. "What do you mean by that?" "Because you say you are not surprised. I was surprised, and so was the old lady and your mother." "You must be very stupid not to understand what I mean," said Harold, annoyed. "Then I am very stupid, for I do not know at all why you are not surprised." "I mean that the boy Aunt Eliza employs--that boy Luke has taken the money." "Oh, you think the boy, Luke, has taken the money." "Certainly! Why shouldn't he? He is a poor newsboy. It would be a great temptation to him. You know he is always shown into Aunt Eliza's sitting room, and is often there alone." "That is true." "And, of course, nothing is more natural than that he should take the money." "But the drawer was locked." "He had some keys in his pocket, very likely. Most boys have keys." "Oh, most boys have keys. Have you, perhaps, keys, Master Harold?" "It seems to me you are asking very foolish questions, Felicie. I have the key of my trunk." "But do newsboys have trunks? Why should this boy, Luke, have keys? I do not see." "Well, I'll go upstairs," said Harold, who was getting tired of the interview, and rather uneasy at Felicie's remarks and questions. As Felicie had said, Mrs. Merton discovered her loss almost as soon as she came home. She had used but a small part of the money he took with her, and, not caring to carry it about with her, opened the drawer to replace it in the pocketbook. To her surprise the pocketbook had disappeared. Now, the contents of the pocketbook, though a very respectable sum, were not sufficient to put Mrs. Merton to any inconvenience. Still, no one likes to lose money, especially if there is reason to believe that it has been stolen, and Mrs. Merton felt annoyed. She drew out the drawer to its full extent, and examined it carefully in every part, but there was no trace of the morocco pocketbook. She locked the door and went downstairs to her niece. "What's the matter, Aunt Eliza?" asked Mrs. Tracy, seeing, at a glance, from her aunt's expression, that some thing had happened. "There is a thief in the house!" said the old lady, abruptly. "What!" "There is a thief in the house!" "What makes you think so?" "You remember my small work table?" "Yes." "I have been in the habit of keeping a supply of money in a pocketbook in one of the drawers. I just opened the drawer, and the money is gone!" "Was there much money in the pocketbook?" "I happen to know just how much. There were sixty-five dollars." "And you can find nothing of the pocketbook?" "No; that and the money are both gone." "I am sorry for your loss, Aunt Eliza." "I don't care for the money. I shall not miss it. I am amply provided with funds, thanks to Providence. But it is the mystery that puzzles me. Who can have robbed me?" Mrs. Tracy nodded her head significantly. "I don't think there need be any mystery about that," she said, pointedly. "Why not?" "I can guess who robbed you." "Then I should be glad to have you enlighten me, for I am quite at a loss to fix upon the thief." "It's that boy of yours, I haven't a doubt of it." "You mean Luke Walton?" "Yes, the newsboy, whom you have so imprudently trusted." "What are your reasons for thinking he is a thief?" asked the old lady calmly. "He is often alone in the room where the work table stands, is he not?" "Yes; he waits for me there." "What could be easier than for him to open the drawer and abstract the pocketbook?" "It would be possible, but he would have to unlock the drawer." "Probably he took an impression of the lock some day, and had a key made." "You are giving him credit for an unusual amount of cunning." "I always supposed he was sly." "I am aware, Louisa, that you never liked the boy." "I admit that. What has happened seems to show that I was right." "Now you are jumping to conclusions. You decide, without any proof, or even investigation, that Luke took the money." "I feel convinced of it." "It appears to me that you are not treating the boy fairly." "My instinct tells me that it is he who has robbed you." "Instinct would have no weight in law." "If he didn't take it, who did?" asked Mrs. Tracy, triumphantly. "That question is not easy to answer, Louisa." "I am glad you admit so much, Aunt Eliza." "I admit nothing; but I will think over the matter carefully, and investigate." "Do so, Aunt Eliza! In the end you will agree with me." "In the meanwhile, Louisa, there is one thing I must insist upon." "What is that?" "That you leave the matter wholly in my hands." "Certainly, if you wish it." "There are some circumstances connected with the robbery, which I have not mentioned." "What are they?" asked Mrs. Tracy, her face expressing curiosity. "I shall keep them to myself for the present." Mrs. Tracy looked disappointed. "If you mention them to me, I may think of something that would help you." "If I need help in that way, I will come to you." "Meanwhile, shall you continue to employ the boy?" "Yes; why not?" "He might steal something more." "I will risk it." Mrs. Merton returned to her room, and presently Harold entered his mother's presence. "What is this I hear about Aunt Eliza having some money stolen?" he asked. "It is true. She has lost sixty-five dollars." "Felicie told me something about it--that it was taken out of her drawer." Mrs. Tracy went into particulars, unconscious that her son was better informed than herself. "Does aunt suspect anyone?" asked Harold, uneasily. "She doesn't, but I do." "Who is it?" "That boy, Luke Walton." "The very one I thought of," said Harold, eagerly. "Did you mention him to Aunt Eliza?" "Yes; but she is so infatuated with him that she didn't take the suggestion kindly. She has promised to investigate, however, and meanwhile doesn't want us to interfere." "Things are working round as I want them," thought Harold. CHAPTER XXXI WHO STOLE THE MONEY? Did Mrs. Merton suspect anyone of the theft? This is the question which will naturally suggest itself to the reader. No thought of the real thief entered her mind. Though she was fully sensible of Harold's faults, though she knew him to be selfish, bad-tempered, and envious, she did not suppose him capable of theft. The one who occurred to her as most likely to have robbed her was her recently returned nephew, Warner Powell, who had been compelled to leave Chicago years before on account of having yielded to a similar temptation. She knew that he was hard up for money, and it was possible that he had opened the table drawer and abstracted the pocketbook. As to Luke Walton, she was not at all affected by the insinuations of her niece. She knew that Mrs. Tracy and Harold had a prejudice against Luke, and that this would make them ready to believe anything against him. She was curious, however, to hear what Warner had to say about the robbery. Would he, too, try to throw suspicion upon Luke in order to screen himself, if he were the real thief? This remained to be proved. Warner Powell did not return to the house till five o'clock in the afternoon. His sister and Harold hastened to inform him of what had happened, and to communicate their conviction that Luke was the thief. Warner said little, but his own suspicions were different. He went up stairs, and made his aunt a call. "Well, aunt," he said, "I hear that you have been robbed." "Yes, Warner, I have lost some money," answered the old lady, composedly. "Louisa told me." "Yes; she suspects Luke of being the thief. Do you agree with her?" "No, I don't," answered Warner. Mrs. Merton's face brightened, and she looked kindly at Warner. "Then you don't share Louisa's prejudice against Luke?" she said. "No; I like the boy. I would sooner suspect myself of stealing the money, for, you know, Aunt Eliza, that my record is not a good one, and I am sure Luke is an honest boy." Mrs. Merton's face fairly beamed with delight. She understood very well the low and unworthy motives which influenced her niece and Harold, and it was a gratifying surprise to find that her nephew was free from envy and jealousy. "Warner," she said, "what you say does you credit. In this particular case I happen to know that Luke is innocent." "You don't, know the real thief?" asked Warner. "No; but my reason for knowing that Luke is innocent I will tell you. The money was safe in my drawer when I went out this morning. It was taken during my absence from the house. Luke was with me during this whole time. Of course, it is impossible that he should be the thief." "I see. Did you tell Louisa this?" "No; I am biding my time. Besides, I am more likely to find the real thief if it is supposed that Luke is under suspicion." "Tell me truly, Aunt Eliza, didn't you suspect me?" "Since you ask me, Warner, I will tell you frankly that it occurred to me as possible that you might have yielded to temptation." "It would have been a temptation, for I have but twenty-five cents. But even if I had known where you kept your money (which I didn't), I would have risked applying to you for a loan, or gift, as it would have turned out to be, rather than fall back into my old disreputable ways." "I am very much encouraged by what you say, Warner. Here are ten dollars. Use it judiciously; try to obtain employment, and when it is gone, you may let me know." "Aunt Eliza, you are kinder to me than I deserve. I will make a real effort to secure employment, and will not abuse your confidence." "Keep that promise, Warner, and I will be your friend. One thing more: don't tell Louisa what has passed between us. I can, at any time, clear Luke, but for the present I will let her think I am uncertain on that point. I shall not forget that you took the boy's part where your sister condemned him." "Louisa and Harold can see no good in the boy; but I have observed him carefully, and formed my own opinion." Warner could have done nothing better calculated to win his aunt's favor than to express a favorable opinion of Luke. It must be said, however, in justice to him, that this had not entered into his calculations. He really felt kindly towards the boy whom his sister denounced as "sly and artful," and liked him much better than his own nephew, Harold, who, looking upon Warner as a poor relation, had not thought it necessary to treat him with much respect or attention. He had a better heart and a better disposition than Mrs. Tracy or Harold, notwithstanding his early shortcomings. "Who could have been the thief?" Warner asked himself, as he left his aunt's sitting room. "Could it have been Harold?" He resolved to watch his nephew carefully and seek some clew that would lead to a solution of the mystery. "I hope it isn't my nephew," he said to himself. "I don't want him to follow in the steps of his scapegrace uncle. But I would sooner suspect him than Luke Walton. They say blood is thicker than water, but I confess that I like the newsboy better than I do my high-toned nephew." "Have you made any discovery of the thief, Aunt Eliza?" asked Mrs. Tracy, as her aunt seated herself at the evening repast. "Nothing positive," answered the old lady, significantly. "Have you discovered anything at all?" "I have discovered who is not the thief," said Mrs. Merton. "Then you had suspicions?" "No definite suspicions." "Wouldn't it be well to talk the matter freely over with me? Something might be suggested." "I beg your pardon, Louisa, but I think it would be well to banish this disagreeable matter from our table talk. If I should stand in need of advice, I will consult you." "I don't want to obtrude my advice, but I will venture to suggest that you call in a private detective." Harold looked alarmed. "I wouldn't bother with a detective," he said. "They don't know half as much as they pretend." "I am inclined to agree with Harold," said Mrs. Merton. "I will act as my own detective." Save for the compliment to Harold, Mrs. Tracy was not pleased with this speech of her aunt. "At any rate," she said, "you would do well to keep a strict watch over that boy, Luke Walton." "I shall," answered the old lady, simply. Mrs. Tracy looked triumphant. Warner kept silent, but a transient smile passed over his face as he saw how neatly Aunt Eliza had deceived his astute sister. "What do you think, Warner?" asked Mrs. Tracy, desirous of additional support. "I think Aunt Eliza will get at the truth sooner or later. Of course I will do anything to help her, but I don't want to interfere." "Don't you think she ought to discharge Luke?" "If she did, she would have no chance of finding out whether he was guilty or not." "That is true. I did not think of that." "Warner is more sensible than any of you," said Mrs. Merton. "I am glad you have changed your opinion of him," said Mrs. Tracy, sharply. She was now beginning to be jealous of her scapegrace brother. "So am I," said Warner, smiling. "At the same time I don't blame aunt for her former opinion." The next morning Harold was about leaving the house, when Felicie, the French maid, came up softly, and said: "Master Harold, may I have a word with you?" "I am in a hurry," said Harold, impatiently. "It is about the stolen money," continued Felicie, in her soft voice. "You had better listen to what I have to say. I have found out who took it." Harold's heart gave a sudden thump, and his face indicated dismay. CHAPTER XXXII HAROLD AND FELICIE MAKE AN ARRANGEMENT "You have found out who took the money?" stammered Harold. "Yes." "I didn't think it would be found out so soon," said Harold, trying to recover his equanimity. "Of course it was taken by Luke Walton." "You are quite mistaken," said Felicie. "Luke Walton did not take it." Harold's heart gave another thump. He scented danger, but remained silent. "You don't ask me who took the money?" said Felicie, after a pause. "Because I don't believe you know," returned Harold, "You've probably got some suspicion?" "I have more than that. The person who took the money was seen at his work." Harold turned pale. "There is no use in mincing matters," continued Felicie. "You took the money." "What do you mean by such impertinence?" gasped Harold. "It is no impertinence. If you doubt my knowledge, I'll tell you the particulars. You opened the drawer with one of a bunch of keys which you took from your pocket, took out a morocco pocketbook, opened it and counted the roll of bills which it contained, then put the pocketbook into your pocket, locked the drawer and left the room." "That's a fine story," said Harold, forcing himself to speak. "I dare say all this happened, only you were the one who opened the drawer." "I saw it all through a crack in the half-open door," continued Felicie, not taking the trouble to answer his accusation. "If you want further proof, suppose you feel in your pocket. I presume the pocketbook is there at this moment." Instinctively Harold put his hand into his pocket, then suddenly withdrew it, as if his fingers were burned, for the pocketbook was there as Felicie had said. "There is one thing more," said Felicie, as she drew from her pocket a bunch of keys. "I found this bunch of keys in your room this morning." "They are not mine," answered Harold, hastily. "I don't know anything about that. They are the ones you had in your hand when you opened the drawer. I think this is the key you used." "The keys belong to you!" asserted Harold, desperately. "Thank you for giving them to me, but I shall have no use for them," said Felicie, coolly. "And now, Master Harold, do you want to know why I have told you this little story?" "Yes," answered Harold, feebly. "Because I think it will be for our mutual advantage to come to an understanding. I don't want to inform your aunt of what I have seen unless you compel me to do so." "How should I compel you to do so?" stammered Harold, uneasily. "Step into the parlor, where we can talk comfortably. Your aunt is upstairs, and your mother is out, so that no one will hear us." Harold felt that he was in the power of the cunning Felicie, and he followed her unresistingly. "Sit down on the sofa, and we will talk at our ease. I will keep silent about this matter, and no one else knows a word about it, if----" "Well?" "If you will give me half the money." "But," said Harold, who now gave up the pretense of denial, "I have spent part of it." "You have more than half of it left?" "Yes." "Give me thirty dollars and I will be content. I saw you count it. There were sixty-five dollars." "I don't see what claim you have to it," said Harold, angrily. "I have as much as you," answered Felicie, coolly. "Still, if you prefer to go to your aunt, own up that you took it, and take the consequences, I will agree not to interfere. But if I am to keep the secret, I want to be paid for it." Harold thought it over; he hated to give up so large a part of his plunder, for he had appropriated it in his own mind to certain articles which he wished to purchase. "I'll give you twenty dollars," he said. "No, I will take thirty dollars, or go to your aunt and tell her all I know." There was no help for it. Poor Harold took out three ten-dollar bills, reluctantly enough, and gave them to Felicie. "All right, Master Harold! You've done wisely. I thought you would see matters in the right light. Think how shocked your mother and Aunt Eliza would be if they had discovered that you were the thief." "Don't use such language, Felicie!" said Harold, wincing. "There is no need to refer to it again." "As you say, Master Harold. I won't detain you any longer from your walk," and Felicie, with a smile, rose from the sofa and left the room, Harold following. "Don't disturb yourself any more," she said, as she opened the door for Harold. "It will never be known. Besides, your aunt can well afford to lose this little sum. She is actually rolling in wealth. She ought to be more liberal to you." "So she ought, Felicie. If she had, this would not have happened." "Very true. At the same time, I don't suppose a jury would accept this as an excuse." "Why do you say such things, Felicie? What has a jury got to do with me?" "Nothing, I hope. Still, if it were a poor boy that had taken the money, Luke Walton, for instance, he might have been arrested. Excuse me, I see this annoys you. Let me give you one piece of advice, Master Harold." "What is it?" "Get rid of that morocco pocketbook as soon as you can. If it were found on you, or you should be careless, and leave it anywhere, you would give yourself away, my friend." "You are right, Felicie," said Harold, hurriedly. "Good-morning!" "Good-morning, and a pleasant walk, my friend," said Felicie, mockingly. When Harold was fairly out in the street, he groaned in spirit. He had lost half the fruits of his theft, and his secret had become known. Felicie had proved too much for him, and he felt that he hated her. "I wish I could get mother to discharge her, with out her knowing that it was I who had brought it about. I shall not feel safe as long as she is in the house. Why didn't I have the sense to shut and lock the door? Then she wouldn't have seen me." Then the thought of the morocco pocketbook occurred to him. He felt that Felicie was right--that it was imprudent to carry it around. He must get rid of it in some way. He took the money out and put it in another pocket. The pocketbook he replaced till he should have an opportunity of disposing of it. Hardly had he made these preparations when he met Luke Walton, who had started unusually early, and was walking towards the house. An idea came to Harold. "Good-morning, Luke!" he said, in an unusually friendly tone. "Good-morning, Harold!" answered Luke, agreeably surprised by the other's cordiality. "Are you going out with Aunt Eliza this morning?" "I am not sure whether she will want to go out. I shall call and inquire." "You seem to be quite a favorite of hers." "I hope I am. She always treats me kindly." "I really believe she thinks more of you than she does of me." "You mustn't think that," said Luke, modestly. "You are a relation, and I am only in her employ." "Oh, it doesn't trouble me. I am bound for the city. I think I shall take the next car, good-day!" "Good-day, Harold!" Luke walked on, quite unconscious that Harold, as he passed by his side, had managed to slip the morocco wallet into the pocket of his sack coat. CHAPTER XXXIII HAROLD'S PLOT FAILS Luke wore a sack coat with side pockets. It was this circumstance that had made it easy for Harold to transfer the wallet unsuspected to his pocket. Quite ignorant of what had taken place, Luke kept on his way to Mrs. Merton's house. He rang the bell, and on being admitted, went up, as usual, to the room of his patroness. "Good morning, Luke," said Mrs. Merton, pleasantly. "Good-morning," responded Luke. "I don't think I shall go out this morning, and I don't think of any commission, so you will have a vacation." "I am afraid I am not earning my money, Mrs. Merton. You make it very easy for me." "At any rate, Luke, the money is cheerfully given, and I have no doubt you find it useful. How are you getting along?" "Very well, indeed! I have just made the last payment on mother's machine, and now we owe nothing, except, perhaps, for the rent, and only a week has gone by on the new month." "You seem to be a good manager, Luke. You succeed in keeping your money, while I have not always found it easy. Yesterday, for instance, I lost sixty-five dollars." "How was that?" inquired Luke, with interest. "The drawer in which I keep a pocketbook was unlocked, and this, with its contents, was stolen." "Don't you suspect anyone?" "I did, but he has cleared himself, in my opinion. It is possible it was one of the servants." At this moment Luke pulled his handkerchief from his side pocket and with it came the morocco pocketbook, which fell on the carpet. Mrs. Merton uttered an exclamation of surprise. "Why, that is the very pocketbook!" she said. Luke stooped and picked it up, with an expression of bewilderment on his face. "I don't understand it," he said. "I never saw that pocketbook before in my life." "Please hand it to me." Luke did so. "Yes, that is the identical pocketbook," said the old lady. "And it came from my pocket?" Yes." "Is there any money in it, Mrs. Merton." Mrs. Merton opened it, and shook her head. That has been taken out," she answered. "I hope you won't think I took the money," said Luke, with a troubled look. "I know you did not. It was taken while we were out together yesterday. The last thing before I left the house I locked the drawer, and the pocketbook with the money inside was there. When I returned it was gone." "That is very mysterious. I don't understand how the pocketbook came in my pocket." "Someone must have put it there who wished you to be suspected of the theft." "Yes," said Luke, eagerly. "I see." Then he stopped suddenly, for what he was about to say would throw suspicion upon Harold. "Well, go on!" "I don't know that I ought to speak. It might throw suspicion on an innocent person." "Speak! It is due to me. I will judge on that point. Who has had the chance of putting the wallet into your pocket?" "I will speak if you insist upon it, Mrs. Merton," said Luke, reluctantly. "A few minutes since I met Harold on the street. We were bound in opposite directions. He surprised me by stopping me, and addressing me quite cordially. We stood talking together two or three minutes." "Did he have an opportunity of putting the wallet in your pocket?" "He might have done so, but I was not conscious of it." "Let me think!" said the old lady, slowly. "Harold knew where I kept my money, for I opened the drawer in his presence the other day, and he saw me take a bill from the pocketbook. I did not think him capable of robbing me." "Perhaps he did not," said Luke. "It may be explained in some other way." "Can you think of any other way?" asked the old lady. "Suppose a servant had taken the money, and left the pocketbook somewhere where Harold found it----" "Even in that case, why should he put it in your pocket?" "He does not like me. He might wish to throw suspicion upon me." "That would be very mean." "I think it would, but still he might not be a thief." "I would sooner excuse a thief. It is certainly disreputable to steal, but it is not necessarily mean or contemptible. Trying to throw suspicion on an innocent person would be both." Luke remained silent, for nothing occurred to him to say. He did not wish to add to Mrs. Merton's resentment against Harold. After a moment's thought the old lady continued: "Leave the pocketbook with me, and say nothing about what has happened till I give you leave." "Very well." Mrs. Merton took the pocketbook, replaced it in the drawer, and carefully locked it. "Someone must have a key that will open this drawer," she said. "I should like to know who it is." "Do you think anyone will open it again?" asked Luke. "No; it will be supposed that I will no longer keep money there. I think, however, I will sooner or later find out who opened it." "I hope it won't prove to be Harold." "I hope so, too. I would not like to think so near a relative a thief. Well, Luke, I won't detain you here any longer. You may come to-morrow, as usual." "It is lucky Mrs. Merton has confidence in me," thought Luke. "Otherwise she might have supposed me to be the thief. What a mean fellow Harold Tracy is, to try to have an innocent boy suspected of such a crime." As he was going out of the front door, Mrs. Tracy entered. She cast a withering glance at Luke. "Have you seen my aunt this morning?" she asked. "Yes, madam." "I wonder you had the face to stand in her presence." It must be said, in justification of Mrs. Tracy, that she really believed that Luke had stolen Mrs. Merton's money. "I know of no reason why I should not," said Luke, calmly. "Will you be kind enough to explain what you mean?" "You know well enough," retorted Mrs. Tracy, nodding her head venomously. "Mrs. Merton appears to be well satisfied with me," said Luke, quietly. "When she is not, she will tell me so, and I shall never come again." "You are the most brazen boy I know of. Why it is that my aunt is so infatuated with you, I can't for my part, pretend to understand." "If you will allow me, I will bid you good-morning," said Luke, with quiet dignity. Mrs. Tracy did not reply, and Luke left the house. "If I ever hated and despised a boy, it is that one!" said Mrs. Tracy to herself as she went upstairs to remove her street dress. "I wish I could strip the mask from him, and get aunt to see him in his real character. He is a sly, artful young adventurer. Ah, Felicie, come and assist me. By the way, I want you to watch that boy who has just gone out?" "Luke Walton?" "Yes; of course you have heard of my aunt's loss. I suspect that this Luke Walton is the thief." "Is it possible, madam? Have you any evidence?" "No; but we may find some. What do you think?" "I haven't thought much about the matter. It seems to me very mysterious." When Felicie left the presence of her mistress she smiled curiously. "What would Madam Tracy say if she knew it was her own son?" she soliloquized. "He is a young cur, but she thinks him an angel." CHAPTER XXXIV HAROLD MAKES A PURCHASE Harold had been compelled to give up half his money, but he still had thirty dollars left. How should he invest it? That was the problem that occupied his thoughts. Thus far he had not derived so much satisfaction from the possession of the money as he had anticipated. One thing, at any rate, he resolved. He would not spend it upon others, but wholly upon himself. He stepped into a billiard saloon to enjoy his favorite pastime. In the absence of any companion he played a game with a man employed in the establishment, and, naturally, got beaten, though he was given odds. At the end of an hour he owed sixty cents, and decided not to continue. "You play too well for me," he said, in a tone of disappointment. "You had bad luck," answered his opponent, soothingly. "However, I can more than make it up to you." "How?" inquired Harold, becoming interested. "A friend of mine has pawned his watch for fifteen dollars. It is a valuable gold watch--cost seventy-five. He could have got more on it, but expected to redeem it. He has been in bad luck, and finds it no use. He has put the ticket in my hands, and is willing to sell it for ten dollars. That will only make the watch cost twenty-five. It's a big bargain for somebody." Harold was much interested. He had always wanted a gold watch, and had dropped more than one hint to that effect within the hearing of Aunt Eliza, but the old lady had always said: "When you are eighteen, it will be time enough to think of a gold watch. Till then, your silver watch will do." Harold took a different view of the matter, and his desire for a gold watch had greatly increased since a school friend about his own age had one. For this reason he was considerably excited by the chance that seems to present itself. "You are sure the watch is a valuable one?" he asked. "Yes; I have seen it myself." "Then why don't you buy the ticket yourself?" "I haven't the money. If I had, I wouldn't let anybody else have it." "Let me see the ticket." The other produced it from his vest pocket, but, of course, this threw no light upon the quality of the watch. "I can secure the watch, and have nearly five dollars left," thought Harold. "It is surely worth double the price it will cost me, and then I shall have something to show for my money." On the other hand, his possession of the watch would excite surprise at home, and he would be called upon to explain how he obtained it. This, however, did not trouble Harold. "I've a great mind to take it," he said, slowly. "You can't do any better. To tell the truth, I hate to let it go, but I don't see any prospect of my being able to get it out myself, and my friend needs the money." Harold hesitated a moment, then yielded to the inducement offered. "Give me the ticket," he said. "Here is the money." As he spoke, he produced a ten-dollar bill. In return, the ticket was handed to him. The pawnbroker, whose name was found on the ticket, was located less than fifteen minutes walk from the billiard saloon. Harold, eager to secure the watch, went directly there. "Well, young man, what can I do for you?" asked a small man, with wrinkled face and blinking eyes. "I want to redeem my watch. Here is the ticket." The old man glanced at the ticket, then went to a safe, and took out the watch. Here were kept the articles of small bulk and large value. Harold took out fifteen dollars which he had put in his vest pocket for the purpose, and tendered them to the pawnbroker. "I want a dollar and a half more," said the old man. "What for?" asked Harold, in surprise. "One month's interest. You don't think I do business for nothing, do you?" "Isn't that high?" asked Harold, and not without reason. "It's our regular charge, young man. Ten per cent a month--that's what we all charge." This statement was correct. Though the New York pawnbroker is allowed to charge but three per cent a month, his Chicago associate charges more than three times as much. There was nothing for it but to comply with the terms demanded, and Harold reluctantly handed out the extra sum. "You ought to have a watch chain, my friend," said the pawnbroker. "I should like one, but I cannot afford it." "I can give you a superior article--rolled gold--for a dollar." "Let me see it!" The chain was displayed. It looked very well; and certainly set off the watch to better advantage. Harold paid down the dollar, and went out of the pawn broker's with a gold watch, and chain of the same color, with only two dollars left of his ill-gotten money. This was somewhat inconvenient, but he rejoiced in the possession of the watch and chain. "Now Ralph Kennedy can't crow over me," he soliloquized. "I've got a gold watch as well as he." As he left the pawnbroker's, he did not observe a familiar face and figure on the opposite side of the street. It was Warner Powell, his mother's brother, who recognized, with no little surprise, his nephew, coming from such a place. "What on earth has carried Harold to a pawn broker's?" he asked himself. Then he caught sight of the watch chain, and got a view of the watch, as Harold drew it out ostentatiously to view his new acquisition. "There is some mystery here," he said to himself. "I must investigate." He waited till Harold was at a safe distance, then crossed the street, and entered the pawnbroker's. "There was a boy just went out of here," he said to the old man. "Suppose there was," returned the pawnbroker, suspiciously. "What was he doing here?" "Is that any of your business?" "My friend, I have nothing to do with you, and no complaint to make against you, but the boy is my nephew, and I want to know whether he got a watch and chain here." "Yes; he presented a ticket, and I gave him the watch." "Is it one he pawned himself?" "I don't know. He had the ticket. I can't remember everybody that deals with me." "Can you tell me how much the watch and chain were pawned for?" "The watch was pawned for fifteen dollars. I sold him the chain for a dollar." "All right. Thank you." "It's all right?" "Yes, so far as you are concerned. How long had the watch been in?" "For three weeks." Warner Powell left the shop, after obtaining all the information he required. "It is Harold who robbed Aunt Eliza," he said to himself. "I begin to think my precious nephew is a rogue." Meanwhile, Harold, eager to ascertain the value of his watch, stepped into a jeweler's. "Can you tell me the value of this watch?" he inquired. The jeweler opened it, and after a brief examination, said: "When new it probably cost thirty-five dollars." Harold's countenance fell. "I was told that it was a seventy-five dollar watch," he said. "Then you were cheated." "But how can such a large watch be afforded for thirty-five dollars?" "It is low-grade gold, not over ten carats, and the works are cheap. Yet, it'll keep fair time." Harold was very much disappointed. CHAPTER XXXV A SKILLFUL INVENTION When he came to think it over, Harold gradually recovered his complacence. It was a gold watch, after all, and no one would know that the gold was low grade. He met one or two acquaintances, who immediately took notice of the chain and asked to see the watch. They complimented him on it, and this gave him satisfaction. When he reached home, he went directly upstairs to his room, and only came down when he heard the supper bell. As he entered the dining room his mother was the first to notice the watch chain. "Have you been buying a watch chain, Harold?" she asked. "I have something besides," said Harold, and he produced the watch. Mrs. Tracy uttered an exclamation of surprise, and Mrs. Merton and Warner exchanged significant glances. "How came you by the watch and chain?" asked Mrs. Tracy, uneasily. "They were given to me," answered Harold. "But that is very strange. Aunt Eliza, you have not given Harold a watch, have you?" "No, Louisa. I think a silver watch is good enough for a boy of his age." "Why don't you ask me, Louisa?" said Warner, smiling. "I don't imagine your circumstances will admit of such a gift." "You are right. I wish they did. Harold, we are all anxious to know the name of the benevolent individual who has made you such a handsome present. If you think he has any more to spare, I should be glad if you would introduce me." "I will explain," said Harold, glibly. "I was walking along Dearborn Street about two o'clock, when I saw a gentleman a little in advance of me. He had come from the Commercial Bank, I judge, for it was not far from there I came across him. By some carelessness he twitched a wallet stuffed with notes from his pocket. A rough-looking fellow sprang to get it, but I was too quick for him. I picked it up, and hurrying forward, handed it to the gentleman. He seemed surprised and pleased. "'My boy,' he said, 'you have done me a great service. That wallet contained fifteen hundred dollars. I should have lost it but for you. Accept this watch and chain as a mark of my deep gratitude.' "With that, he took the watch from his pocket, and handed it to me. I was not sure whether I ought to take it, but I have long wanted a gold watch, and he seemed well able to afford the gift, so I took it." Mrs. Tracy never thought of doubting this plausible story. "Harold," she said, "I am proud of you. I think there was no objection to accepting the watch. What do you say, Aunt Eliza?" "Let me look at the watch, Harold," said the old lady, not replying to her niece's question. Harold passed it over complacently. He rather plumed himself on the ingenious story he had invented. "What do you think of it, Warner?" asked Mrs. Merton, passing it to her nephew. "It is rather a cheap watch for a rich man to carry," answered Warner, taking it in his hand and opening it. "I am sure it is quite a handsome watch," said Mrs. Tracy. "Yes, it is large and showy, but it is low-grade gold." "Of course, I don't know anything about that," said Harold. "At any rate, it is gold and good enough for me." "No doubt of that," said the old lady, dryly. "Rich men don't always carry expensive watches," said Mrs. Tracy. "They are often plain in their tastes." "This watch is rather showy," said Warner. "It can't be called plain." "At any rate, Harold has reason to be satisfied. I am glad he obtained the watch in so creditable a manner. If it had been your protege, Aunt Eliza, I suspect he would have kept the money," "I don't think so, Louisa," said Mrs. Merton, quietly. "I have perfect confidence in Luke's honesty." "In spite of your lost pocketbook?" "Yes; there is nothing to connect Luke with that." Harold thought he ought to get the advantage of the trick played upon Luke in the morning. "I don't know as I ought to say anything," he said, hesitating, "but I met Luke this morning, and if I am not very much mistaken, I saw in his pocket a wallet that looked very much like aunt's. You know he wears a sack coat, and has a pocket on each side." Again Mrs. Merton and Warner exchanged glances. "This is important!" said Mrs. Tracy, in excitement. "Did you speak to him on the subject?" "No." "Why not?" "I thought he might be innocent, and I didn't want to bring a false charge against him." "You are very considerate," said Mrs. Merton. "That seems quite conclusive, Aunt Eliza," said Mrs. Tracy, triumphantly. "I am sure Warner will agree with me." "As to that, Louisa," said her brother, "Harold is not certain it was aunt's lost pocketbook." "But he thinks it was----" "Yes, I think it was" "For my own part, I have no doubt on the subject," said Mrs. Tracy, in a positive tone. "He is the person most likely to take the money, and this makes less proof needful." "But, suppose, after all, he is innocent," suggested Warner. "You seem to take the boy's side, Warner. I am surprised at you." "I want him to have a fair chance, that is all. I must say that I have been favorably impressed by what I have seen of the boy." "At any rate, I think Aunt Eliza ought to question him sternly, not accepting any evasion or equivocation. He has been guilty of base ingratitude." "Supposing him to be guilty?" "Yes, of course." "I intend to investigate the matter," said the old lady. "What do you think, Harold? Do you think it probable that Luke opened my drawer, and took out the pocket-book?" "It looks very much like it," said Harold. "Certainly it does," said Mrs. Tracy, with emphasis. "Suppose we drop the conversation for the time being," suggested the old lady. "Harold has not wholly gratified our curiosity as to the watch and chain. Do you know, Harold, who the gentleman is to whom you rendered such an important service?" "No, Aunt Eliza, I did not learn his name." "What was his appearance? Describe him." "He was a tall man," answered Harold, in a tone of hesitation. "Was he an old or a young man?" "He was an old man with gray hair. He walked very erect." "Should you know him again, if you saw him?" "Yes, I think so." "Then, perhaps, we may have an opportunity of ascertaining who he was. My broker will probably know him from your description." "Why do you want to find out who he is?" asked Harold, uneasily. "Don't you think I ought to keep the watch?" "I have a feeling of curiosity on the subject. As to keeping it, I don't think the gentleman will be likely to reclaim it." "Of course not. Why should he?" said Mrs. Tracy. "He gave it freely, and it would be very strange if he wished it back." Here the conversation dropped, much to Harold's relief. Warner accompanied his aunt from the room. "What do you think of Harold's story, Warner?" asked the old lady. "It is very ingenious." "But not true?" "No; he got the watch and chain from a pawnbroker. I saw him come out of the shop, and going in, questioned the pawnbroker. He must have got the ticket somewhere." "Then it seems that Harold is not only a thief, but a liar." "My dear aunt, let us not be too hard upon him. This is probably his first offense: I feel like being charitable, for I have been in the same scrape." "I can overlook theft more easily than his attempt to blacken the reputation of Luke," said Mrs. Merton, sternly. CHAPTER XXXVI WARNER POWELL STARTS ON A JOURNEY Thanks to the liberal compensation received from Mrs. Merton, Luke was enabled to supply his mother and Bennie with all the comforts they required, and even to put by two dollars a week. This he did as a measure of precaution, for he did not know how long the engagement at the house on Prairie Avenue would last. If he were forced to fall back on his earnings as a newsboy, the family would fare badly. This might happen, for he found himself no nearer securing the favor of Harold and his mother. The manner of the latter was particularly unpleasant when they met, and Harold scarcely deigned to speak to him. On the other hand, Warner Powell showed himself very friendly. He often took the opportunity to join Luke when he was leaving the house, and chat pleasantly with him. Luke enjoyed his companionship, because Warner was able to tell him about Australia and California, with both of which countries Mrs. Tracy's brother was familiar. "Mother," said Harold, one day, "Uncle Warner seems very thick with that newsboy. I have several times seen them walking together." Mrs. Tracy frowned, for the news displeased her. "I am certainly very much surprised. I should think my brother might find a more congenial and suitable companion than Aunt Eliza's hired boy. I will speak to him about it." She accordingly broached the subject to Warner Powell, expressing herself with emphasis. "Listen, Louisa," said Warner, "don't you think I am old enough to choose my own company?" "It doesn't seem so," retorted Mrs. Tracy, with a smile. "At any rate, I don't need any instructions on that point." "As my guest, you certainly ought to treat me with respect." "So I do. But I don't feel bound to let you regulate my conduct." "You know what cause I have--we both have--to dislike this boy." "I don't dislike him." "Then you ought to." "He is in Aunt Eliza's employment. While he remains so, I shall treat him with cordiality." "You are blind as a mole!" said Mrs. Tracy, passionately. "You can't see that he is trying to work his way into aunt's affections." "I think he has done so already. She thinks a great deal of him." "When you find her remembering him in her will, you may come over to my opinion." "She is quite at liberty to remember him in her will, so far as I am concerned. There will be enough for us, even if she does leave Luke a legacy." "I see you are incorrigible. I am sorry I invited you to remain in my house. "I was under the impression that it was Aunt Eliza's house. You are claiming too much, Louisa." Mrs. Tracy bit her lip, and was compelled to give up her attempt to secure her brother's allegiance. She contented herself with treating him with formal politeness, abstaining from all show of cordiality. This was carried on so far that it attracted the attention of Mrs. Merton. "What is the trouble between you and Louisa?" she asked one day. Warner laughed. "She thinks I am too intimate with your boy, Luke." "I don't understand." "I often walk with Luke either on his way to or from the house. Harold has reported this to his mother, and the result is a lecture as to the choice of proper companions from my dignified sister." Mrs. Merton smiled kindly on her nephew. "Then you don't propose to give up Luke?" she said. "No; I like the boy. He is worth a dozen Harolds. Perhaps I ought not to say this, for Harold is my nephew and they say blood is thicker than water. However, it is a fact, nevertheless, that I like Luke the better of the two." "I shall not blame you for saying that, Warner," returned the old lady. "I am glad that one of the family, at least, is free from prejudice. To what do you attribute Louisa's dislike of Luke?" "I think, aunt, you are shrewd enough to guess the reason without appealing to me." "Still, I would like to hear it from your lips." "In plain words, then, Louisa is afraid you will remember Luke in your will." "She doesn't think I would leave everything to him, does she?" "She objects to your leaving anything. If it were only five hundred dollars she would grudge it." "Louisa was always selfish," said Mrs. Merton, quietly. "I have always known that. She is not wise, however. She does not understand that I am a very obstinate old woman, and am more likely to take my own way if opposed." "That's right, aunt! You are entitled to have your own way, and I for one am the last to wish to interfere with you." "You will not fare any the worse for that! And now, Warner, tell me what are your chances of employment?" "I wished to speak to you about that, aunt. There is a gentleman in Milwaukee who has a branch office in Chicago, and I understand that he wants someone to represent him here. His present agent is about to resign his position, and I think I have some chance of obtaining the place. It will be necessary for me, however, to go to Milwaukee to see him in person." "Go, then, by all means," said Mrs. Merton. "I will defray your expenses." "Thank you very much, aunt. You know that I have little money of my own. But there is another thing indispensable, and that I am afraid you would not be willing to do for me." "What is it, Warner?" "I shall have charge of considerable money belonging to my employer, and I learn from the present agent that I shall have to get someone to give bonds for me in the sum of ten thousand dollars." "Very well! I am willing to stand your security." Warner looked surprised and gratified. "Knowing how dishonestly I have acted in the past?" he said. "The past is past. You are a different man, I hope and believe." "Aunt Eliza, you shall never regret the generous confidence you are willing to repose in me. It is likely to open for me a new career, and to make a new man of me." "That is my desire, Warner. Let me add that I am only following your own example. You have refused to believe evil of Luke, unlike your sister, and have not been troubled by the kindness I have shown him. This is something I remember to your credit." "Thank you, aunt. If you have been able to discover anything creditable in me, I am all the more pleased." "How much will this position pay you, supposing you get it?" "Two thousand dollars a year. To me that will be a competence. I shall be able to save one-half, for I have given up my former expensive tastes, and am eager to settle down to a steady and methodical business life." "When do you want to go to Milwaukee, Warner?" "I should like to go at once." "Here is some money to defray your expenses." Mrs. Merton opened her table drawer, and took out a roll of bills amounting to fifty dollars. "I wish you good luck!" she said. "Thank you, aunt! I shall take the afternoon train to Milwaukee, and sleep there to-night." Warner Powell hastened to catch the train, and, at six o'clock in the evening, landed, with a large number of fellow passengers, in the metropolis of Wisconsin. CHAPTER XXXVII THOMAS BROWNING'S SECRET Warner Powell had learned wisdom and prudence with his increasing years, and, instead of inquiring for the best hotel, was content to put up at a humbler hostelry, where he would be comfortable. He made the acquaintance on the cars of a New York drummer, with whom he became quite sociable. "I suppose you have been in Milwaukee often," said Warner. "I go there once a year--sometimes twice." "Where do you stay?" "At the Prairie Hotel. It is a comfortable house--two dollars a day." "Just what I want. I will go there." So, at quarter-past six. Warner Powell found himself in the office of the hotel. He was assigned a room on the third floor. After making his toilet, he went down to supper. At the table with him were two gentlemen who, from their conversation, appeared to be residents of the city. They were discussing the coming municipal election. "I tell you, Browning will be our mayor," said one. "His reputation as a philanthropist will elect him." "I never took much stock in his claims on that score." "He belongs to all the charitable societies, and is generally an officer." "That may be; how much does he give himself?" "I don't know. I suppose he is a liberal subscriber." "He wants to give that impression, but the man is as selfish as the average. He is said to be a hard landlord, and his tenants get very few favors." "I am surprised to hear that." "He is trading on his philanthropy. It would be interesting to learn where his wealth came from. I should not be surprised if he were more smart than honest." Warner Powell found himself getting interested in this Browning. Was he really a good man, who was unjustly criticised, or was he a sham philanthropist, as charged? "After all, it doesn't concern me," he said to himself. "The good people of Milwaukee may choose whom they please for mayor so far as I am concerned." After supper Warner stepped up to the cigar stand to buy a cigar. This, as the reader will remember, was kept by Jack King, an old California acquaintance of Thomas Browning, whose first appearance in our story was in the character of a tramp and would-be burglar. "Is business good?" asked Warner, pleasantly. "It is fair; but it seems slow to a man like myself, who has made a hundred dollars a day at the mines in California." "I have been in California myself," said Powell, "but it was recently, and no such sums were to be made in my time." "That is true. It didn't last with me. I have noticed that even in the flush times few brought much money away with them, no matter how lucky they were." "There must become exceptions, however." "There were. We have a notable example in Milwaukee." "To whom do you refer?" "To Thomas Browning, the man who is up for mayor." Jack King laughed. "I've heard a lot of talk about that man. He's very honest and very worthy, I hear." "They call him so," he answered. "I am afraid you are jealous of that good man," said Warner, smiling. "I may be jealous of his success, but not of his reputation or his moral qualities." "Then you don't admire him as much as the public generally?" "No, I know him too well." "He is really rich, is he not?" "Yes, that is, he is worth, perhaps, two hundred thousand dollars." "That would satisfy me." "Or me. But I doubt whether the money was creditably gained." "Do you know anything about it? Were you an acquaintance of his?" "Yes; I can remember him when he was only a rough miner. I never heard that he was very lucky, but he managed to take considerable money East with him." Warner eyed Jack King attentively. "You suspect something," he said, shrewdly. "I do. There was one of our acquaintances who had struck it rich, and accumulated about ten thousand dollars. Browning was thick with him, and I always suspected that when he found himself on his deathbed, he intrusted all his savings to Butler----" "I thought you were speaking of Browning?" "His name was Butler then. He has changed it since. But, as I was saying, I think he intrusted his money to Browning to take home to his family." "Well?" "The question is, did Browning fulfill his trust, or keep the money himself?" "That would come out, wouldn't it? The family would make inquiries." "They did not know that the dying man had money. He kept it to himself, for he wanted to go home and give them an agreeable surprise. Butler knew this, and, I think, he took advantage of it." "That was contemptible. But can't it be ascertained? Is it known where the family lives? What is the name?" "Walton." "Walton!" repeated Warner Powell, in surprise. "Yes; do you know any family of that name?" "I know a boy in Chicago named Luke Walton. He is in the employ of my aunt. A part of his time he spends in selling papers." "Mr. Browning told me that Walton only left a daughter, and that the family had gone to the Eastern States." "Would he be likely to tell you the truth--supposing he had really kept the money?" "Perhaps not. What more can you tell me about this boy?" Powell's face lighted up. "I remember now, he told me that his father died in California." "Is it possible?" said Jack King, excited. "I begin to think I am on the right track. I begin to think, too, that I can tell where Tom Butler got his first start." "And now he poses as a philanthropist?" "Yes." "And is nominated for mayor?" "Yes, also." "How are your relations with him?" "They should be friendly, for he and I were comrades in earlier days, and once I lent him money when he needed it, but he has been puffed up by his prosperity, and takes very little notice of me. He had to do something for me when I first came to Milwaukee, but it was because he was afraid not to." Meanwhile Warner Powell was searching his memory. Where and how had he become familiar with the name of Thomas Browning? At last it came to him. "Eureka!" he exclaimed, in excitement. "What does that mean? I don't understand French." Warner smiled. "It isn't French," he said; "but Greek, all the Greek I know. It means 'I have discovered'--the mystery of your old acquaintance." "Explain, please!" said Jack King, his interest be coming intense. "I have a friend in Chicago--Stephen Webb, a nephew of your philanthropist--who has been commissioned by his uncle to find out all he can about this newsboy, Luke Walton. He was speculating with me why his uncle should be so interested in an obscure boy." "Had his uncle told him nothing?" "No, except that he dropped a hint about knowing Luke's father." "This Luke and his family are poor, you say?" "Yes, you can judge that from his employment. He is an honest, manly boy, however, and I have taken a fancy to him. I hope it will turn out as you say. But nothing can be proved. This Browning will probably deny that he received money in trust from the dead father." Jack King's countenance fell. "When you go back to Chicago talk with the boy, and find out whether the family have any evidence that will support their claim. Then send the boy on to me, and we will see what can be done." "I accept the suggestion with pleasure. But I will offer an amendment. Let us write the boy to come on at once, and have a joint consultation in his interest." CHAPTER XXXVIII FELICIE PROVES TROUBLESOME We must return to Chicago for a short time before recording the incidents of Luke's visit to Milwaukee. Though Harold had lost nearly half of his money through being compelled to divide with Felicie, he was, upon the whole, well satisfied with the way in which he had escaped from suspicion. He had his gold watch, and, as far as he knew, the story which he had told about it had not been doubted. But something happened that annoyed and alarmed him. One day, when there was no one else in the house, except the servants, Felicie intercepted him as he was going out. "I want a word with you, Master Harold," she said. "I am in a hurry, Felicie," replied Harold, who had conceived a dislike for the French maid. "Still, I think you can spare a few minutes," went on Felicie, smiling in an unpleasant manner. "Well, be quick about it," said Harold, impatiently. "I have a sister who is very sick. She is a widow with two children, and her means are very small." "Goodness, Felicie! What is all this to me? Of course, I'm sorry for her, but I don't know her." "She looks to me to help her," continued Felicie. "Well, that's all right! I suppose you are going to help her." "There is the trouble, Master Harold. I have no money on hand." "Well, I'm sure that is unlucky, but why do you speak to me about it?" "Because," and here Felicie's eyes glistened, "I know you obtained some money recently from your aunt." "Hush!" said Harold, apprehensively. "But it's true." "And it's true that you made me give you half of it." "It all went to my poor sister," said Felicie theatrically. "I don't see what I have to do with that," said Harold, not without reason. "So that I kept none for myself. Now I am sure you will open your heart, and give me five dollars more." "I never heard such cheek!" exclaimed Harold, indignantly. "You've got half, and are not satisfied with that." "But think of my poor sister!" said Felicie, putting her handkerchief to her eyes, in which there were no tears. "Think of me!" exclaimed Harold, angrily. "Then you won't give me the trifle I ask?" "Trifle? I haven't got it." "Where is it gone?" "Gone to buy this watch. That took nearly the whole of it." "It is indeed so? I thought you received it as a reward for picking up a pocketbook." "I had to tell my aunt something. Otherwise they would ask me embarrassing questions." "Ah, _quelle invention!_" exclaimed Felicie, playfully. "And you really have none of the money left?" "No." "Then there is only one way." "What is that?" "To open the drawer again." "Are you mad, Felicie? I should surely be discovered. It won't do to try it a second time when my aunt is on her guard. Besides, very likely she don't keep her money there now." "Oh, yes, she does." "How do you know?" "I was in the room yesterday when she opened the drawer to take out money to pay a bill." "She must be foolish, then." "Ah," said Felicie, coolly, "she thinks lightning won't strike twice in the same place." "Well, it won't." "There must have been fifty dollars in bills in the drawer," continued Felicie, insinuatingly. "It may stay there for all me. I won't go to the drawer again." "I must have some money," said Felicie, significantly. "Then go and tell Aunt Eliza, and she may give you some." "I don't think your Aunt Eliza likes me," said Felicie, frankly. "Very likely not," said Harold, with equal candor. "You can raise some money on your watch, Master Harold," suggested Felicie. "How?" "At the pawnbroker's." "Well, I don't mean to." "No?" "No!" returned Harold, emphatically. "Suppose I go and tell Mrs. Merton who took her money?" "You would only expose yourself." "I did not take it." "You made me divide with you." "I shall deny all that. Besides, I shall tell all that I saw--on that day." Harold felt troubled. Felicie might, as he knew, make trouble for him, and though he could in time inform against her, that would not make matters much better for him. Probably the whole story would come out, and he felt sure that the French maid would not spare him. A lucky thought came to him. "Felicie," he said, "I think I can suggest something that will help you." "Well, what is it?" "Go to my aunt's drawer yourself. You have plenty of chance, and you can keep all the money you find. I won't ask you for any of it." Felicie eyed him sharply. She was not sure but he meant to trap her. "I have no keys," she said. "You can use the same bunch I have. Here they are!" Felicie paused a moment, then took the proffered keys. After all, why should she not make use of the suggestion? It would be thought that the second thief was the same as the first. "Can I rely on your discretion, Master Harold?" she asked. "Yes, certainly. I am not very likely to say anything about the matter." "True! It might not be for your interest. Good-morning, Master Harold, I won't detain you any longer." Harold left the house with a feeling of relief. "I hope Felicie will be caught!" he said to himself. "I have a great mind to give Aunt Eliza a hint." It looked as if the generally astute Felicie had made a mistake. CHAPTER XXXIX LUKE WALTON'S LETTER "Here is a letter for you, Luke!" said Mrs. Walton. Luke took it in his hand, and regarded it curiously. He was not in the habit of receiving letters. "It is postmarked Milwaukee," he said. "Do you know anyone in Milwaukee?" asked his mother. "No; or stay, it must be from Mr. Powell, a brother of Mrs. Tracy." "Probably he sends a message to his sister." By this time Luke had opened the following letter, which he read with great surprise and excitement: DEAR LUKE:--Come to Milwaukee as soon as you can, and join me at the Prairie Hotel. I write in your own interest. There is a large sum due to your father, which I may be able to put you in the way of collecting. You had better see Aunt Eliza, and ask leave of absence for a day or two. If you haven't money enough to come on, let her know, and I am sure she will advance it to you. Your friend, WARNER POWELL. "What can it mean?" asked Mrs. Walton, to whom Luke read the letter. "It must refer to the ten thousand dollars which father sent to us on his dying bed." "If it were only so!" said the widow, clasping her hands. "At any rate, I shall soon find out, mother. I had better take the letter which was sent us, giving us the first information of the legacy." "Very well, Luke! I don't know anything about business. I must leave the matter entirely in your hands. "I will go at once to Mrs. Merton and ask if it will inconvenience her if I go away for a couple of days." "Do so, Luke! She is a kind friend, and you should do nothing without her permission." Luke took the cars for Prairie Avenue, though it was afternoon, and he had been there once already. He was shown immediately into the old lady's presence. Mrs. Merton saw him enter with surprise. "Has anything happened, Luke?" she asked. "I have received a letter from your nephew, summoning me to Milwaukee." "I hope he is not in any scrape." "No; it is a very friendly letter, written in my interest. May I read it to you?" "I shall be glad to hear it." Mrs. Merton settled herself back in her rocking-chair, and listened to the reading of the letter. "Do you know what this refers to, Luke?" she asked. "Yes; my father on his deathbed in California intrusted a stranger with ten thousand dollars to bring to my mother. He kept it for his own use, and it was only by an accident that we heard about the matter." "You interest me, Luke. What was the accident?" Luke explained. "It must be this that Mr. Powell refers to," he added. "But I don't see how my nephew should have anything to do with it." "There is a man in Milwaukee who answers the description of the stranger to whom my poor father intrusted his money. I have seen him, for he often comes to Chicago. I have even spoken to him." "Have you ever taxed him with this breach of trust?" "No, for he bears a different name. He is Thomas Browning, while the letter mentions Thomas Butler." "He may have changed his name." "I was stupid not to think of that before. There can hardly be two men so singularly alike. I have come to ask you, Mrs. Merton, if you can spare me for two or three days." "For as long as you like, Luke," said the old lady, promptly. "Have you any money for your traveling expenses?" "Yes, thank you." "No matter. Here are twenty dollars. Money never comes amiss." "You are always kind to me, Mrs. Merton," said Luke, gratefully. "It is easy to be kind if one is rich. I want to see that man punished. Let me give you one piece of advice. Be on your guard with this man! He is not to be trusted." "Thank you! I am sure your advice is good." "I wish you good luck, Luke. However things may turn out, there is one thing that gratifies me. Warner is showing himself your friend. I have looked upon him till recently as a black sheep, but he is redeeming himself rapidly in my eyes. I shall not forget his kindness to you." As Luke went downstairs he met Mrs. Tracy. "Here again!" said she, coldly. "Did my aunt send for you this afternoon?" "No, madam." "Then you should not have intruded. You are young, but you are very artful. I see through your schemes, you may rest assured." "I wished to show Mrs. Merton a letter from your brother, now in Milwaukee," said Luke. "Oh, that's it, is it? Let me see the letter." "I must refer you to Mrs. Merton." "He has probably sent to Aunt Eliza for some money," thought Mrs. Tracy. "He and the boy are well matched." CHAPTER XL FACE TO FACE WITH THE ENEMY Thomas Browning sat in his handsome study, in a complacent frame of mind. The caucus was to be held in the evening, and he confidently expected the nomination for mayor. It was the post he had coveted for a long time. There were other honors that were greater, but the mayoralty would perhaps prove a stepping-stone to them. He must not be impatient. He was only in middle life, and there was plenty of time. "I didn't dream this when I was a penniless miner in California," he reflected, gleefully. "Fortune was hard upon me then, but now I am at the top of the heap. All my own good management, too. Tom Butler--no, Browning--is no fool, if I do say it myself." "Someone to see you, Mr. Browning," said the servant. "Show him in!" replied the philanthropist. A poorly dressed man followed the maid into the room. Mr. Browning frowned. He had thought it might be some influential member of his party. "What do you want?" he asked, roughly. The poor man stood humbly before him, nervously pressing the hat between his hands. "I am one of your tenants, Mr. Browning. I am behindhand with my rent, owing to sickness in the family, and I have been ordered out." "And very properly, too!" said Browning. "You can't expect me to let you stay gratis." "But sir, you have the reputation of being a philanthropist. It hardly seems the character----" "I do not call myself a philanthropist--others call me so--and perhaps they are right. I help the poor to the extent of my means, but even a philanthropist expects his honest dues." "Then you can do nothing for me, sir?" "No; I do not feel called upon to interfere in your case." The poor man went out sorrowfully, leaving the philanthropist in an irritable mood. Five minutes later a second visitor was announced. "Who is it?" asked Browning, fearing it might be an other tenant. "It is a boy, sir." "With a message, probably. Show him up." But Thomas Browning was destined to be surprised, when in the manly-looking youth who entered he recognized the Chicago newsboy who had already excited his uneasiness. "What brings you here?" he demanded, in a startled tone. "I don't know if you remember me, Mr. Browning," said Luke, quietly. "Luke Walton is my name, sir, and I have sold you papers near the Sherman House, in Chicago." "I thought your face looked familiar," said Browning, assuming an indifferent tone. "You have made a mistake in coming to Milwaukee. You cannot do as well here as in Chicago." "I have not come in search of a place. I have a good one at home." "I suppose you have some object in coming to this city?" "Yes; I came to see you." "Upon my word, I ought to feel flattered, but I can't do anything for you. I have some reputation in charitable circles, but I have my hands full here." "I have not come to ask you a favor, Mr. Browning. If you will allow me, I will ask your advice in a matter of importance to me." Browning brightened up. He was always ready to give advice. "Go on!" he said. "When I was a young boy my father went to California. He left my mother, my brother, and myself very poorly provided for, but he hoped to earn money at the mines. A year passed, and we heard of his death." "A good many men die in California," said Browning, phlegmatically. "We could not learn that father left anything, and we were compelled to get long as we could. Mother obtained sewing to do at low prices, and I sold papers." "A common experience!" said Browning, coldly. "About three months ago," continued Luke, "we were surprised by receiving in a letter from a stranger, a message from my father's deathbed." Thomas Browning started and turned pale, as he gazed intently in the boy's face. "How much does he know?" he asked himself, apprehensively. "Go on!" he said, slowly. "In this letter we learned for the first time that father had intrusted the sum of ten thousand dollars to an acquaintance to be brought to my mother. This man proved false and kept the money." "This story may or may not be true," said Browning, with an effort. "Was the man's name given?" "Yes; his name was Thomas Butler." "Indeed! Have you ever met him?" "I think so," answered Luke, slowly. "I will read his description from the letter: He has a wart on the upper part of his right cheek--a mark which disfigures and mortifies him exceedingly. He is about five feet ten inches in height, with a dark complexion and dark hair, a little tinged with gray. "Let me see the letter," said Browning, hoarsely. He took the letter in his hand, and, moving near the grate fire, began to read it. Suddenly the paper as if accidentally, slipped from his fingers, and fell upon the glowing coals--where it was instantly consumed. "How careless I am!" ejaculated Browning, but there was exultation in the glance. CHAPTER XLI MR. BROWNING COMES TO TERMS The destruction of the letter, and the open exultation of the man who had in intention at least doubly wronged him, did not appear to dismay Luke Walton. He sat quite cool and collected, facing Mr. Browning. "Really, I don't see how this letter happened to slip from my hand," continued the philanthropist. "I am afraid you consider it important." "I should if it had been the genuine letter," said Luke. "What!" gasped Browning. "It was only a copy, as you will be glad to hear." "Boy, I think you are deceiving me," said Browning, sharply. "Not at all! I left the genuine letter in the hands of my lawyer." "Your lawyer?" "Yes. I have put this matter in the hands of Mr. Jordan, of this city." Mr. Browning looked very much disturbed. Mr. Jordan was a well-known and eminent attorney. Moreover, he was opposed in politics to the would-be mayor. If his opponent should get hold of this discreditable chapter in his past history, his political aspirations might as well be given up. Again he asked himself, "How much of the story does this boy know?" "If you are employing a lawyer," he said, after a pause, "I don't understand why you came to me for advice." "I thought you might be interested in the matter," said Luke, significantly. "Why should I be interested in your affairs? I have so many things to think of that really I can't take hold of anything new." "I will tell you, sir. You are the man who received money in trust from my dying father. I look to you to restore it with interest." "How dare you insinuate any such thing?" demanded Browning, furiously. "Do you mean to extort money by threats?" "No, sir, I only ask for justice." "There is nothing to connect me with the matter. According to your letter it was a Thomas Butler who received the money you refer to." "True, and your name at that time was Thomas Butler." Mr. Browning turned livid. The net seemed to be closing about him. "What proof have you of this ridiculous assertion?" he demanded. "The testimony of one who knew you then and now--Mr. King, who keeps a cigar stand at the Prairie Hotel." "Ha! traitor!" ejaculated Browning, apostrophizing the absent King. "This is a conspiracy!" he said. "King has put you up to this. He is a discreditable tramp whom I befriended when in dire need. This is my reward for it." "I have nothing to do with that, Mr. Browning. Mr. King is ready to help me with his testimony. My lawyer has advised me to call upon you, and to say this: If you will pay over the ten thousand dollars with interest I will engage in my mother's name to keep the matter from getting before the public." "And if I don't agree to this?" "Mr. Jordan is instructed to bring suit against you." Drops of perspiration gathered on the brow of Mr. Browning. This would never do. The suit, even if unsuccessful, would blast his reputation as a philanthropist, and his prospects as a politician. "I will see Mr. Jordan," he said. "Very well, sir. Then I wish you good-morning." Within two days Thomas Browning had paid over to the lawyer for his young client the full sum demanded, and Luke left Milwaukee with the happy consciousness that his mother was now beyond the reach of poverty. CHAPTER XLII CONCLUSION Felicie reflected over Harold's dishonest suggestion, and concluded to adopt it. She meant to charge Harold with the second robbery, and to brazen it out if necessary. Accordingly, one day she stole into Mrs. Merton's sitting room, and with the keys supplied by Harold succeeded in opening the drawer. Inside, greatly to her surprise, she saw the identical pocketbook which it had been understood was taken at the time of the first robbery. She was holding it in her hand, when a slight noise led her to look up swiftly. To her dismay she saw the old lady, whom she had supposed out of the house, regarding her sternly. "What does this mean, Felicie?" demanded Mrs. Merton. "I--I found these keys and was trying them to see if any of them had been used at the time your money was stolen." "Do you know who took my money on that occasion?" continued the old lady. "Yes, I do," answered Felicie, swiftly deciding to tell the truth. "Who was it?" "Your nephew Harold," answered Felicie, glibly. "You know this?" "I saw him open the drawer. I was looking through a crack of the door." "And you never told me of this?" "I didn't want to expose him. He begged me not to do so." "That is singular. He warned me yesterday that he suspected you of being the thief, and that he had reason to think you were planning a second robbery." "He did?" said Felicie, with flashing eyes. "Yes; what have you to say to it?" "That he put me up to it, and gave me these keys to help me in doing it. Of course, he expected to share the money." This last statement was untrue, but Felicie was determined to be revenged upon her treacherous ally. "And you accepted?" "Yes," said Felicie, seeing no way of escape. "I am poor, and thought you wouldn't miss the money." "My nephew accused Luke Walton of being the thief." "It is untrue. He wanted to divert suspicion from himself. Besides, he hates Luke." "Do you?" "No; I think him much better than Harold." "So do I. Where did my nephew get his gold watch?" "It was bought with the money he stole from the drawer." "So I supposed. Well, Felicie, you can go, but I think you had better hand me that bunch of keys." "Shall you report me to Mrs. Tracy?" "I have not decided. For the present we will both keep this matter secret." Luke's absence was, of course, noticed by Mrs. Tracy. "Have you discharged Luke Walton?" she asked, hopefully. "I observe he has not come here for the last two or three days." "He has gone out of the city--on business." "I am surprised that you should trust that boy to such an extent." At this moment a telegraph messenger rang the bell, and a telegram was brought up to Mrs. Merton. It ran thus: To MRS. MERTON, ---- Prairie Avenue, Chicago: I have recovered all my mother's money with interest. Mr. Powell is also successful. Will return this evening. LUKE WALTON, "Read it if you like, Louisa," said the old lady, smiling with satisfaction. "What does it mean?" "That Luke has recovered over ten thousand dollars, of which his mother had been defrauded. It was Warner who put him on the track of the man who wrongfully held the money." "Indeed!" said Mrs. Tracy, spitefully. "Then the least he can do is to return the money he took from you." "He never took any, Louisa." "Who did, then?" "Your son, Harold." "Who has been telling lies about my poor boy?" exclaimed Mrs. Tracy, angrily. "A person who saw him unlocking the drawer." "Has Luke Walton been telling falsehoods about my son?" "No; it was quite another person. I have other proof also, and have known for some time who the real thief was. If Harold claims that I have done him injustice, send him to me." After an interview with Harold, Mrs. Tracy was obliged to believe, much against her will, that he was the guilty one and not the boy she so much detested. This did not prepossess her any more in favor of Luke Walton, whom she regarded as the rival and enemy of her son. It was a joyful coming home for Luke. He removed at once to a nice neighborhood, and ceased to be a Chicago newsboy. He did not lose the friendship of Mrs. Merton, who is understood to have put him down for a large legacy in her will, and still employs him to transact much of her business. Next year she proposes to establish her nephew, Warner Powell, and Luke in a commission business, under the style of POWELL & WALTON she furnishing the capital. The house on Prairie Avenue is closed. Mrs. Tracy is married again, to a man whose intemperate habits promise her little happiness. Harold seems unwilling to settle down to business, but has developed a taste for dress and the amusements of a young man about town. He thinks he will eventually be provided for by Mrs. Merton, but in this he will be mistaken, as she has decided to leave much the larger part of her wealth to charitable institutions after remembering her nephew, Warner Powell, handsomely. Ambrose Kean never repeated the mistake he had made. Still more, by diligent economy he saved up the sum advanced him by Mrs. Merton, and he offered it to her. She accepted it, but returned it many times over to his mother. Her patronage brought him another advantage; it led his employer to increase his salary, which is now double that which he formerly received. Felicie lost her position, but speedily secured another, where it is to be hoped she will be more circumspect in her conduct. Thomas Browning, after all, lost the nomination which he craved--and much of his wealth is gone. He dabbled in foolish speculation, and is now comparatively a poor man. Through the agency of Jack King, the story of his breach of trust was whispered about, and the sham philanthropist is better understood and less respected by his fellow-citizens. His nephew, Stephen Webb, has been obliged to buckle down to hard work at ten dollars a week, and feels that his path is indeed thorny. Luke Walton is not puffed up by his unexpected and remarkable success. He never fails to recognize kindly, and help, if there is need, the old associates of his humbler days, and never tries to conceal the fact that he was once a Chicago newsboy. THE END. [Graphic decoration: Cherub with tethered birds (upside down)] WHITE HOUSE INCIDENTS. Trying the "Greens" on Jake. A deputation of bankers were one day introduced to the President by the Secretary of the Treasury. One of the party, Mr. P---- of Chelsea, Mass., took occasion to refer to the severity of the tax laid by Congress upon State Banks. "Now," said Mr. Lincoln, "that reminds me of a circumstance that took place in a neighborhood where I lived when I was a boy. In the spring of the year the farmers were very fond of a dish which they called greens, though the fashionable name for it now-a-days is spinach, I believe. One day after dinner, a large family were taken very ill. The doctor was called in, who attributed it to the greens, of which all had frequently partaken. Living in the family was a half-witted boy named Jake. On a subsequent occasion, when greens had been gathered for dinner, the head of the house said: "'Now, boys, before running any further risk in this thing, we will first try them on Jake, If he stands it, we are all right.' "And just so, I suppose," said Mr. Lincoln, "Congress thought it would try this tax on State Banks!" A Story Which Lincoln Told the Preachers. A year or more before Mr. Lincoln's death, a delegation of clergymen waited upon him in reference to the appointment of the army chaplains The delegation consisted of a Presbyterian, a Baptist, and an Episcopal clergyman. They stated that the character of many of the chaplains was notoriously bad, and they had come to urge upon the President the necessity of more discretion in these appointments. "But, gentlemen," said the President, "that is a matter which the Government has nothing to do with; the chaplains are chosen by the regiments." Not satisfied with this, the clergymen pressed, in turn, a change in the system. Mr. Lincoln heard them through without remark, and then said, "Without any disrespect, gentlemen, I will tell you a 'little story.' "Once, in Springfield, I was going off on a short journey, and reached the depot a little ahead of time. Leaning against the fence just outside the depot was a little darkey boy, whom I knew, named 'Dick,' busily digging with his toe in a mud-puddle. As I came up, I said, 'Dick, what are you about?' "'Making a church,' said he. "'A church,' said I; 'what do you mean?' "'Why, yes,' said Dick, pointing with his toe, 'don't you see there is the shape of it; there's the steps and front door--here the pews, where the folks set--and there's the pulpit. "Yes, I see,' said I; 'but why don't you make a minister? "'Laws,' answered Dick, with a grin, 'I hain't got mud enough.'" How Lincoln Stood Up for the Word "Sugar-Coated." Mr. Defrees, the Government printer, states, that, when one of the President's message was being printed, he was a good deal disturbed by the use of the term "sugar-coated," and finally went to Mr. Lincoln about it. Their relations to each other being of the most intimate character, he told the President frankly, that he ought to remember that a message to Congress was a different affair from a speech at a mass meeting in Illinois; that the messages became a part of history, and should be written accordingly. "What is the matter now?" inquired the President. "Why," said Mr. Defrees, "you have used an undignified expression in the message;" and then, reading the paragraph aloud, he added, I would alter the structure of that if I were you." "Defrees," replied Mr. Lincoln, "that word expresses exactly my idea, and I am not going to change it. The time will never come in this country when the people won't know exactly what 'sugar-coated' means." On a subsequent occasion, Mr. Defrees states that a certain sentence of another message was very awkwardly constructed. Calling the President's attention to it in the proof-copy, the latter acknowledged the force of the objection raised, and said, "Go home, Defrees, and see if you can better it." The next day Mr. Defrees took into him his amendment. Mr. Lincoln met him by saying: "Seward found the same fault that you did, and he has been rewriting the paragraph, also." Then, reading Mr. Defrees' version, he said, "I believe you have beaten Seward; but, 'I jings,' I think I can beat you both." Then, taking up his pen, he wrote the sentence as it was finally printed. Lincoln's Advice to a Prominent Bachelor. Upon the betrothal of the Prince of Wales to the Princess Alexandra, Queen Victoria sent a letter to each of the European sovereigns, and also to President Lincoln, announcing the fact. Lord Lyons, her ambassador at Washington,--a "bachelor," by the way,--requested an audience of Mr. Lincoln, that he might present this important document in person. At the time appointed he was received at the White House, in company with Mr. Seward. "May it please your Excellency," said Lord Lyons, "I hold in my hand an autograph letter from my royal mistress, Queen Victoria, which I have been commanded to present to your Excellency. In it she informs your Excellency that her son, his Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, is about to contract a matrimonial alliance with her Royal Highness the Princess Alexandra of Denmark." After continuing in this strain for a few minutes, Lord Lyons tendered the letter to the President and awaited his reply. It was short, simple, and expressive, and consisted simply of the words: "Lord Lyons, go thou and do likewise." It is doubtful if an English ambassador was ever addressed in this manner before, and it would be interesting to learn what success he met with in putting the reply in diplomatic language when he reported it to her Majesty. [Illustration of carriage on forested road.] Mr. Lincoln and the Bashful Boys. The President and a friend were standing upon the threshold of the door under the portico of the White House, awaiting the coachman, when a letter was put into his hand. While he was reading this, people were passing, as is customary, up and down the promenade, which leads through the grounds of the War Department, crossing, of course, the portico. Attention was attracted to an approaching party, apparently a countryman, plainly dressed, with his wife and two little boys, who had evidently been straying about, looking at the places of public interest in the city. As they reached the portico the father, who was in advance, caught sight of the tall figure of Mr. Lincoln, absorbed in his letter. His wife and the little boys were ascending the steps. The man stopped suddenly, put out his hand with a "hush" to his family, and, after a moment's gaze, he bent down and whispered to them, "There is the President!" Then leaving them, he slowly made a circuit around Mr. Lincoln, watching him intently all the while. At this point, having finished his letter, the President turned and said: "Well, we will not wait any longer for the carriage; it won't hurt you and me to walk down." The countryman here approached very diffidently, and asked if he might be allowed to take the President by the hand; after which, "Would he extend the same privilege to his wife and little boys?" Mr. Lincoln, good-naturedly, approached the latter, who had remained where they were stopped, and, reaching down, said a kind word to the bashful little fellows, who shrank close up to their mother, and did not reply. This simple act filled the father's cup full. "The Lord is with you, Mr. President," he said, reverently; and then, hesitating a moment, he added, with strong emphasis, "and the people, too, sir; and the people, too!" A few moments later Mr. Lincoln remarked to his friend: "Great men have various estimates. When Daniel Webster made his tour through the West years ago, he visited Springfield among other places, where great preparations had been made to receive him. As the procession was going through the town, a barefooted little darkey boy pulled the sleeve of a man named T., and asked: "'What the folks were all doing down the street?' "'Why, Jack,' was the reply, 'the biggest man in the world is coming.' "Now, there lived in Springfield a man by the name of G----, a very corpulent man. Jack darted off down the street, but presently returned, with a very disappointed air. "'Well, did you see him?' inquired T. "'Yees,' returned Jack; 'but laws, he ain't half as big as old G.'." An Irish Soldier Who Wanted Something Stronger Than Soda Water. Upon Mr. Lincoln's return to Washington, after the capture of Richmond, a member of the Cabinet asked him if it would be proper to permit Jacob Thompson to slip through Maine in disguise, and embark from Portland. The President, as usual, was disposed to be merciful, and to permit the arch-rebel to pass unmolested, but the Secretary urged that he should be arrested as a traitor. "By permitting him to escape the penalties of treason," persistently remarked the Secretary, "you sanction it." "Well," replied Mr. Lincoln, "let me tell you a story. "There was an Irish soldier here last summer, who wanted something to drink stronger than water, and stopped at a drug-shop, where he espied a soda-fountain. "'Mr. Doctor' said he, 'give me, plase, a glass of soda wather, an' if yees can put in a few drops of whisky unbeknown to any one, I'll be obleeged.' "Now," said Mr. Lincoln, "if Jake Thompson is permitted to go through Maine unbeknown to any one, what's the harm? So don't have him arrested." Looking Out for Breakers. In a time of despondency, some visitors were telling the President of the "breakers" so often seen ahead--"this time surely coming." "That," said he, "suggests the story of the school-boy, who never could pronounce the names 'Shadrach,' 'Meshach,' and 'Abednego.' He had been repeatedly whipped for it without effect. Some times afterwards he saw the names of the regular lesson for the day. Putting his finger upon the place, he turned to his next neighbor, an older boy, and whispered, 'Here comes those "tormented Hebrews" again!'" A Story About Jack Chase. A farmer from one of the border counties went to the President on a certain occasion with the complaint that the Union soldiers in passing his farm had helped themselves not only to hay but to his horse; and he hoped the proper officer would be required to consider his claim immediately. "Why, my good sir," replied Mr. Lincoln, "if I should attempt to consider every such individual case, I should find work enough for twenty Presidents! "In my early days I knew one Jack Chase who was a lumberman on the Illinois, and when steady and sober the best raftsman on the river. It was quite a trick twenty-five years ago to take the logs over the rapids, but he was skillful with a raft, and always kept her straight in the channel. Finally a steamer was put on, and Jack--he's dead now, poor fellow!--was made captain of her. He always used to take the wheel going through the rapids. One day when the boat was plunging and wallowing along the boiling current, and Jack's utmost vigilance was being exercised to keep her in the narrow channel, a boy pulled his coat-tail and hailed him with: Say, Mister Captain! I wish you would just stop your boat a minute--I've lost an apple overboard!" Stories Illustrating Lincoln's Memory. Mr. Lincoln's memory was very remarkable. At one of the afternoon receptions at the White House a stranger shook hands with him, and as he did so remarked, casually, that he was elected to Congress about the time Mr. Lincoln's term as representative expired, which happened many years before. "Yes," said the President, "you are from," mentioning the state. "I remember reading of your election in a newspaper one morning on a steamboat going down to Mount Vernon." At another time a gentleman addressed him, saying, "I presume, Mr. President, you have forgotten me?" "No," was the prompt reply; "your name is Flood. I saw you last, twelve years ago at ----," naming the place and the occasion. "I am glad to see," he continued, "that the Flood flows on," Subsequent to his re-election a deputation of bankers from various sections were introduced one day by the Secretary of the Treasury. After a few moments of general conversation, Mr. Lincoln turned to one of them and said: "Your district did not give me so strong a vote at the last election as it did in 1860." "I think, sir, that you must be mistaken," replied the banker. "I have the impression that your majority was considerably increased at the last election," "No," rejoined the President, "you fell off about six hundred votes." Then taking down from the bookcase the official canvass of 1860 and 1864 he referred to the vote or the district named and proved to be quite right in his assertion. Philosophy of Canes. A gentleman calling at the White House one evening carried a cane which in the course of conversation attracted the President's attention. Taking it in his hand he said: "I always used a cane when I was a boy. It was a freak of mine. My favorite one was a knotted beech stick, and I carved the head myself. There's a mighty amount of character in sticks. Don't you think so? You have seen these fishing-polls that fit into a cane? Well, that was an old idea of mine. Dogwood clubs were favorite ones with the boys. I suppose they use them yet. Hickory is too heavy, unless you get it from a young sapling. Have you ever noticed how a stick in one's hand will change his appearance? Old women and witches wouldn't look so without sticks. Meg Merrilies understands that." Common Sense. The Hon. Mr. Hubbard, of Connecticut, once called upon the President in reference to a newly invented gun, concerning which a committee had been appointed to make a report. The "report" was sent for, and when it came in was found to be of the most voluminous description. Mr. Lincoln glanced at it and said: "I should want a new lease of life to read this through!" Throwing it down upon the table he added: "Why can't a committee of this kind occasionally exhibit a grain of common sense? If I send a man to buy a horse for me, I expect him to tell me his points--not how many hairs there are in his tail." Lincoln's Confab with a Committee on "Grant's Whisky." Just previous to the fall of Vicksburg a self-constituted committee, solicitous for the _morale_ of our armies, took it upon themselves to visit the President and urge the removal of General Grant. In some surprise Mr. Lincoln inquired, "For what reason?" "Why," replied the spokesman, "he drinks too much whisky." "Ah!" rejoined Mr. Lincoln, dropping his lower lip. "By the way, gentlemen, can either of you tell me where General Grant procures his whisky? because, if I can find out, I will send every general in the field a barrel of it!" A "Pretty Tolerable Respectable Sort of a Clergyman." Some one was discussing in the presence of Mr. Lincoln the character of a time-serving Washington clergyman. Said Mr. Lincoln to his visitor: "I think you are rather hard upon Mr. ----. He reminds me of a man in Illinois, who was tried for passing a counterfeit bill. It was in evidence that before passing it he had taken it to the cashier of a bank and asked his opinion of the bill, and he received a very prompt reply that it was a counterfeit. His lawyer, who had heard the evidence to be brought against his client, asked him just before going into court, 'Did you take the bill to the cashier of the bank and ask him if it was good?' "'I did,' was the reply, "'Well, what was the reply of the cashier?' "The rascal was in a corner, but he got out of it in this fashion: 'He said it was a pretty tolerable, respectable sort of a bill.'" Mr. Lincoln thought the clergyman was "a pretty tolerable, respectable sort of a clergyman." Opened His Eyes. Mr. Lincoln sometimes had a very effective way of dealing with men who troubled him with questions. A visitor once asked him how many men the Rebels had in the field. The President replied, very seriously, "_Twelve hundred thousand, according to the best authority._" The interrogator blanched in the face, and ejaculated, "_Good Heavens!_" "Yes, sir, twelve hundred thousand--no doubt of it. You see, all of our generals, when they get whipped, say the enemy outnumbers them from three or five to one, and I must believe them. We have four hundred thousand men in the field, and three times four makes twelve. Don't you see it?" Minnehaha and Minneboohoo! Some gentlemen fresh from a Western tour, during a call at the White House, referred in the course of conversation to a body of water in Nebraska, which bore an Indian name signifying "weeping water." Mr. Lincoln instantly responded: "As 'laughing water,' according to Mr. Longfellow, is 'Minnehaha,' this evidently should be 'Minneboohoo.'" Lincoln and the Artist. F. B. Carpenter, the celebrated artist and author of the well-known painting of Lincoln and his Cabinet issuing the Emancipation Proclamation, describes his first meeting with the President, as follows: "Two o'clock found me one of the throng pressing toward the center of attraction, the blue room. From the threshold of the crimson parlor as I passed, I had a glimpse of the gaunt figure of Mr. Lincoln in the distance, haggard-looking, dressed in black, relieved only by the prescribed white gloves; standing, it seemed to me, solitary and alone, though surrounded by the crowd, bending low now and then in the process of hand-shaking, and responding half abstractedly to the well-meant greetings of the miscellaneous assemblage. "Never shall I forget the electric thrill which went through my whole being at this instant. I seemed to see lines radiating from every part of the globe, converging to a focus where that plain, awkward-looking man stood, and to hear in spirit a million prayers, 'as the sound of many waters,' ascending in his behalf. "Mingled with supplication I could discern a clear symphony of triumph and blessing, swelled with an ever-increasing volume. It was the voice of those who had been bondmen and bondwomen, and the grand diapason swept up from the coming ages. "It was soon my privilege in the regular succession, to take that honored hand. Accompanying the act, my name and profession were announced to him in a low tone by one of the assistant secretaries, who stood by his side. "Retaining my hand, he looked at me inquiringly for an instant, and said, Oh, yes; I know; this is the painter. Then straightening himself to his full height, with a twinkle of the eye, he added, playfully, 'Do you think, Mr. C----, that you could make a handsome picture of _me?_' emphasizing strongly the last word. "Somewhat confused at this point-blank shot, uttered in a voice so loud as to attract the attention of those in immediate proximity, I made a random reply, and took the occasion to ask if I could see him in his study at the close of the reception. "To this he replied in the peculiar vernacular of the West, 'I reckon,' resuming meanwhile the mechanical and traditional exercise of the hand which no President has ever yet been able to avoid, and which, severe as is the ordeal, is likely to attach to the position so long as the Republic endures." The American Boy's Sports Series BY MARK OVERTON 12mo Cloth. Illustrated. Price 60c Each. These stories touch upon nearly every sport in which the active boy is interested. Baseball, rowing, football, hockey, skating, ice-boating, sailing, camping and fishing all serve to lend interest to an unusual series of books. There are the following four titles: 1. Jack Winters' Baseball Team; or, The Mystery of the Diamond. 2. Jack Winters' Campmates; or, Vacation Days in the Woods. 3. Jack Winters' Gridiron Chums; or, When the Half-back Saved the Day. 4. Jack Winters' Iceboat Wonder; or, Leading the Hockey Team to Victory. The Aeroplane Series By JOHN LUTHER LANGWORTHY 1. The Aeroplane Boys; or, The Young Pilots First Air Voyage 2. The Aeroplane Boys on the Wing; or, Aeroplane Chums in the Tropics 3. The Aeroplane Boys Among the Clouds; or, Young Aviators in a Wreck 4. The Aeroplane Boys Flights; or. A Hydroplane Round-up 5. The Aeroplane Boys on a Cattle Ranch The Girl Aviator Series By MARGARET BURNHAM Just the type of books that delight and fascinate the wide awake Girls of the present day who are between the ages of eight and fourteen years. The great author of these books regards them as the best products of her pen. Printed from large clear type on a superior quality of paper; attractive multi-color jacket wrapper around each book. Bound in cloth. 1. The Girl Aviators and the Phantom Airship 2. The Girl Aviators on Golden Wings 3. The Girl Aviators' Sky Cruise 4. The Girl Aviators' Motor Butterfly. For sale by all booksellers or sent postpaid on receipt of 75c. M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY 701-733 S. DEARBORN STREET :: CHICAGO 
27300	----	THE YOUNG ADVENTURER OR TOM'S TRIP ACROSS THE PLAINS BY HORATIO ALGER, JR. AUTHOR OF "THE BACKWOODS BOY," "FROM CANAL BOY TO PRESIDENT," "WALTER SHERWOOD'S PROBATION," "NED NEWTON," "ADRIFT IN NEW YORK," ETC. NEW YORK HURST & COMPANY PUBLISHERS ALGER SERIES FOR BOYS. UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME. BY HORATIO ALGER, JR. Adrift in New York. Andy Gordon. Andy Grant's Pluck. Bob Burton. Bound to Rise. Brave and Bold. Cash Boy. Chester Rand. Do and Dare. Driven from Home. Erie Train Boy. Facing the World. Hector's Inheritance. Helping Himself. Herbert Carter's Legacy. In a New World. Jack's Ward. Jed, the Poor House Boy. Julius, the Street Boy. Luke Walton. Making His Way. Only an Irish Boy. Paul, the Peddler. Phil, the Fiddler. Ralph Raymond's Heir. Risen from the Ranks. Sam's Chance. Shifting for Himself. Sink or Swim. Slow and Sure. Store Boy. Strive and Succeed. Strong and Steady. Tin Box. Tom, the Bootblack. Tony, the Tramp. Try and Trust. Young Acrobat. Young Outlaw. Young Salesman. _Price Post-Paid, 35c. each, or any three books for $1.00._ HURST & COMPANY PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I MARK NELSON'S FAMILY 3 II TOM FINDS A WALLET 10 III TOM ASKS A LOAN 17 IV TOM ASKS LEAVE OF ABSENCE 25 V TOM RAISES THE MONEY 33 VI TOM ARRIVES IN PITTSBURG 42 VII THE PITTSBURG HOUSE 51 VIII GRAHAM IN HIS TRUE COLORS 59 IX THE "RIVER BELLE" 68 X ON THE STEAMER 76 XI THE FIRST DAY ON THE RIVER 85 XII NO. 61 AND NO. 62 94 XIII GRAHAM'S DISAPPOINTMENT 104 XIV COMING TO AN UNDERSTANDING 113 XV THE ALLEGHANY HOUSE 117 XVI THE EVENTS OF A MORNING 122 XVII TOM'S ARREST 131 XVIII TOM GETS OUT OF HIS DIFFICULTY 140 XIX A MISSOURI TAVERN 149 XX ST. JOE 158 XXI HOW THINGS WENT ON AT HOME 167 XXII THE YOUNG MAN FROM BOSTON 175 XXIII MR. PEABODY'S TROUBLES 184 XXIV A SAD SIGHT 192 XXV A NIGHT PANIC 201 XXVI MR. PEABODY IS WORSTED 209 XXVII THE LOST HORSE 217 XXVIII INDIAN CASUISTRY 221 XXIX A RACE FOR LIFE 230 XXX TOM BECOMES AN INDIAN 234 XXXI TOM GIVES A MAGICAL SOIREE 240 XXXII TOM'S ESCAPE 247 THE YOUNG ADVENTURER. CHAPTER I. MARK NELSON'S FAMILY. "I wish I could pay off the mortgage on my farm," said Mark Nelson soberly, taking his seat on the left of the fireplace, in the room where his wife and family were assembled. "Have you paid the interest, Mark?" asked his wife. "Yes; I paid it this afternoon, and it has stripped me of money completely. I have less than five dollars in my pocketbook toward buying you and the children clothes for the winter." "Never mind me," said his wife cheerfully. "I am pretty well provided for." "Why, mother," said Sarah, the oldest daughter, a girl of fourteen; "you haven't had a new dress for a year." "I have enough to last me till spring, at any rate," said the mother. "You never buy anything for yourself." "I don't go in rags, do I?" asked Mrs. Nelson, with a smile. Mrs. Nelson had a happy disposition, which led her to accept uncomplainingly, and even cheerfully, the sacrifices which, as the wife of a farmer in poor circumstances, she was compelled to make. "You are right, Sarah," said Mark Nelson. "Your mother never seems to think of herself. She might have been much better off if she had not married me." The children did not understand this allusion. They had never been told that their mother had received an offer from Squire Hudson, the wealthiest man in the village, but had chosen instead to marry Mark Nelson, whose only property was a small farm, mortgaged for half its value. Her rejected admirer took the refusal hard, for, as much as it was possible for him, he loved the prettiest girl in the village, as Mary Dale was generally regarded. But Mary knew him to be cold and selfish, and could not make up her mind to marry him. If she had done so, she would now be living in the finest house in the village, with the chance of spending the winter in New York or Boston, instead of drudging in an humble home, where there was indeed enough to eat, but little money for even necessary purposes. She had never regretted her decision. Her husband, though poor, was generally respected and liked, while the squire, though his money procured him a certain degree of consideration, had no near or attached friends. To Squire Hudson many in the village paid tribute; for he held mortgages on twenty farms and buildings, and was strict in exacting prompt payment of the interest semi-annually. It was he to whom Mark Nelson's farm was mortgaged for two thousand dollars. The mortgage had originally been for fifteen hundred dollars, but five years before it had been increased to two thousand, which represented more than half the sum which it would have fetched, if put up for sale. The interest on this sum amounted to a hundred and twenty dollars a year, which Mark Nelson always found it hard to raise. Could he have retained it in his hands, and devoted it to the use of his family, it would have helped them wonderfully, with Mrs. Nelson's good management. Tom, the oldest boy, now approaching his sixteenth birthday, looked up from a book he was reading. He was a bright-looking boy, with brown hair, a ruddy complexion, and dark-blue eyes, who looked, and was, frank and manly. "What is the amount of your interest?" he asked. "Sixty dollars every half-year, Tom. That is what I paid to Squire Hudson this afternoon. It would have made us very comfortable, if I only could have kept it." "It would have done you more good than the squire," said Sarah. "He has more money than he knows what to do with," said her father, almost complainingly. "It seems hard that money should be so unevenly distributed." "Money is not happiness," said Mrs. Nelson quietly. "No; but it helps to buy happiness." "I don't think Squire Hudson is as happy a man as you, Mark." Mark Nelson's face softened as he surveyed his wife and children. "I am happy at home," he said, "and I don't think the squire is." "I am sure he isn't," said Tom. "Mrs. Hudson is sour and ill-tempered, and Sinclair--the only child--is a second edition of his mother. He is the most unpopular boy in the village." "Still," said the farmer, not quite convinced, "money is an important element of happiness, and a farmer stands a very poor chance of acquiring it. Tom, I advise you not to be a farmer." "I don't mean to be if I can help it," said Tom. "I am ready for any opening that offers. I hope some day to pay off the mortgage on the farm, and make you a free man, father." "Thank you for your good intentions, Tom; but two thousand dollars is a large sum of money." "I know it, father; but I was reading in a daily paper, not long since, of a boy, as poor as myself, who was worth twenty-five thousand dollars by the time he was thirty. Why shouldn't this happen to me?" "Don't build castles in the air, Tom," said his mother sensibly. "At least, mother, I may hope for good luck. I have been wanting to talk to you both about my future prospects. I shall be sixteen next week, and it is time I did something." "You are doing something--working on the farm now, Tom." "That don't count. Father advises me not to be a farmer, and I agree with him. I think I am capable of making my way in the world in some other way, where I can earn more money. There is Walter, who likes the country, to stay with you." Walter, the third child, was now twelve years of age, with decided country tastes. "I would like to be a farmer as well as anything," said Walter. "I like the fresh air. I shouldn't like to be cooped up in a store, or to live in the city. Let Tom go if he likes." "I have no objection," said Mr. Nelson; "but I have neither money nor influence to help him. He will have to make his own way." "I am not afraid to try," said Tom courageously. "From this day I will look out for a chance, if you and mother are willing." "I shall not oppose your wishes, Tom," said Mrs. Nelson gravely, "though it will be a sad day for me when you leave your home." "That isn't the way to look at it, mother," said Tom. "If gold pieces grew on currant bushes, it wouldn't be necessary for me to leave home to make a living." "I wish they did," said Harry, a boy nine years of age. "What would you do then, Harry?" asked his brother, smiling. "I would buy a velocipede and a pair of skates." "I heard of a boy once who found a penny in the field, right under a potato-vine," said Walter. "I don't believe it," said Harry. "It's true, for I was the boy." "Where did it come from?" "Tom put it there to fool me." "Won't you put one there to fool me, Tom?" asked Harry. "You are too smart, Harry," said Tom, laughing. "My pennies are too few to try such experiments. I hope, by the time you are as old as Walter, to give you something better." The conversation drifted to other topics, with which we are not concerned. Tom, however, did not forget it. He felt that an important question had that evening been decided for him. He had only thought of making a start for himself hitherto. Now he had broached the subject, and received the permission of his father and mother. The world was all before him where to choose. His available capital was small, it is true, amounting only to thirty-seven cents and a jack-knife; but he had, besides, a stout heart, a pair of strong hands, an honest face, and plenty of perseverance--not a bad equipment for a young adventurer. CHAPTER II. TOM FINDS A WALLET. Since the time of which I am writing, over sixty years have passed, for it was in the year 1850 that Tom made up his mind to leave home and seek a fortune. The papers were full of the new gold discoveries in the new country which had recently been added to the great republic. Thousands were hurrying to the land of gold; men who had been unfortunate at home, or, though moderately well situated, were seized by the spirit of adventure. At considerable sacrifice many raised the means of reaching the new El Dorado, while others borrowed or appropriated the necessary sum. Some, able to do neither, set out on a venture, determined to get there in some way. In the weekly paper, to which Mr. Nelson had for years been a subscriber, Tom had read a good deal about California. His youthful fancy had been wrought upon by the brilliant pictures of a land where a penniless man might, if favored by fortune, secure a competence in a twelvemonth, and he ardently wished that he, too, might have the chance of going there. It was a wish, but not an expectation. It would cost at least two hundred dollars to reach the Pacific coast, and there was no hope of getting a tithe of that sum. "If I could only go to California," thought Tom, "I would make my way somehow; I would cheerfully work twelve hours a day. I don't see why a boy can't dig gold, as well as a man. If somebody would lend me money enough to get there, I could afford to pay high interest." There was one man in Wilton who might lend him the money if he would. That man was Squire Hudson. He always had money on hand in considerable quantities, and two hundred dollars would be nothing to him. Tom would not have dreamed of applying to him, however, but for a service which just at this time he was able to render the squire. Tom had been in search of huckleberries--for this was the season--when, in a narrow country road, not much frequented, his attention was drawn to an object lying in the road. His heart hounded with excitement when he saw that it was a well-filled pocketbook. He was not long in securing it. Opening the wallet, he found it was absolutely stuffed with bank-bills, some of large denomination. There were, besides, several papers, to which he paid but little attention. They assured him, however, as he had already surmised, that the wallet was the property of Squire Hudson. "I wonder how much money there is here," thought Tom, with natural curiosity. He stepped into the woods to avoid notice, and carefully counted the bills. There were two hundred-dollar bills, and three fifties, and so many of smaller denominations that Tom found the whole to amount to five hundred and sixty-seven dollars. "Almost six hundred dollars!" ejaculated Tom, in excitement, for he had never seen so much money before. "How happy should I be if I had as much money! How rich the squire is! He ought to be a happy man." Then the thought stole into our hero's mind, that the wallet contained nearly three times as much as he would need to take him to California. "If it were only mine!" he thought to himself. Perhaps Tom ought to have been above temptation, but he was not. For one little instant he was tempted to take out two hundred dollars, and then drop the wallet where he had picked it up. No one would probably find out where the missing money was. But Tom had been too well brought up to yield to this temptation. Not even the thought that he might, perhaps within a year, return the money with interest, prevailed upon him. "It wouldn't be honest," he decided, "and if I began in that way I could not expect that God would prosper me. If that is the only way by which I can go to California I must make up my mind to stay at home." So the question was settled in Tom's mind. The money must be returned to the owner. His pail was nearly full of huckleberries, but he postponed going home, for he felt that Squire Hudson would be feeling anxious about his loss, and he thought it his duty to go and return the money first of all. Accordingly he made his way directly to the imposing residence of the rich man. Passing up the walk which led to the front door, Tom rang the bell. This was answered by a cross-looking servant. She glanced at the pail of berries, and said quickly: "We don't want any berries, and if we did you ought to go round to the side door." "I haven't asked you to buy any berries, have I?" said Tom, rather provoked by the rudeness of the girl, when he had come to do the squire a favor. "No, but that's what you're after. We have bought all we want." "I tell you I didn't come here to sell berries," said Tom independently; "I picked these for use at home." "Then what do you come here for, anyway, takin' up my time wid comin' to the door, when I'm busy gettin' supper?" "I want to see Squire Hudson." "I don't know if he's at home." "Then you'd better find out, and not keep me waiting." "I never see such impudence," ejaculated the girl. "I mean what I say," continued Tom stoutly. "I want to see the squire on important business." "Much business you have wid him!" said the girl scornfully. Tom by this time was out of patience. "Go and tell your master that I wish to see him," he said firmly. "I've a great mind to slam the door in your face," returned Bridget angrily. "I wouldn't advise you to," said Tom calmly. A stop was put to the contention by an irritable voice. "What's all this, hey? Who's at the door, Bridget?" "A boy wid berries, sir." "Tell him I don't want any." "I have told him, and he won't go." "Won't go, hey?" and Squire Hudson came out into the hall. "What's all this, I say? Won't go?" "I wish to see you, sir," said Tom, undaunted. "I have told the girl that I didn't come here to sell berries; but she objects to my seeing you." Squire Hudson was far from an amiable man, and this explanation made him angry with the servant. He turned upon her fiercely. "What do you mean, you trollop," he demanded, "by refusing to let the boy see me? What do you mean by your insolence, I say?" Bridget was overwhelmed, for the squire's temper was like a tornado. "I thought he wanted to sell berries," she faltered. "That isn't true," said Tom. "I told you expressly that I picked the berries for use at home, and had none to sell." "Go back to the kitchen, you trollop!" thundered the squire. "You deserve to go to jail for your outrageous conduct." Bridget did not venture to answer a word, for it would only have raised a more violent storm, but retreated crestfallen to her own realm, and left our hero in possession of the field. She contented herself with muttering under her breath what she did not dare to speak aloud. "You are Tom Nelson, are you not?" asked the squire, adjusting his spectacles, and looking more carefully at the boy. "Yes, sir." "Have you any message from your father?" "No, sir." "Then why did you come here to take up my time?" demanded the squire, frowning. "I came to do you a service, Squire Hudson." "You came--to--do--me--a--service?" repeated the squire slowly. "Yes, sir." "You may as well come in," said the rich man, leading into the sitting-room. Tom followed him into a handsomely furnished room, and the two sat down opposite each other. CHAPTER III. TOM ASKS A LOAN. "I don't know what service you can do me," said Squire Hudson incredulously. His manner implied: "I am a rich man and you are a poor boy. How can you possibly serve me?" "Have you lost anything lately?" inquired Tom, coming at once to business. I suppose most men, when asked such a question, would first think of their pocket-books. It was so with Squire Hudson. He hastily thrust his hand into his pocket, and found--a large hole, through which, doubtless, the wallet had slipped. "I have lost my wallet," he said anxiously. "Have you found it?" In reply Tom produced the missing article. The squire took it hurriedly, and, at once opening it, counted the money. It was all there, and he heaved a sigh of relief, for he was a man who cared for money more than most people. "Where did you find it?" he asked. Tom answered the question. "It is very fortunate you came along before anyone else saw it. I rode that way on horse-back this morning. I told Mrs. Hudson that my pocket needed repairing, but she put it off, according to her usual custom. If it had not been found, I would have kept her on short allowance for a year to come." Tom felt rather embarrassed, for, of course, it would not do to join in with the squire in his complaints of his wife. Suddenly Squire Hudson said, eying him keenly: "Do you know how much money there is in this wallet?" "Yes, sir." "Then you counted it?" "Yes, sir." "Why did you do it?" "I wanted to know how much there was, so that no one might blame me if any were missing." "Didn't you want to take any?" asked the squire bluntly. "Yes," answered Tom promptly. "Why didn't you? For fear you would be found out?" "That may have had something to do with it, but it was principally because it would have been stealing and stealing is wrong." "What would you have done with the money if you had taken it?" "Started for California next week," answered Tom directly. "Eh?" ejaculated the squire, rather astonished. "Why do you want to go to California--a boy like you?" "To dig gold. I suppose a boy can dig gold, as well as a man. There doesn't seem to be much chance for me here. There's nothing to do but to work on the farm, and father and Walter can do all there is to be done there." "How is your father getting along?" asked the rich man, with an interest which rather surprised Tom. "Poorly," said Tom. "He makes both ends meet; but we all have to do without a great many things that we need." The squire looked thoughtful. He took half a dollar from his wallet and tendered it to Tom. "You've done me a service," he said. "Take that." Tom drew back. "I would rather not take money for being honest," he said. "That's all nonsense," said Squire Hudson sharply. "That's the way I feel about it," said Tom stoutly. "Then you're a fool." "I hope not, sir." "This would have been quite a large loss to me. I am perfectly willing to give you this money." Then Tom gathered courage and said boldly, "You can do me a great favor, Squire Hudson, if you choose." "What is it?" "Lend me enough money to go to California," said Tom nervously. "Good gracious! Is the boy crazy?" ejaculated the astonished squire. "No, sir, I am not crazy. I'll tell you what my plans are. I shall go to work directly I get there, and shall devote the first money I make to paying you. Of course, I shall expect to pay high interest. I am willing to pay you three hundred dollars for two; unless I am sick, I think I can do it inside of twelve months." "How much money do you suppose you will need for this wild-goose expedition?" "About two hundred dollars, sir; and, as I just said, I will give you my note for three." "A boy's note is worth nothing." "Perhaps it isn't in law; but I wouldn't rest till it was paid back." "What security have you to offer?" "None, sir, except my word." "Do you know what I would be if I lent you this money?" "You would be very kind." "Pish! I should be a fool." "I don't think you'd lose anything by it, sir; but, of course, I can't blame you for refusing," and Tom rose to go. "Sit down again," said the squire; "I want to talk to you about this matter. How long have you been thinking of California?" "Only two or three days, sir." "What made you think of it?" "I wanted to help father." "Who has told you about California?" "I have read about it in the papers." "Have you spoken to your father about going there?" "I have spoken to him about leaving home, and seeking my fortune; but I have not mentioned going to California, because I thought it impossible to raise the necessary money." "Of course. That's sensible, at least." Squire Hudson rose and walked thoughtfully about the room, occasionally casting a keen glance at Tom, who remained sitting, with his pail of huckleberries in his cap. After a while the squire spoke again. "Your father might let you have the money," he suggested. "My father has no money to spare," said Tom quickly. "Couldn't he raise some?" "I don't know how." "Then I'll tell you. I hold a mortgage for two thousand dollars on his farm. I suppose you know that?" "Yes, sir." "I might be willing to increase the mortgage to twenty-two hundred, and he could lend you the extra two hundred." This was a new idea to Tom, and he took a little time to think it over. "I don't like to ask father to do that," he said. "He finds it very hard now to pay the interest on the mortgage." "I thought you intended to pay the money in a year," said the squire sharply. "So I do," said Tom, and he began to think more favorably of the plan. "In that case your father wouldn't suffer." "You are right, sir. If father would only consent to do so, I would be happy. But I might die." "Your father would have to take the risk of that. You can't expect me to." This seemed fair enough, and, in fact, the danger didn't seem very great to Tom. He was about sixteen; and to a boy of sixteen death seems very far off, provided he is strong and vigorous, as Tom was. He rapidly decided that the squire's offer was not to be refused without careful consideration. It opened to him a career which looked bright and promising. Once in California, what could he not do? Tom was hopeful and sanguine, and did not allow himself to think of failure. "I understand that you are willing to advance the money, Squire Hudson?" he said, determined to know just what to depend upon. "I will advance two hundred dollars, on condition that your father will secure me by an increased mortgage. It is no particular object to me, for I can readily invest the money in some other way." "I will speak to father about it, Squire Hudson, and meanwhile I am thankful to you for making the offer." "Very well. Let me know as soon as possible," said the squire carelessly. As Tom went out, the rich man soliloquized: "I have no faith in the boy's scheme, and I don't believe half the stories they tell about the California mines; but it will give me an extra hold on Nelson, and hasten the day when the farm will come into my hands. When Mary Nelson refused my hand I resolved some day to have my revenge. I have waited long, but it will come at last. When she and her children are paupers, she may regret the slight she put upon me." CHAPTER IV. TOM ASKS LEAVE OF ABSENCE. Tom walked home slowly, but the distance seemed short, for he was absorbed in thought. In a way very unexpected he seemed to be likely to realize what he had regarded as a very pleasant, but impossible, dream. Would his father consent to the squire's proposal, and, if so, ought Tom to consent to expose him to the risk of losing so considerable a sum of money? If he had been older and more cautious he would probably have decided in the negative; but Tom was hopeful and sanguine, and the stories he had heard of California had dazzled him. There was, of course, an element of uncertainty in his calculations, but the fact that there seemed to be no prospect before him in his native village had an important influence in shaping his decision. To ask his father the momentous question, however, was not easy, and he delayed it, hoping for a favorable opportunity of introducing the subject. His thoughtful manner excited attention, and secured him the opportunity he sought. "You seem deep in thought, Tom," said his mother. "Yes, mother, I have a good deal to think about." "Anybody would think Tom overwhelmed with business," said Walter, next to Tom in age, with good-humored banter. "I am," said Tom gravely. "Won't you take me in partnership, then?" asked Walter. Tom smiled. "I don't think I could do that," he answered. "Not to keep you waiting, Squire Hudson has made me a business proposal this afternoon." All were surprised and looked to Tom for an explanation. "He offers to advance me two hundred dollars for a year, to help me out to California." "Squire Hudson makes this offer to a boy of your age?" said his father slowly. "Yes, or rather he makes the offer to you." "To me?" "Perhaps you will think me selfish for even mentioning it," said Tom rapidly, in a hurry to explain fully now that the ice was broken. "He will advance the money, on condition that you increase the mortgage on the farm to twenty-two hundred dollars." Mr. Nelson looked blank. "Do you know, Tom," he said, "how hard I find it now to pay the interest on the mortgage, and how hopeless I am of ever paying it off?" "I know all that, father; but I want to help you. If I keep my health, and have a chance, I think I can help you. There's no chance for me here, and there is a chance in California. You remember what we have read in the _Weekly Messenger_ about the gold-fields, and what large sums have been realized by miners." "They are men, and you are a boy." "That's true," said Tom, "but," he added, with natural pride, "I am pretty strong for a boy. I am willing to work, and I don't see why I can't dig gold as well as a man. I may not make as much, but if I only do half as well as some that we have read about, I can do a good deal for you." "How far off is California?" asked Mrs. Nelson. "Over three thousand miles, across the continent," answered her husband. "By sea it is a good deal more." "Why, it is as far off as Europe," said Walter, who was fresh from his lesson in geography. "It is farther than some parts of Europe--England, for example," said his father. "And a wild, unsettled region," said Mrs. Nelson soberly. "I don't think so much of that," said Mark Nelson. "Tom is no baby. He is a boy of good sense, not heedless, like some of his age, and I should feel considerable confidence in his getting along well." "What, Mark, are you in favor of his going so far--a boy who has never been away from home in his life?" "I don't know what to say. I have not had time to consider the matter, as it has come upon me suddenly. I have a good deal of confidence in Tom, but there is one difficulty in my mind." "What is that, father?" asked Tom anxiously. "The expense of getting to California, and the method of raising the money; I don't like to increase the mortgage." "I suppose you are right, father," said Tom slowly. "I know it is more than I have any right to ask. I wouldn't even have mentioned it if I hadn't hoped to help you to pay it back." "That is understood, Tom," said his father kindly. "I know you mean what you say, and that you would redeem your promise if fortune, or rather Providence, permitted. It is a serious matter, however, and not to be decided in a hurry. We will speak of it again." Nothing more was said about Tom's plan till after the children had gone to bed. Then, as Mark Nelson and his wife sat before the fire in the open fireplace, the subject was taken up anew. "Mary," said Mark, "I am beginning to think favorably of Tom's proposal." "How can you say so, Mark?" interrupted his wife. "It seems like madness to send a young boy so far away." "Tom can't be called a young boy; he is now sixteen." "But he has never been away from home." "He must go some time." "If it were only to Boston or New York; but to go more than three thousand miles away!" and the mother shuddered. "There are dangers as great in Boston or New York as in California, Mary, to a boy of Tom's age. He can't always be surrounded by home influences." "I wish we could find employment for him in town," said Mrs. Nelson uneasily. "That is a mother's thought, and it would be pleasant for all of us; but I doubt if it would be better for Tom." "Why not?" "A boy who is thrown upon his own guardianship and his own resources develops manliness and self-reliance sooner than at home. But we need not take that into consideration; there is nothing to do here, nor is there likely to be. He must go away from home to find employment. To obtain a place in Boston or New York requires influence and friends in those places; and we can hope for neither. In California he will become his own employer. The gold-mines are open to all, and he may earn in a year as much as he could in five years in the East." "Do you favor his going, then, Mark?" "Not against your will, Mary. Indeed, I should not feel justified in increasing the mortgage upon our little property against your wish. That concerns us all." "I don't think so much of that. I am so afraid Tom would get sick in California. What would become of the poor boy in that case?" "That is a mother's thought. I think Tom would find friends, who would not let him suffer. He is a manly, attractive boy, though he is ours, and I think he is well calculated to make his way." "That he is," said his mother proudly. "No one can help liking Tom." "Then you see he is likely to find friends. Were he such a boy as Sinclair Hudson, I should feel afraid that he would fare badly, if he stood in need of help from others. Sinclair is certainly a very disagreeable boy." "Yes, he is; and he isn't half as smart as Tom." "A mother's vanity," said Mark Nelson, smiling. "However, you are right there. I should consider it a misfortune to have such a cross-grained, selfish son as Sinclair. Squire Hudson, with all his wealth, is not fortunate in his only child. There is considerable resemblance between father and son. I often wish that some one else than the squire held the mortgage on our farm." "You don't think he would take advantage of you?" "I don't think he would be very lenient to me if I failed to pay interest promptly. He has a grudge against me, you know." "That is nonsense," said Mrs. Nelson, blushing, for she understood the allusion. "I am glad he doesn't ask me to give him a mortgage on you, Mary." "He has forgotten all that," said Mrs. Nelson. "I am no longer young and pretty." "I think you more attractive than ever," said the husband. "Because you are foolish," said his wife; but she was well pleased, nevertheless. Poor as her husband was, she had never dreamed of regretting her choice. "Be it so; but about this affair of Tom--what shall I say to him in the morning?" Mrs. Nelson recovered her gravity instantly. "Decide as you think right, Mark," she said. "If you judge that Tom had better go I will do my best to become reconciled to his absence, and set about getting him ready." "It is a great responsibility, Mary," said Mark slowly; "but I accept it. Let the boy go, if he wishes. He will leave our care, but we can trust him to the care of his heavenly Father, who will be as near to him in California as at home." Thus Tom's future was decided. His father and mother retired to bed, but not to sleep. They were parting already in imagination with their first-born, and the thought of that parting was sad indeed. CHAPTER V. TOM RAISES THE MONEY. Tom got up early the next morning--in fact, he was up first in the house--and attended to his usual "chores." He was splitting wood when his father passed him on the way to the barn with the milk-pail in his hand. "You are up early, Tom," he said. "Yes," answered our hero. Tom could not help wondering whether his father had come to any decision about letting him go to California; but he did not like to ask. In due time he would learn, of course. He felt that he should like to have it decided one way or the other. While his plans were in doubt he felt unsettled and nervous. At an early hour the family gathered about the breakfast table. Tom noticed that his father and mother looked grave, and spoke in a subdued tone, as if they had something on their minds; but he did not know what to infer from this, except that they had his prospects still in consideration. When breakfast was over, Mark Nelson pushed back his chair, and said: "How soon can you get Tom ready to start, Mary?" "Am I going, father?" asked Tom, his heart giving an eager bound. "Is Tom really going?" asked the younger children, with scarcely less eagerness. "If Squire Hudson doesn't go back on his promise. Tom, you can go with me to the squire's." "How soon?" "In about an hour. He doesn't breakfast as early as we do. I think he will be ready to receive us in about an hour." "Thank you, father," said Tom. "You are doing a great deal for me." "I can't do much for you, my boy. I can probably get you to California, and then you will be thrown upon your own exertions." "I mean to work very hard. I think I shall succeed." "I hope so, at least, Tom. When the time comes to start the other boys, I shall be glad to have your help in doing it." Tom was pleased to hear this, though it placed upon his shoulders a new and heavy responsibility. He was assuming the responsibility not only for his own future, but for that of his brothers. But it made him feel more manly, as if the period of his dependent boyhood were over, and he had become a young man all at once. "I hope I sha'n't disappoint you, father," he said. "If you do, I don't think it will be your fault, Tom," said his father kindly. "Fortune may be against you, but we must take the risk of that." "I don't know what to think about it, Tom," said his mother, in a tone of doubt and mental disturbance. "I feel as if you were too young to go out in the wide world to seek your fortune." "I am not so very young, mother. I am old enough to make my way." "So your father says, and I have yielded to his judgment; but, Tom, I don't know how to let you go." There were tears in Mrs. Nelson's eyes as she spoke. Tom was moved, and if he needed anything to strengthen him in the good resolutions he had formed, his mother's emotion supplied it. "You sha'n't regret giving your consent, mother," he said manfully, and, rising from his seat, he went to his mother and kissed her. "Mary," said Mr. Nelson, "you haven't answered my question. How long will it take to get Tom ready? If he is to go, he may as well start as soon as possible." "Let me see," said Mrs. Nelson, "how many shirts have you got, Tom?" "Five." "Are they all in good order?" "I believe one needs mending." "I don't know whether that will be enough," said Mrs. Nelson doubtfully. "Mary," said her husband, "don't provide too large a supply of clothing. Tom may find it a burden. Remember, in California, he will have to travel on foot and carry his own baggage." "Then I think he is already pretty well provided. But some of his clothes may need mending. That won't take long, and I will attend to it at once." "Perhaps Squire Hudson will go back on you, after all," said Walter. Tom's face was overcast. That would be a disappointment he could not easily bear. "I shall soon know," he said. An hour later Tom and his father set out for Squire Hudson's residence. Tom felt nervous; he could not well help it. "Tom," said his father, "this is an important visit for you." "Yes, sir," said Tom. "You are feeling nervous, I see. Try to take it coolly, and don't feel too low-spirited if things don't turn out as you hope." "I will try to follow your advice, father, but I am not sure as I can." "If you are disappointed, try to think it is for the best. A boy of your age had made all arrangements to visit Europe with a party of friends. The day before starting something happened which made it impossible for him to go. For weeks he had been looking forward with eager anticipation to his journey, and now it was indefinitely postponed." "What a terrible disappointment!" said Tom. "Yes, it seemed so, but mark the issue. The steamer was lost, and all on board were drowned. The disappointment saved his life." "It might not always turn out so," objected Tom. "No, that is true. Still, if we are willing to think that our disappointments are not always misfortunes, we shall go through life with more cheerfulness and content." "Still, I hope I shall not be disappointed in this," said Tom. "You are perhaps too young to be philosophical," said his father. Mark Nelson had enjoyed only the usual advantages of education afforded by a common school; but he was a man of good natural capacity, and more thoughtful than many in his vocation. From him Tom inherited good natural abilities and industrious habits. It would not be fair, however, to give all the credit to his father. Mrs. Nelson was a superior woman, and all her children were well endowed by nature. As they turned into Squire Hudson's gravel-path, the squire himself opened the front door. "Were you coming to see me?" he asked. "We would like to speak with you a few minutes, squire, if you can spare the time." "Oh, yes, I have nothing pressing on hand," said the squire, with unusual affability. "Walk in, Mr. Nelson." He led the way into the room where Tom had had his interview with him the day before. "Your son did me a good turn yesterday," he said graciously. "He behaved in a very creditable manner." "He told me that he found your pocketbook, Squire Hudson." "Yes; it contained a large sum of money. Some boys would have kept it." "None of my boys would," said Mark Nelson proudly. "Of course not. They're too well brought up." "Tom told me that you offered to advance money enough to get him to California," said Mr. Nelson, coming to business. "On satisfactory security," added the squire cautiously. "You proposed to increase the mortgage on my place?" "Yes," said the squire. "I wouldn't have done it, though, Neighbor Nelson, but for the good turn the boy did me. I am not at all particular about increasing the amount of the mortgage, but, if by so doing it I can promote Tom's views, I won't object." "Thank you, sir," said Tom gratefully. "It is a serious step for me to take," continued Mr. Nelson, "for I feel the incumbrance to be a heavy one already. In fact, it is with difficulty that I pay the interest. But the time has come when Tom should start in life, and in this village there seems to be no opening." "None whatever," said the squire, in a tone of decision. "What do you think of the prospects in California?" asked Mark Nelson. "You are a man of business, and can judge better than I. Are the stories we hear of fortunes made in a short time to be relied upon?" "As to that," said the squire deliberately, "I suppose we can't believe all we hear; we must make some allowances. But, after all, there's no doubt of the existence of gold in large quantities; I am satisfied of that." "Then about the wisdom of sending out a boy like Tom, alone; do you think it best?" "It depends altogether on the boy," responded the squire. "If he is honest, industrious, and energetic, he will make his way. You know your own boy better than I do." "He is all you say, Squire Hudson. I have a great deal of confidence in Tom." Tom looked at his father gratefully. Sometimes it does a boy good to learn that the older people have confidence in him. "Then let him go," said the squire. "I stand ready to furnish the money. I think you said you needed two hundred dollars." This question was put to Tom, and the boy answered in the affirmative. "Very well," said the squire. "As soon as the necessary writings are made out, the money shall be ready." "It's all settled!" thought Tom triumphantly. At that moment Sinclair Hudson, the squire's only son, opened the door and looked into the room. "Hello, Tom Nelson," said he, rather rudely. "What brings you here?" CHAPTER VI. TOM ARRIVES IN PITTSBURG. "I came on business, Sinclair," answered Tom, smiling. "Thomas is going to California, Sinclair," explained Squire Hudson. Sinclair opened wide his eyes in amazement. "What for?" he asked. "To dig gold and make my fortune," answered Tom complacently. "Come out and tell me all about it." "You can go, Thomas," said Squire Hudson graciously. "Your father and I will settle the business." "Is it true that you are going to California?" asked Sinclair, when they were out in the front yard. "Yes." "How soon do you go?" "I want to get away in a week." "What has my father to do with it?" inquired Sinclair. "He is going to lend me the money to get there." "How much?" "Two hundred dollars." "Then he is a greater fool than I thought," said Sinclair, with characteristic politeness. "Why do you say that?" demanded our hero, justly nettled. "Because he'll never see the money again." "Yes, he will. My father is responsible for it." "Your father is a poor man." "He is able to pay that, if I don't; but I hope he won't have to." "Do you really expect to find gold?" asked Sinclair curiously. "Certainly I do. Others have, and why shouldn't I? I am willing to work hard." "Do you think you'll come home rich?" "I hope so." "I have a great mind to ask father to let me go with you," said Sinclair unexpectedly. "You wouldn't like it. You haven't been brought up to work," said Tom, rather startled, and not much pleased with the proposal, for Sinclair Hudson was about the last boy he wished as a companion. "Oh, I wouldn't go to work. I would go as a gentleman, to see the country. Wait a minute; I will run in and ask him." So Sinclair ran into the house, and preferred his request. "That's a wild idea, Sinclair," said his father quickly. "Why is it? I'm as old as Tom Nelson." "He is going because it is necessary for him to earn his living." "He will have a splendid time," grumbled the spoiled son. "You shall travel all you want to when you are older," said his father. "Now you must get an education." "I want to travel now." "I will take you to New York the next time I go." "Give me five dollars besides." The money was handed him. He went out and reported to Tom that he was going to travel all over the world when he was a little older, and had decided not to go to California now. "If you have money enough you can go with me," he added graciously. "Thank you," said Tom politely, though the prospect of having Sinclair for a traveling companion did not exhilarate him much. For a few days Mrs. Nelson was very busy getting Tom ready to go. It was well, perhaps, that so much needed to be done, for it kept her mind from the thought of the separation. The question of which route to take, whether by steamer or across the plains, demanded consideration. It was finally decided that Tom should go overland. It was thought he might join some company at St. Joseph--or St. Joe, as it was then, and is now, popularly called--and pay his passage in services, thus saving a good share of the two hundred dollars. That was, of course, an important consideration. "How shall I carry my money?" asked Tom. "It will be best to take gold, and carry it for safety in a belt around your waist," said his father. "You must be very prudent and careful, or you may be robbed. That would be a serious thing for you, as I could not forward you any more money." "I will be very prudent, father," said Tom. "I know the value of money too well to risk losing it." Well, the days of preparation were over at length, and Tom stood on the threshold, bidding good-by to his parents and his brothers and sisters. He had not realized till now what it was to leave home on a long journey of indefinite duration. He wanted to be heroic, but in spite of himself his eyes moistened, and he came near breaking down. "I don't know how to part with you, my dear child," said his mother. "Think that it is all for the best, mother," said Tom, choking. "Think of the time when I will come back with plenty of money." "God bless you, Tom!" said his father. "Don't forget your good habits and principles when you are far away from us." "I won't, father." So Tom's long journey commenced. Tom's plan was to go to St. Louis first. His father made some inquiries about the route, and recommended going to Pittsburg by cars, then to take the boat on the Ohio River for Cincinnati. This seemed to Tom to afford a pleasant variety, and he gladly accepted the suggestion. As they were approaching Pittsburg, Tom occupied a whole seat on the left-hand side of the car. A brisk, plausible young man, of twenty-five, passing through the aisle, observed the vacant seat, and, pausing, inquired, "Is this seat engaged?" "No, sir," answered Tom. "Then, if you have no objection, I will occupy it." "Certainly, sir." The young man was nicely dressed. In his bosom sparkled a diamond pin, and he wore three or four rings on his fingers. "He must be rich," thought Tom, who was of an observant turn. "A pleasant day to travel," remarked the young man affably. "Yes, it is," said Tom. "Do you go farther than Pittsburg?" "Yes, I am going to California," answered Tom proudly. "Is it possible? Are you alone?" "Yes, sir." "You are young to travel so far." "I am sixteen; that is, I shall be in two or three weeks." "Still, you are young to take such a journey alone. Are you going to join friends there?" "No; I am going to seek my fortune." Once more the young man looked surprised, and scanned Tom curiously. "I presume you are from the city," he observed, with a smile which Tom would not have understood if he had noticed it. The truth is, that Tom bore evident marks of being a country boy. I don't like to say that he looked "green," but he certainly lacked the air that distinguishes a town-bred boy. His companion evidently understood boy nature, for Tom was much flattered by the supposition that he was a city boy. "No," he answered, almost as if apologizing for a discreditable fact; "I am from the country." "You don't say so!" exclaimed the other, in apparent surprise. "I thought, from your appearance, that you were from the city. How do you go from Pittsburg?" "By river to Cincinnati." "Do you really? I am glad to hear it; I am going there myself. We shall be fellow passengers. That will be pleasant." Tom thought it would. His companion seemed very pleasant and social, and he had been feeling lonely, as was only natural. "Yes, it will," he said. "By the way, as we may be thrown together, more or less, we ought to know each other. My name is Milton Graham. My father is a rich merchant in New York. I am traveling partly on business for my father's firm, and partly for pleasure." "My name is Thomas Nelson; most people call me Tom," said our hero. "Then I will call you Tom," said Graham. "I like the name. I have a favorite cousin named Tom. Poor boy!--he is an orphan. His father died two years ago, leaving him two hundred thousand dollars. My father is his guardian. He is about your age; only not quite so good-looking." Tom blushed. He had not thought much of his own looks, but he was human, and no one is displeased at being considered good-looking. Mr. Graham spoke meditatively, as if he was not intending to pay a compliment, only mentioning a fact, and Tom did not feel called upon to thank him for this flattering remark. "That is a great deal of money," he said. "Yes, it is. All my relations are rich; that is, except one uncle, who probably is not worth over twenty thousand dollars." Tom was impressed. A man who could talk of such a sum in such terms must certainly be very rich. "Do you know, Mr. Graham," he inquired, "how soon the steamer will start after we reach Pittsburg?" "No; but I can find out after we reach there." On arriving at Pittsburg, inquiry was made, and it was ascertained that the steamer _River Belle_ would leave at nine o'clock the following morning. "We shall have to go to a hotel," said Graham. "Is there any cheap hotel here?" asked Tom prudently. "Yes; there is the Pittsburg House. Suppose we both go there." "All right." Mr. Graham had only a small carpetbag, smaller than Tom's. They took them in their hands, and walked for a short distance, till they reached a plain building, which, from the sign, Tom discovered to be the hotel which had been mentioned. "Shall we room together? It will cost less," said Milton Graham carelessly. "If you please," said Tom. He was lonely and thought he would like company. Besides, it would be cheaper, and that was a weighty consideration. CHAPTER VII. THE PITTSBURG HOUSE. Tom and his companion entered the hotel. At the left was the clerk's desk. Milton Graham naturally took the lead. He took a pen from the clerk, and entered his name with a flourish. Then he handed the pen to Tom, who followed his example, omitting the flourish, however. "This young gentleman will room with me," said Graham. "All right, sir," said the clerk. "Will you go up to your room now?" "Yes." The porter was summoned, and handed the key of No. 16. He took the two carpetbags, and led the way up-stairs, for the Pittsburg House had no elevator. Even in the best hotels at that time this modern convenience was not to be found. The door of No. 16 was opened, revealing a plain room, about twelve feet square, provided, as Tom was glad to see, with two narrow beds. "Have you got a quarter, Tom?" asked Graham. Tom drew one from his pocket. Graham took it and handed it to the porter, who expressed his thanks. "It's always customary to fee the porter," he said carelessly, in answer to Tom's look of surprise. "What for?" "For bringing up the baggage." "Twenty-five cents for bringing up two small carpetbags! That's pretty high. I'd have brought them up myself, if I had known," said Tom, dissatisfied, for he felt that this fee was hardly in accordance with his resolutions of economy. "Oh, he expects it. It's his regular perquisite. When you've traveled more you'll understand." "How much are we to pay for our accommodations?" asked Tom anxiously. "About two dollars apiece, I reckon." "That's more than I can afford," said Tom, alarmed. "Perhaps it is less, as we room together." "I hope so, for I can't afford to be extravagant." "Do you call two dollars a day extravagant?" asked Graham, smiling. "It is for me. My father is poor." "Oh, it'll be all right. I'll fix it with the clerk. If you are ready, suppose we go down and have some supper." To this Tom had no objection. He washed his hands and face, and brushed his hair; then he declared himself ready. Tom was hungry, and did justice to the supper, which he found very good. As they left the table, and reentered the office of the hotel, Milton Graham said, "I am going to make a call on some friends. Sorry to leave you, but we shall meet later in the evening." "All right," said Tom. On the whole he did not regret being alone. He began to doubt whether Graham would make a desirable traveling companion. Tom felt the need of economy, and he saw that his companion would make it difficult. If a fee must be paid, it was fair to divide it; but the porter's fee had come out of Tom's pocket. "Didn't he have a quarter, I wonder?" thought our hero. It was a small matter, but economy must begin in small matters, or it is not likely to be practised at all. He took the opportunity to go to the desk and ascertain the sum likely to be charged for his accommodations. "How long do you stay?" asked the clerk pleasantly. "Till to-morrow morning. I am going to sail in the _River Belle_." "Then we shall charge you a dollar and a half." This seemed large to Tom, but he made no objection. "How much would it have been if I had roomed alone?" he asked. "The same. We make no change in our terms on that account." "Mr. Graham told me it would be cheaper to room together." "He is your roommate, isn't he?" "Yes, sir." "He is mistaken, so far as our house is concerned. I suppose you have known him for some time." "No, sir. I met him on the cars yesterday afternoon for the first time." "Then you don't know anything about him?" "Oh, yes," answered Tom. "He is the son of a rich merchant in New York." "Who told you that?" "He did." The clerk was a man of middle age. At home he had a son of Tom's age, and this led him to feel a friendly interest in our hero. "I suppose you have never traveled much," he said. "No, sir. This is my first journey." "Are you going far?" "To California." "That is a long journey for a boy of your age," said the clerk, looking surprised. "Yes, sir; but I can't get anything to do at home, and I am going to California to seek my fortune." "I hope you will be successful," said the clerk, with hearty sympathy. "Will you let me give you a piece of advice?" "I shall be very glad of it, sir," responded Tom. "I find I am quite inexperienced." "Then don't trust strangers too readily. It is dangerous." "Do you refer to Mr. Graham?" asked Tom, startled. "Yes, I refer to him, or any other chance acquaintance." "Don't you think he is all right?" asked our hero anxiously. "I don't think he is the son of a rich merchant in New York." "Then why should he tell me so?" Tom was green, and I have no intention of concealing it. "I can't tell what his designs may be. Did you tell him that you were going to California?" "Yes, sir." "Then he will, of course, conclude that you have money. Did you tell him where you keep it?" "No, sir. I keep it in a belt around my waist." "You are too ready to tell that, though with me the information is safe. You are to room together. What will be easier, then, for your companion to rob you during the night?" "I'd better take a room alone," said Tom, now thoroughly alarmed. "I should advise you to, in most cases, but at present it may be as well to let things remain as they are, as it will save an awkward explanation." "But I don't want to be robbed." "We have a safe in the office--there it is--in which we deposit articles of value intrusted to us by our guests. Then we become responsible for them. I advise you to leave your money with us overnight." "I will," said Tom, relieved. "I shall have to go to my room to remove it." "Very well. If you have a watch, or any other valuable, it will be well to put those in our charge also." "No, sir, I have nothing of consequence but the money." The belt of money was deposited in the safe, and Tom felt relieved. He began to realize for the first time the need of prudence and caution. It had never occurred to him that a nice, gentlemanly-looking man, like Milton Graham, was likely to rob him of his scanty means. Even now he thought there must be some mistake. Still he felt that he had done the right thing in depositing the money with the clerk. The mere thought of losing it, and finding himself high and dry--stranded, so to speak--hundreds of miles from home, made him shudder. On the whole, Tom had learned a valuable, though an unpleasant, lesson. The young are by nature trustful. They are disposed to put confidence in those whom they meet, even for the first time. Unhappily, in a world where there is so much evil as there is in ours, such confidence is not justified. There are too many who make it a business to prey on their fellows, and select in preference the young and inexperienced. It was only seven o'clock. Tom had a curiosity to see the city of Pittsburg, with whose name he had been familiar. So, after parting with his treasure, he went out for a walk. He did not much care where he went, since all was alike new to him. He ascertained, on inquiry, that Smithfield Street was the principal business thoroughfare. He inquired his way thither, and walked slowly through it, his attention fully occupied by what he saw. CHAPTER VIII. GRAHAM IN HIS TRUE COLORS. Tom strayed into a street leading from the main thoroughfare. Presently he came to a brilliantly-lighted liquor saloon. As he paused in front of the door, a heavy hand was laid upon his shoulder, and, looking up, he met the glance of a well-dressed gentleman, rather portly, whose flushed face and uncertain gait indicated his condition. He leaned rather heavily upon Tom, apparently for support, for he seemed to have been drinking more than was good for him. "My young friend," he said, "come in and take a drink." "Thank you, sir, but I would rather not," said Tom, startled. "It won't hurt you. It don't hurt me." As he uttered these last words he came near falling. In his effort to save himself he clutched Tom by the arm, and nearly pulled him over. Our hero was anxious to get away. "Are you sure it don't hurt you?" he could not help saying. "Do you think I'm drunk?" demanded the other. "I think you've taken more than is good for you, sir," Tom answered bravely. "I guess you're right," muttered the gentleman, trying to stand upright. "The drink's gone to my legs. That's strange. Does it ever go to your legs?" "I never drink, sir." "You're a most extraor'nary young man," hiccoughed Tom's new acquaintance. "I must bid you good-night, sir," said our hero, anxious to get away. "Don't go. I can't get home alone." "Where do you live, sir?" "I live in the country." "Are you staying at a hotel?" "Yes--Pittsburg House. Know Pittsburg House?" "Yes, sir. I am staying there myself. Shall I lead you there? You'd better not drink any more." "Jus' you say, my young frien'. You know best." It was not a pleasant, or, indeed, an easy task to lead home the inebriate, for he leaned heavily on Tom, and, being a large man, it was as much as our hero could do to get him along. As they were walking along Tom caught sight of his roommate, Milton Graham, just turning into a saloon, in company with two other young men. They were laughing loudly, and seemed in high spirits. Graham did not recognize Tom. "I hope he won't come home drunk," thought our hero. "It seems to me it is fashionable to drink here." Tom's experience of city life was very limited. It was not long before he learned that Pittsburg was by no means exceptional in this respect. He ushered his companion safely into the hotel, and then a servant took charge of him, and led him to his room. Tom sat up a little while longer, reading a paper he found in the office, and then went to bed. "I suppose Mr. Graham will come home late," he said to himself. "I must leave the door unlocked." He soon went to sleep. How long he slept he did not know, but suddenly awoke after an interval. Opening his eyes he became conscious that Graham had returned. He discovered something more. His roommate, partially undressed, and with his back turned to Tom, was engaged in searching our hero's pockets. This discovery set Tom broad awake at once. He was not frightened, but rather amused when he thought of Graham's disappointment. He did not think it best to speak, but counterfeited sleep. "I wonder where the boy keeps his money," he heard Graham mutter. "Perhaps it is in his coat pocket. No, there is nothing but a handkerchief. He's more careful than I gave him credit for. Perhaps it is under his pillow." He laid down the clothes, and approached the bed. Tom, with some effort, kept his eyes firmly closed. Graham slid his hand lightly under the pillow, but withdrew it with all exclamation of disappointment. "He must have some money," he muttered. "Ah, I have it! It is in his valise." He approached Tom's valise, but it was locked. He drew out a bunch of keys, and tried one after the other, but in vain. Our hero feared he might resort to violent means of opening it, and turned in bed. Graham wheeled round quickly. Tom stretched, and opened his eyes languidly. "Is that you, Mr. Graham?" he asked. "Yes," answered Graham nonchalantly, proceeding to undress himself. "Have you been abed long?" "I don't know," answered Tom. "What time is it?" "Haven't you got a watch?" "No, I am not rich enough." "It is one o'clock. I hadn't seen my friend for a long time, and couldn't get away till late. By the way, have you got a key about you? I can't open my carpetbag." Tom thought of suggesting the bunch of keys in Graham's pocket, but decided not to. "My key is in my pants' pocket." "Suppose you get it," said Graham. "I don't like to feel in another person's pocket. There might be some money there." This was very scrupulous for one who had already searched all Tom's pockets thoroughly. Our hero got up, and got the key for his roommate. "No, it won't fit," said the young man, after a brief trial. "It is too large." Tom replaced the key in his pocket, confident that Graham would in the course of the night use it to open his valise. This, however, did not trouble him. "He won't think it worth while to steal my shirts or stockings," he reflected, "and the handkerchiefs are not worth taking." "It will be rather awkward if I can't find my keys," said Graham craftily. "I keep my money in my valise." He thought his unsophisticated companion would reveal in turn where he kept his money; but Tom only said, "That is a good place," and, turning over, closed his eyes again. During the night Tom's valise was opened, as he ascertained in a simple way. In the morning he found that the key was in the right hand-pocket instead of the left, in which he had placed it. Upon Graham's last failure he began to suspect what Tom had done with his money. "The boy isn't so green as I thought," he said to himself. "Curse his prudence! I must get the money somehow, for I am precious hard up." He got up early, when Tom was yet asleep, and went down to the office. "Good morning," he said to the clerk affably. "Good morning, sir." "My young friend and roommate left his money with you last night. Please deliver it to me." "What is the number of your room?" asked the clerk quietly. "No. 16. Tom Nelson is my roommate." "Why doesn't he come for it himself?" inquired the hotel clerk, with a searching glance at Graham. "He wishes me to buy his steamboat ticket," answered Graham coolly. "He is going down the river in my charge." "Are you his guardian?" "Yes," answered Graham, with cool effrontery. "He is the son of an acquaintance of mine, and I naturally feel an interest in the boy." "He told me he never met you till yesterday." Graham was rather taken aback, but he recovered himself quickly. "That's pretty cool in Tom," he returned, shrugging his shoulders. "I understand it, though." "I am glad you do," said the clerk sarcastically, "for it doesn't look to me at all consistent with what you represent." "The fact is," said Graham plausibly, "Tom has a feeling of independence, and doesn't like to have it supposed that he is under anybody's protection. That accounts for what he told you. It isn't right, though, to misrepresent. I must give him a scolding. I am in a little of a hurry, so if you will kindly give me the boy's money----" "It won't do, Mr. Graham," said the clerk, very firmly. "The money was put in our charge by the boy, and it will be delivered only to him." "You seem to be very suspicious," said Graham loftily. "Hand me my bill, if you please. I will breakfast elsewhere." The bill was made out, and paid. Five minutes later Milton Graham, with an air of outraged virtue, stalked out of the hotel, quite forgetting the young friend who was under his charge. When Tom came down-stairs he was told of the attempt to get possession of his money. "I am much obliged to you for not letting him have it," he said. "He searched my clothes and valise during the night, but I said nothing, for I knew he would find nothing worth taking." "He is a dangerous companion. If you ever meet him again, I advise you to give him a wide berth." "I certainly shall follow your advice. If you had not warned me against him he would have stolen my money during the night." CHAPTER IX. THE "RIVER BELLE." As Tom took his place at the breakfast table, he mechanically lifted his eyes and glanced at his neighbors. Directly opposite him sat the gentleman whom he had brought home the evening before. Now he looked sober and respectable. Indeed, he looked as if he might be a person of some prominence. He met Tom's glance, and recognized him. "I think you are the boy who came home with me last evening," he said. "Yes, sir," answered Tom, rather embarrassed. "I am afraid I was not quite myself," continued the stout gentleman. "Not quite, sir." "I ought to be ashamed of myself, and I am. I don't often allow myself to be caught in that way. You did me a good service." "You are quite welcome, sir." "I had a good deal of money with me, and, if I had drank any more, I should probably have been robbed." "Why did you run such a risk, sir?" Tom could not help asking. "Because I was a fool," said the other bluntly. "I have taste for drink, but when I am at home I keep it under control." "Then you don't live in Pittsburg, sir?" "No. My home is in one of the river towns in Ohio. I came to Pittsburg to collect money due me for produce, and but for you should probably have carried none of it home." "I am very glad to be of service to you," said our hero sincerely. "What are your plans, my young friend? I suppose you are only a visitor in this city." "I am on my way to California. I expect to sail in the _River Belle_ at nine o'clock." "Then we shall be fellow passengers, and I shall have a chance to become better acquainted with you. You are young to go to California alone. You are alone--are you not?" "Yes, sir." They went down to the boat together, and on the way Tom told his story. He learned that his acquaintance was Mr. Nicholas Waterbury; that he had been a member of the Ohio Legislature, and, as he inferred, was a prominent citizen of the town in which he lived. "I should be very much ashamed to have them hear at home how I had forgotten myself," said Mr. Waterbury. "It need not be known," said Tom. "I shall not mention it to any one." "Thank you," said Mr. Waterbury. "I would rather you did not, as the news might reach my home." "Where do you live, sir?" "In Marietta. I shall be glad to have you leave the boat there, and stay a day or two with me." "Thank you, sir, but I am in a hurry to reach California, on my father's account. I want to send back as soon as possible the money he raised to pay my expenses out." "That is very commendable; I can enter into your feelings. I should like to show my obligation to you in some way." "It is not worth thinking about, sir," said Tom modestly. "Permit me to disagree with you. Why, my young friend, how much money do you think I had with me?" "I don't know, sir." "Upward of six hundred dollars." As Mr. Waterbury uttered these words, a young man, very dark, with narrow black whiskers, passed them. He darted a quick glance at the speaker, and walked rapidly on. Tom noticed him, but not with attention. "That is a good deal of money, sir," he remarked. "It would have been a good deal to lose," said Mr. Waterbury, "and I have no doubt I should have lost it if it had not been for you." "I haven't so much money as you, but I came near losing it last night." "How was that?" asked Tom's new acquaintance, with curiosity. Tom explained the attempt of his roommate to rob him. "It would have been a serious loss to you, my young friend." "It would have broken up all my plans, and I should have had to work my way home, greatly disappointed." "You will need to be careful about forming acquaintances. There are exceptions, however. I am a new acquaintance; but I don't think you need fear me." "No, sir," said Tom, smiling. "While I have received a great service from you, who are a new acquaintance. But here we are at the steamer." The _River Belle_ lay at her pier. Tom and his companion went on board. Both secured tickets, and Tom provided himself with a stateroom, for he expected to remain on board till they reached Cincinnati. Freight of various kinds was being busily stowed away below. It was a busy and animated scene, and Tom looked on with interest. "Have you ever been on a steamboat before?" asked Mr. Waterbury. "No, sir. I have never traveled any to speak of before leaving home on this journey," replied Tom. "It will be a pleasant variety for you, then, though the scenery is tame. However, some of the river towns are pretty." "I am sure I shall like it, sir." "I wish I were going all the way with you--I mean as far as Cincinnati," said Mr. Waterbury. "I wish you were, sir." "I have a great mind to do it," said the gentleman musingly. "I should have to go very soon on business, at any rate, and I can attend to it now just as well as later." "I shall be very glad if you can make it convenient, sir. We might occupy the same stateroom." "Are you not afraid that I shall follow the example of your Pittsburg roommate?" asked Mr. Waterbury. "I have less to lose than you," answered Tom. "Besides, I shall have to have a roommate, as there are two berths." "Precisely, and I might be safer than some. I have a great mind to keep on. I shall see some one on the pier in Marietta by whom I can send word to my family. By the way, I have a son about your age, and a daughter two years younger." "Have you, sir?" asked Tom, with interest. "I should like you to meet them. Perhaps you may some day." "I hope I may," said Tom politely. "I am a manufacturer," continued Mr. Waterbury, "and sell my goods chiefly in Pittsburg and Cincinnati. From these places they are forwarded farther east and west." "I suppose that's a pretty good business, sir?" "Sometimes; but there are intervals of depression. However, I have no right to complain. I began a poor boy, and now I am moderately rich." "Were you as poor as I am?" inquired Tom, beginning to feel a personal interest in his companion's career. "Quite so, I fancy. At the age of sixteen I couldn't call myself the owner of five dollars." "And you have become rich?" said Tom, feeling very much encouraged. "Moderately so. I am probably worth fifty thousand dollars, and am just fifty years of age." "That seems to me very rich," said Tom. "I should have said the same thing at your age. Our views change as we get older. Still, I regard myself as very well off, and, with prudent management, I need not fear reverses." "I should think not," said Tom. "You don't know how easy it is to lose money, my boy. I am not referring to robbery, but to mismanagement." "Your success encourages me, Mr. Waterbury," said Tom. "I am willing to work hard." "I think you will succeed. You look like a boy of good habits. Energy, industry, and good habits can accomplish wonders. But I think we are on the point of starting." Just before the gangplank was drawn in, two persons hastily crossed it. One was the dark young man who had passed them on the way down to the boat; the other was Milton Graham. "Mr. Waterbury," said Tom hurriedly, "do you see that man?" "Yes." "He is the man that tried to rob me." "We must be on our guard, then. He may be up to more mischief." CHAPTER X. ON THE STEAMER. In half an hour the _River Belle_ was on her way. Tom watched the city as it receded from view. He enjoyed this new mode of travel better than riding on the cars. He had never before been on any boat except a ferry-boat, and congratulated himself on his decision to journey by boat part of the way. Milton Graham had passed him two or three times, but Tom, though seeing him, had not volunteered recognition. Finding that he must make the first advances, Graham finally stopped short, looked full at our hero, and his face wore a very natural expression of surprise and pleasure. "Why, Tom, is that you?" he said, offering his hand, which Tom did not appear to see. "Yes," said our hero coldly. "I didn't expect to see you here." "I told you I intended to sail on the _River Belle_." "So you did; but I thought you had changed your mind." It made very little difference to Tom what Mr. Graham thought, and he turned from him to watch the scenery past which the boat was gliding. "I suppose," continued the young man, "you were surprised to find me gone when you came down-stairs to breakfast." "Yes, I was." "He resents it because I left him," thought Graham. "I guess I can bring him around." "The fact was," explained Graham, in a plausible manner, "I went out to call on a friend, meaning to come back to breakfast; but he made me breakfast with him, and when I did return you were gone. I owe you an apology, Tom. I hope you will excuse my unintentional neglect." "Oh, certainly," said Tom indifferently; "it's of no consequence." Mr. Graham looked at him sharply. He could not tell whether our hero was aware of his dishonest intentions or not, but as Tom must still have money, which he wanted to secure, he thought it best to ignore his coldness. "No," said he; "it's of no consequence as long as we have come together again. By the way, have you secured a stateroom?" "Yes." "If the other berth is not taken, I should like very much to go in with you," said Graham insinuatingly. "I have a roommate," said Tom coolly. "You have? Who is it?" demanded Graham, disappointed. "That gentleman," answered Tom, pointing out Mr. Nicholas Waterbury. "Humph! do you know him?" "I met him at the Pittsburg House." "My young friend," said Graham, with the air of a friendly mentor, "I want to give you a piece of advice." "Very well." "Don't be too ready to trust strangers. This Mr. Waterbury may be a very good man, but, on the other hand, he may be a confidence man. Do you understand me?" "I think so." "Now, I suppose you have money?" "A little." "Take care that he doesn't get possession of it. There are men who go about expressly to fleece inexperienced strangers." "I suppose you know all about that," Tom could not help saying. "What do you mean?" demanded Graham suspiciously. "You are an old traveler, and must know all about the sharpers." "Oh, to be sure," said Graham, immediately dismissing his suspicions. "You couldn't leave your companion, could you, and come into my stateroom?" "I don't think I could." "Oh, very well. It's of no consequence. Keep a good lookout for your roommate." Graham turned away, and resumed his walk. Soon Tom saw him in company with the dark young man, to whom reference has already been made. "Well," said the latter, "how did you make out with the boy?" "He's offish. I don't know as he suspects me. I wanted to get him into my stateroom, but he has already taken up with another man--that stout party over there." "So I suspected. I can tell you something about that man." "What?" "He carries six hundred dollars about him." "You don't say so! How did you find out?" "I overheard him telling the boy so." "That's important news. The boy must have a couple of hundred, or thereabouts, as he is on his way to California." "Eight hundred dollars together! That would make a good haul." "So it would, but it won't be easy to get it." While this conversation was going on Tom informed Mr. Waterbury of what had passed between Graham and himself. "So he warned you against me, did he?" said Mr. Waterbury laughingly. "Yes, he thought I would be safer in his company." "If you want to exchange, I will retire," said Mr. Waterbury, smiling. "Thank you; I would rather not. I am glad I met you, or he might have managed to get in with me." It was not long before they came to a landing. It was a small river village, whose neat white houses, with here and there one of greater pretensions, presented an attractive appearance. A lady and her daughter came on board here. The lady was dressed in black, and appeared to be a widow. The girl was perhaps fourteen years of age, with a bright, attractive face. Two trunks were put on the boat with them, and as they were the only passengers from this landing, Tom inferred that they were their property. "That's quite a pretty girl," said Mr. Waterbury. "Yes," answered Tom. "You ought to get acquainted with her," said Mr. Waterbury jocosely. "Perhaps," said Tom shyly, "you will get acquainted with them, and then you can introduce me." "You are quite sharp," said Mr. Waterbury, laughing. "However, your hint is a good one. I may act upon it." It happened, however, that Tom required no introduction. As the lady and her daughter walked across the deck, to occupy some desirable seats on the other side, the former dropped a kid glove, which Tom, espying, hastened forward and, picking up, politely tendered to the owner. "You are very kind," said the lady, in a pleasant voice. "I am much obliged." "Mama is quite in the habit of dropping her gloves," said the young girl, with a smiling glance at Tom. "I really think she does it on purpose." "Then, perhaps, I had better keep near-by to pick them up," said Tom. "Really, Jennie," said her mother, "you are giving the young gentleman a strange impression of me." "Well, mama, you know you dropped your gloves in the street the last time you were in Pittsburg, but there was no gentleman to pick them up, so I had to. Are you going to Cincinnati?" she asked, turning to Tom. "Yes, and farther; I am going to California," replied Tom. "Dear me, you will be quite a traveler. I wish I were going to California." "You wouldn't like to go there on the same business that I am." "What is that?" "I am going to dig gold." "I don't know. I suppose it isn't girl's work; but if I saw any gold about, I should like to dig for it. Is that your father that was standing by you?" "No," answered Tom. "I never met him till yesterday. We were staying at the same hotel in Pittsburg." "He seems like quite a nice old gentleman." Mr. Waterbury was not over fifty, but to the young girl he seemed an old gentleman. "I find him very pleasant." There was a seat next to Jennie, and Tom ventured to occupy it. "What is your name?" asked the young lady sociably. "Thomas Nelson, but most people call me Tom." "My name is Jane Watson, but everybody calls me Jennie." "That is much prettier than Jane." "So I think. Jane seems old-maidish, don't you think so?" "Are you afraid of becoming an old maid?" asked Tom, smiling. "Awfully. I wouldn't be an old maid for anything. My school-teacher is an old maid. She's horribly prim. She won't let us laugh, or talk, or anything." "I don't think you'll grow up like that." "I hope not." "How you run on, Jennie!" said her mother. "What will this young gentleman think of you?" "Nothing very bad, I hope," said Jennie, smiling archly on Tom. "I suppose," she continued, addressing him, "I ought to be very quiet and reserved, as you are a stranger." "I hope you won't be," said Tom heartily. "Then I won't. Somehow you don't seem like a stranger. You look a good deal like a cousin of mine. I suppose that is the reason." So they chatted on for an hour or more. Jennie was very vivacious, occasionally droll, and Tom enjoyed her company. The mother saw that our hero was well-behaved and gentlemanly, and made no objection to the sudden intimacy. CHAPTER XI. THE FIRST DAY ON THE RIVER. About half-past twelve dinner was announced. "I hope you'll sit next to us, Tom," said Jennie Watson. "I will, if I can." It happened that Milton Graham entered the saloon at the same time with the new friends. He took the seat next to Jennie, much to that young lady's annoyance. "Will you be kind enough to take the next seat?" she asked. "That young gentleman is to sit next to me." "I am sorry to resign the pleasure, but anything to oblige," said Graham. "Tom, I congratulate you," he continued, with a disagreeable smile. "Thank you," said our hero briefly. "He calls you Tom. Does he know you?" inquired Jennie, in a low voice. "I made his acquaintance yesterday for the first time." "I don't like his looks; do you?" "Wait till after dinner and I will tell you," said Tom, fearing that Graham would hear. Milton Graham saw that Jennie was pretty, and desired to make her acquaintance. "Tom," said he--for he sat on the other side of our hero--"won't you introduce me to your young lady friend?" Tom was not well versed in etiquette, but his good sense told him that he ought to ask Jennie's permission first. "If Miss Watson is willing," he said, and asked her the question. Jennie was not aware of Graham's real character, and gave permission. She was perhaps a little too ready to make new acquaintances. "Do you enjoy this mode of travel, Miss Watson?" said Graham, after the introduction. "Oh, yes; I think it very pleasant." "I suppose you wouldn't like the ocean as well. I went to Havana last winter--on business for my father--and had a very rough passage. The steamer pitched and tossed, making us all miserably seasick." "I shouldn't like that." "I don't think you would; but we business men must not regard such things." Tom listened to him with incredulity. Only the day before he would have put full confidence in his statement; but he had learned a lesson, thanks to Graham himself. "How far are you going, Miss Watson?" continued Graham. "To Cincinnati. My mother and I are going to live there." "It is a very pleasant city. I have often been there--on business." "What is your business, Mr. Graham?" Tom could not help asking. "I see you are a Yankee," said Graham, smiling. "Yankees are very inquisitive--always asking questions." "Are you a Yankee, Mr. Graham?" asked Jennie. "You asked me where I was going." "A fair hit," said Graham. "No, I am not a Yankee. I am a native of New York." "And I of New Jersey," said Tom. "Oh, you are a foreigner then," said Graham. "We always call Jerseymen foreigners." "It is a stupid joke, I think," said Tom, who was loyal to his native State. "You didn't answer Tom's question," said Jennie, who was a very straightforward young lady. "Oh, my father is a commission merchant," answered Graham. "What does he deal in?" "Articles too numerous to mention. Tom, will you pass me the potatoes?" Dinner was soon over, and the passengers went upon deck. Graham lit a cigar. "Have a cigar, Tom?" he said. "No, thank you; I don't smoke." "You'll soon learn. I'll see you again soon." "Tom," said Jennie, "tell me about this Mr. Graham. What do you know about him?" "I don't like to tell what I know," said Tom, hesitating. "But I want you to. You introduced me, you know." "What I know is not to his advantage. I don't like to talk against a man." "You needn't mind telling me." On reflection Tom decided that he ought to tell what he knew, for he felt that Jennie ought to be put on her guard against a man whom he did not consider a suitable acquaintance for her. "Very well," said he, "if you promise not to let him know that I have told you." "I promise." "He was my roommate last night at the Pittsburg House," said Tom, in a low voice. "During the night he tried to rob me." "You don't say so!" ejaculated Jennie, in round-eyed wonder. "I will tell you the particulars." This Tom did. Jennie listened with indignation. "But I don't understand," she said. "Why should the son of a merchant need to rob a boy like you? He looks as if he had plenty of money." "So I thought; but the hotel clerk told me that sharpers often appeared like this Mr. Graham, if that is his name." "How strange it seems!" said Jennie. "I wish you hadn't introduced me." "I didn't want to; but he asked, and at the table I couldn't give my reasons for refusing." "My dear child," said her mother, "you are too ready to form new acquaintances. Let this be a lesson for you." "But some new acquaintances are nice," pleaded Jennie. "Isn't Tom a new acquaintance?" "I will make an exception in his favor," said Mrs. Watson, smiling pleasantly. "Thank you," said Tom. "How do you know but I may be a pickpocket?" he continued, addressing Jennie. "As I have only ten cents in my pocket I will trust you," said the young lady merrily. "I'd trust you with any amount, Tom," she added impulsively. "Thank you, for your good opinion, Miss Jennie." "Don't call me Miss Jennie. If you do, I'll call you Mr. Tom." "I shouldn't know myself by that title. Then I'll call you Jennie." "I wish you were going to live in Cincinnati," said the young lady. "It would be nice to have you come and see us." "I should like it; but I mustn't think so much of pleasure as business." "Like Mr. Graham." "I must work hard at the mines. I suppose I shall look pretty rough when I am there." "When you've made your pile, Tom--that's what they call it, isn't it?--you'll come back, won't you?" "Yes." "You must stop in Cincinnati on your way home." "I wouldn't know where to find you." "I will give you our address before we part. But that will be some time yet." About this time Graham, who had finished smoking his cigar, strolled back. "Miss Watson," said he, "don't you feel like having a promenade?" "Yes," said Jennie suddenly. "Tom, come walk with me." Our hero readily accepted the invitation, and the two walked up and down the deck. "That's what I call a snub," said Graham's friend, the dark-complexioned young man, who was within hearing. Graham's face was dark with anger. "Curse her impudence, and his too!" he muttered. "I should like to wring the boy's neck." "He can't help it, if the girl prefers his company," said the other, rather enjoying Graham's mortification. "I'll punish him all the same." By this time Tom and Jennie were near him again, on their return. "You don't treat me with much ceremony, Miss Watson," said Graham, with an evil smile. "My mother doesn't like me to make too many acquaintances," said Jennie demurely. "She is very prudent," sneered Graham. "You have known your present companion quite a long time." "I hope to know him a long time," said the young lady promptly. "Let's us continue our walk, Tom." In discomfiture which he was unable to hide, Graham walked away. "Evidently, Graham, you are no match for those two youngsters," said his friend, in amusement, which Graham did not share. Graham did not reply, but seemed moody and preoccupied. Tom and his companion noticed Graham's displeasure, but they felt indifferent to it. They had no desire to continue his acquaintance. Our hero introduced Mr. Waterbury to his new friends, and this gentleman, who was a thorough gentleman, except on the rare occasion when he yielded to the temptation of strong drink, made a favorable impression upon both. So the day passed. Tom enjoyed it thoroughly. The river banks afforded a continuous panorama, while the frequent stops gave him an opportunity of observing the different towns in detail. Two or three times he went ashore, accompanied by Jennie, and remained till the steamer was ready to start. Finally night came, and one by one the weary passengers retired to rest. "Good night, Tom," said Jennie Watson. "Be up early in the morning." "So as to get an appetite for breakfast?" asked Tom, with a smile. "I think we shall both have appetites enough; but it will be pleasant to breathe the fresh morning air." Tom promised to get up, if he wakened in time. "If you don't mind, I will occupy the lower berth," said Mr. Waterbury. "I can't climb as well as you." "All right, sir. It makes no difference to me." CHAPTER XII. NO. 61 AND NO. 62. The stateroom was small, as most staterooms on river boats are. There appeared to be no means of ventilation. Mr. Waterbury was a stout man, and inclined to be short-breathed. After an hour he rose and opened the door, so as to leave it slightly ajar. With the relief thus afforded he was able to go to sleep, and sleep soundly. Tom was already asleep, and knew nothing of what had happened. The number of the stateroom was 61. Directly opposite was 62, occupied by Milton Graham and his companion. If Graham did not go to sleep it was because his brain was busily scheming how to obtain possession of the money belonging to his neighbors. "Won't your key fit?" asked Vincent, for this was the name of the dark-complexioned young man. "No use, even if it does. Of course they will lock it inside, and probably leave the key in the lock." About midnight, Graham, who had not fully undressed, having merely taken off his coat, got up, and, opening the door, peered out. To his surprise and joy he saw that the door of No. 61 was ajar. He at first thought of rousing Vincent, who was asleep; but a selfish thought suggested itself. If he did this, he must share with Vincent anything he might succeed in stealing; if not, he could keep it all himself. He left his stateroom silently, and looked cautiously around him. No one seemed to be stirring in the cabin. Next he stepped across, and, opening wider the door of 61, looked in. The two inmates were, to all appearances, sleeping soundly. "So far, so good," he said to himself. He stepped in, moderating even his breathing, and took up a pair of pants which lay on a chair. They belonged to Mr. Waterbury, for Tom had merely taken off his coat, and lain down as he was. His belt of gold he therefore found it unnecessary to take off. Graham saw at once, from the size of the pants, that they must belong to the elder passenger. This suited him, however, as he knew from Vincent's information that Mr. Waterbury had six hundred dollars, and Tom could not be supposed to have anything like this sum. He felt eagerly in the pockets, and to his great joy his hand came in contact with a pocketbook. He drew it out without ceremony. It was a comfortable-looking wallet, fairly bulging with bills. "He's got all his money inside," thought Graham, delighted. "What a fool he must be to leave it so exposed--with his door open, too!" At this moment Graham heard a stir in the lower berth. There was no time to wait. He glided out of the room, and reentered his own stateroom. Immediately after his departure Mr. Waterbury, who had awakened in time to catch sight of his receding figure, rose in his berth, and drew toward him the garment which Graham had rifled. He felt in the pocket, and discovered that the wallet had been taken. Instead of making a fuss, he smiled quietly, and said: "Just as I expected." "I wonder if they have robbed Tom, too," he said to himself. He rose, closed the door, and then shook Tom with sufficient energy to awaken him. "Who's there?" asked Tom, in some bewilderment, as he opened his eyes. "It's I--Mr. Waterbury." "Is it morning? Have we arrived?" "No, it is about midnight." "Is there anything the matter?" "I want you to see if you have been robbed.'" Tom was broad awake in an instant. "Robbed!" he exclaimed, in alarm. He felt for his belt and was relieved. "No," he answered. "What makes you ask?" "Because I have had a wallet taken. It makes me laugh when I think of it." "Makes you laugh!" repeated Tom, under the transient impression that his companion was insane. "Why should you laugh at the loss of your money?" "I saw the thief sneak out of the stateroom," continued Mr. Waterbury; "but I didn't interfere with him." "You didn't!" said Tom, completely mystified. "I would. Did you see who it was?" "Yes; it was your friend and late roommate." "Mr. Graham?" "As he calls himself. I don't suppose he has any rightful claim to the name." "Surely, Mr. Waterbury, you are not going to let him keep the money," said Tom energetically; "I'll go with you, and make him give it up. Where is his stateroom?" "Just opposite--No. 62." "We had better go at once," said Tom, sitting up in his berth. "Oh, no; he's welcome to all there is in the pocketbook." "Wasn't there anything in it?" "It was stuffed full." Tom was more than ever convinced that his roommate was crazy. He had heard that misfortune sometimes affected a man's mind; and he was inclined to think that here was a case in point. "You'll get it back," said he soothingly. "Graham can't get off the boat. We will report the matter to the captain." "I don't care whether I get it back or not," said Mr. Waterbury. Tom looked so confused and bewildered that his companion felt called upon to end the mystification. "I know what is in your mind," he said, smiling. "You think I am crazy." "I don't understand how you can take your loss so coolly, sir." "Then I will explain. That wallet was a dummy." "A what, sir?" "A sham--a pretense. My pocketbook and money are safe under my pillow. The wallet taken by your friend was filled with imitation greenbacks; in reality, business circulars of a firm in Marietta." Tom saw it all now. "It's a capital joke," he said, laughing. "I'd like to see how Graham looks when he discovers the value of his prize." "He will look green, and feel greener, I suspect," chuckled Mr. Waterbury. "You are certain you have lost nothing, Tom?" "Perfectly certain, sir." "Then we won't trouble ourselves about what has happened. I fancy, however, it will be best to keep our own door locked for the remainder of the night, even at the risk of suffocation." "That's a capital trick of yours, Mr. Waterbury," said Tom admiringly. "It has more than once saved me from robbery. I have occasion to travel considerably, and so am more or less exposed." "I wonder if Graham will discover the cheat before morning." "I doubt it. The staterooms are dark, and the imitation is so good that on casual inspection the strips of paper will appear to be genuine greenbacks." Mr. Waterbury retired to his berth, and was soon asleep again. Tom, as he lay awake, from time to time laughed to himself, as he thought of Graham's coming disappointment, and congratulated himself that he and that young man were no longer roommates. When Graham returned to his stateroom Vincent, who was a light sleeper, was aroused by the slight noise he made. "Are you up, Graham?" he asked. "Yes; I got up a minute." "Have you been out of the stateroom?" "Yes." "What for?" "To get a glass of water." There was a vessel of water in the cabin, and this seemed plausible enough. "Any chance of doing anything to-night?" "No, I think not." Vincent sank back on his pillow, and Graham got back into his berth. Quietly he drew the wallet from his pocket, in which he had placed it, and eagerly opened it. The huge roll of bills was a pleasant and welcome sight. "There's all of six hundred dollars here!" he said to himself. "I mustn't let Vincent know that I have them." It occurred to Graham that, of course, Mr. Waterbury would proclaim his loss in the morning, and it also occurred to him that he might be able to fasten suspicion upon Tom, who, as his roommate, would naturally have the best chance to commit the robbery. One thing might criminate him--the discovery of the wallet upon his person. He therefore waited till Vincent was once more asleep, and, getting up softly, made his way to the deck. He drew the bills from the wallet, put them in an inside pocket, and threw the wallet into the river. "Now I'm safe," he muttered, with a sigh of relief. "The money may be found on me, but no one can prove it is not my own." He gained his berth without again awakening his companion. "A pretty good night's work!" he said to himself, in quiet exultation. "Alone I have succeeded, while Vincent lies in stupid sleep. He is no match for me, much as he thinks of himself. I have stolen a march upon him this time." It is not in accordance with our ideas of the fitness of things that a man who has committed a midnight robbery should be able to sleep tranquilly for the balance of the night, but it is at any rate certain that Graham slept soundly till his roommate awakened him in the morning. "Rouse up, Graham," he said. "Breakfast is nearly ready." "Is it?" asked Graham. "Instead of sleeping there, you ought to be thinking how we can make a forced loan from our acquaintances in 61." "To be sure," said Graham, smiling. "I am rather stupid about such things. Have you any plan to suggest?" "You seem very indifferent all at once," said Vincent. "Not at all. If you think of anything practical I am your man." He longed to get rid of Vincent, in order to have an opportunity of counting his roll of bills. CHAPTER XIII. GRAHAM'S DISAPPOINTMENT. Milton Graham, on reaching a place where he could do so unobserved, drew from his pocket the roll of bills, with a smile of exultation. But the smile faded, and was succeeded by a look of dismay, when he recognized the worthlessness of his booty. An oath rose to his lips, and he thrust the roll back into his pocket, as he noticed the approach of a passenger. "It's a cursed imposition!" he muttered to himself, and he really felt that he had been wronged by Mr. Waterbury. "What are you doing out here, Graham?" asked Vincent, for it was his confederate who approached. "Nothing in particular. Why?" responded Graham. "What makes you look so glum?" "Do I look glum?" "You look as if you had but one friend in the world, and were about to lose him." "That may be true enough," muttered Graham. "Come, man, don't look so downcast." "I'm out of luck, and out of cash, Vincent." "We're both in the same boat, as far as that goes; but that isn't going to last. How about our stout friend? Can't we make him contribute to our necessities?" "I don't believe he's got any money." "No? Why, I heard him tell the boy he had six hundred dollars." "Where does he keep it?" "In his pocketbook probably." "Will you oblige me by stating how we are going to get hold of it?" "I look to you for that." "He's too careful. I leave you to try your hand." "Let me go in to breakfast. There's nothing like a full stomach to suggest ideas." So the two went to the breakfast table, and Graham, in spite of his disappointment, managed to eat a hearty meal. An hour later Mr. Waterbury and Tom were standing on deck, conversing with Jennie Watson and her mother, when Graham and Vincent approached arm in arm. As soon as they were within hearing distance Mr. Waterbury purposely remarked, "By the way, Mrs. Watson, I met with a loss last night." "Indeed!" returned the lady. Graham was about to push on, not wishing Vincent to hear the disclosure, as it might awaken his suspicions; but the latter's curiosity was aroused. "Wait, Graham," he said; and Graham, against his will, was compelled to slacken his pace. "A man entered my stateroom during the night, and stole a wallet from my coat pocket." Graham changed color a little, and Vincent seemed amazed. "Did you hear that, Graham?" he asked. "Yes." "What does it mean?" "How can I tell?" "I hope you did not lose much," said Mrs. Watson, in a tone of sympathy. "I lost the wallet," said Mr. Waterbury, laughing. "Was there nothing in it?" "It was full of bills." Vincent looked at Graham with new-born suspicion, but Graham looked indifferent. "It appears to me that you take the loss cheerfully," said Mrs. Watson, puzzled. "I have reason to. The fact is, I was prepared for the visit, and had filled the wallet with bogus bills. I fancy they won't do my visitor much good." The lady smiled. "You were fortunate, Mr. Waterbury," said she. "Do you suspect any one of the theft?" "I know pretty well who robbed me," returned Mr. Waterbury, and he suffered his glance to rest on Graham, who seemed in a hurry to get away. "Come along, Vincent," he said sharply. Vincent obeyed. Light dawned upon him, and he determined to verify his suspicions. "Graham," said he, in a low voice, "you did this." "Did what?" "You got that wallet." Graham concluded that he might as well make a clean breast of it, since it had become a matter of necessity. "Well," said he, "suppose I did?" "You were not going to let me know of it," said Vincent suspiciously. "That is true. I was ashamed of having been imposed upon." "When did you find out that the money was bogus?" "Immediately." "If it had been good, would you have shared with me honorably?" "Of course. What do you take me for?" Vincent was silent. He did not believe his companion. He suspected that the latter had intended to steal a march on him. "You might have told me of it," he continued, in a tone of dissatisfaction. "There was no need to say anything, as there was nothing to divide." "Have you got the wallet with you now?" "No; I threw it overboard." "And the bills?" "You may have them all, if you like." "Come into the stateroom, where we can be unobserved, and show them to me." Graham complied with his suggestion. "It would have been a good haul if they had been genuine," said Vincent, as he unfolded the roll. "Yes, but they are not; worse luck!" "I didn't give the old fellow credit for being so sharp." "Nor I. There's more in him than I supposed there was." "Well, what is to be done?" "Nothing. The old man is on his guard, and, besides, he suspects me. He was probably awake when I entered the stateroom. He and the boy have probably laughed over it together. I hate that boy." "Why?" "Because he is a green country boy, and yet he has succeeded in thwarting me. I am ashamed whenever I think of it." "Would you like to play a trick on him in turn?" "Yes." "Then give me this roll of bills." "What do you want to do with them?" "Put them in his pocket." "Can you do it unobserved?" "Yes. The fact is, Graham, I served an apprenticeship as a pickpocket, and flatter myself I still have some dexterity in that line." "Very well, it will be some satisfaction, and if the old man didn't see me enter the stateroom, he may be brought to believe that the boy robbed him. If that could be, I should feel partly compensated for my disappointment. I should like to get that boy into trouble." "Consider it done, so far as I am concerned. Now let us separate, so as to avoid suspicion." Vincent began to pace the deck in a leisurely manner, in each case passing near Tom, who was still engaged in conversation with Jennie Watson and her mother. For a time he was unable to effect his purpose, as our hero was sitting down. But after a while Tom rose, and stood with his back to Vincent. He wore a sack coat, with side pockets. This was favorable to Vincent, who, as he passed, adroitly slipped the bills into one of them, without attracting the attention of our hero. Presently Tom thrust his hand into his pocket mechanically. They encountered the bills. In surprise he drew them out, and looked at them in amazement. "What's that, Tom?" asked Jennie, with great curiosity. "It looks like money," answered Tom, not yet understanding what had happened. "You seem to be rich." "By gracious!--it's Mr. Waterbury's money," exclaimed Tom. Then he colored, as it flashed upon him that its presence in his pocket might arouse suspicion. "I don't see how it got there," he continued, in a bewildered way. Just then Mr. Waterbury came up, and was made acquainted with the discovery. "I don't know what you'll think, Mr. Waterbury," said Tom, coloring; "I haven't the slightest idea how the money came in my pocket." "I have," said Mr. Waterbury quietly. Tom looked at him, to discover whether he was under suspicion. "The companion of your friend Graham slipped it into your pocket. He was very quick and adroit, but I detected him. He wanted to throw suspicion upon you." "It is lucky you saw him, sir." "Why?" "You might have suspected me." "My dear boy, don't trouble yourself about that. No circumstantial evidence will shake my confidence in your integrity." "Thank you, sir," said Tom gratefully. "What a wicked man to play a trick on you, Tom!" exclaimed Jennie indignantly. "I see there is somebody else who has confidence in you, Tom," said Mr. Waterbury, smiling; "I'd like to give him a piece of my mind." "I am ready to forgive him," said Mr. Waterbury, "as he has restored the money. It will do as a bait for the next thief." CHAPTER XIV. COMING TO AN UNDERSTANDING. "I believe, Tom," said Mr. Waterbury, "that I will come to an understanding with these officious acquaintances of yours. I will intimate to them that their persecution must cease." "Will they mind what you say, sir?" "I think they will," answered his friend quietly. Graham and Vincent were standing together, and apart from the rest of the passengers, when Mr. Waterbury approached them. "A word with you, gentlemen," said he gravely. "I don't know you, sir," blustered Vincent. "Perhaps not. Permit me to remark that I have no special desire for your acquaintance." "Then why do you take the liberty of addressing me?" "I rather admire the fellow's impudence," said Mr. Waterbury to himself. "Are you associated with this gentleman?" he asked, indicating Graham. "We are friends." "Then I will address an inquiry to him. I am not in the habit of receiving calls in my stateroom during the hours of sleep." "I don't understand you, sir," said Milton Graham, with hauteur. "Oh, yes, you do, unless your memory is singularly defective. Our staterooms are close together. You entered mine last night." "You must have been dreaming." "If so, I was dreaming with my eyes open. Perhaps it was in my dreams that I saw you extract a wallet from my coat pocket." "Do you mean to insult me, sir?" demanded Graham. "Really, sir, your remarks are rather extraordinary," chimed in Vincent. "Do you mean to say that I robbed you?" demanded Graham, confident in the knowledge that the booty was not on his person. "I find a wallet missing. That speaks for itself." "Let me suggest that your roommate probably took it," said Vincent. "Extremely probable," said Graham. "He roomed with me in Pittsburg, and I caught him at my pockets during the night." "Did you ever hear the fable of the wolf and the lamb, Mr. Graham?" asked Mr. Waterbury. "Can't say I have." "It's of no consequence. I am reminded of it, however." "Come to think of it," said Vincent, "I saw the boy with a roll of bills. You had better search him. If he is innocent, he can't object." "I see your drift," returned Mr. Waterbury, after a pause. "I saw you thrust the bills into his pocket, as he stood with his back turned, conversing with one of the passengers. It was very skilfully done, but I saw it." Vincent started, for he had supposed himself unobserved. "I see you are determined to insult us," he said. "I will charitably conclude that you are drunk." "I can't be so charitable with you, sir. I believe you are a pair of precious scoundrels, who, if you had your deserts, would be in the penitentiary instead of at large." "I have a mind to knock you down," said Vincent angrily. As Vincent was several inches shorter and much slighter than the person whom he threatened, this menace sounded rather ridiculous. "You are at liberty to try it," said the latter, smiling. "First, however, let me warn you that, if you continue to annoy us, it will be at your peril. If you remain quiet I shall leave you alone. Otherwise I will make known your true character to the captain and passengers, and you will undoubtedly be set ashore when we reach the next landing. I have the honor to wish you good morning." "It strikes me, Graham," said Vincent, as Mr. Waterbury left them, "that we have tackled the wrong passenger." "I believe you are right," said Graham. "Just my luck." "There isn't much use in staying on the boat. He will keep a good lookout for us." "True; but I don't want to give up the boy." "He is under the guardianship of this determined old party." "They will separate at Cincinnati." "Well?" "He has money enough to take him to California. He is worth following up." "Then you are in favor of going on to Cincinnati?" "By all means." "Very well. There are always chances of making an honest penny in a large city." "Money or no money, I want to get even with the boy." So the worthy pair decided to go on to Cincinnati. CHAPTER XV. THE ALLEGHANY HOUSE. It was a bright, sunny morning when the _River Belle_ touched her pier at Cincinnati. The passengers gathered on deck, and discussed their plans. In one group were Tom, Mr. Waterbury, Jennie Watson, and her mother. "I am sorry you are going to leave us, Tom," said Jennie; "I shall feel awfully lonely." "So shall I," said Tom. "What's the use of going to that hateful California? Why can't you stay here with us?" "Business before pleasure, Jennie," said her mother. "You mustn't forget that Tom has his fortune to make." "I wish he could make it in Cincinnati, mother." "So do I; but I must admit that California presents a better prospect just at present. You are both young, and I hope we may meet Tom in after years." "When I have made my pile," suggested Tom. "Precisely." "You won't go right on, Tom, will you?" asked Jennie. "You'll stay here a day or two." "Yes; I should like to see something of Cincinnati." "And you'll call on us?" "I shall be very happy to do so. Where are you going to stay?" "At the Burnet House. Won't you come there, too?" "Is it a high-priced hotel?" "I believe it is." "Then I can't afford to stay there; but I can call on you all the same." "Stay there as my guest, Tom," said Mr. Waterbury cordially. "It shall not cost you anything." "Thank you, sir. You are very kind, but I don't like to accept unnecessary favors. I will put up at some cheap hotel, and call upon you both." "You would be heartily welcome, my boy," said Mr. Waterbury. "I don't doubt it, sir, and the time may come when I will gladly accept your kindness," replied Tom. "But now you mean to have your own way; is that it, Tom." "You won't be offended, sir?" "On the contrary, I respect you for your manly independence. You won't forget that I am your friend?" "I don't want to forget that, sir." So it happened that while Mrs. Watson, Jennie, and Mr. Waterbury registered at the Burnet House, Tom, carpetbag in hand, walked through the streets till he came to a plain inn, bearing the name Alleghany House. It is not now in existence, having given way to an imposing business block. "That looks as if it might suit my purse," thought Tom. He walked in, and, approaching the desk, inquired: "How much do you charge at this hotel?" "A dollar a day," answered the clerk. "Will you have a room?" "Yes, sir." "Please register your name." Tom did so. "Cato," called the clerk--summoning a colored boy, about Tom's size--"take this young man to No. 18." "All right, sar," said Cato, showing his ivories. "When do you have dinner?" asked Tom. "One o'clock." Preceded by Cato, Tom walked up-stairs, and was ushered into a small, dingy room on the second floor. There was a single window, looking through dingy panes upon a back yard. There was a general air of cheerlessness and discomfort, but at any rate it was larger than the stateroom on the _River Belle_. "Is this the best room you have?" asked Tom, not very favorably impressed. "Oh, no, sar," answered Cato. "If your wife was with you, sar, we'd give you a scrumptious room, 'bout twice as big." "I didn't bring my wife along, Cato," said Tom, amused. "Are you married?" "Not yet, sar," answered his colored guide, with a grin. "I think we can wait till we are a little older." "Reckon so, sar." "Just bring up a little water, Cato. I feel in need of washing." "Dirt don't show on me," said Cato, with a guffaw. "I suppose you do wash, now and then, don't you?" "Yes, sar, sometimes," answered Cato equivocally. When Tom had completed his toilet he found that it was but ten o'clock. He accordingly went down-stairs, intending to see a little of the city before dinner. CHAPTER XVI. THE EVENTS OF A MORNING. Graham and Vincent had kept quiet during the latter part of the voyage. They had a wholesome fear of Mr. Waterbury, and kept aloof from him and Tom. They even exchanged their stateroom for one at a different part of the boat. All was satisfactory to Tom and his companion. When the worthy pair reached Cincinnati they were hard up. Their united funds amounted to but seven dollars, and it seemed quite necessary that they should find the means of replenishing their purses somewhere. They managed to ascertain that Tom and his friend were going to separate, and this afforded them satisfaction, since it made their designs upon our hero more feasible. At a distance they followed Tom to the Alleghany House, and themselves took lodgings at a small, cheap tavern near-by. Like Tom, they set out soon after their arrival in quest of adventure. "We must strike a vein soon, Graham," said Vincent, "or we shall be in a tight place." "That's so," answered Graham. "Thus far our trip hasn't paid very well. It's been all outgo and no income." "You're right, partner; but don't give up the ship," responded Graham, whose spirits returned, now that he was on dry land. "I've been in the same straits about once a month for the last five years." "I've known you for three years, Graham, and, so far as my knowledge extends, I can attest the truth of what you say. By the way, you never say anything of your life before that date." A shadow passed over Graham's face. "Because I don't care to think of it; I never talk of it," he said. "Pshaw, man, we all of us have some ugly secrets. Suppose we confide in each other. Tell me your story, and I will tell you mine. It won't change my opinion of you." "Probably not," said Graham. "Well, there is no use in holding back. For this once I will go back to the past. Five years ago I was a favorite in society. One day an acquaintance introduced me into a gambling house, and I tried my hand successfully. I went out with fifty dollars more than I brought in. It was an unlucky success, for it made me a frequent visitor. All my surplus cash found a market there, and when that was exhausted I borrowed from my employer." "Without his knowledge?" "Of course. For six months I evaded discovery. Then I was detected. My friends interceded, and saved me from the penitentiary, but I lost my situation, and was required to leave the city. I went to New York, tried to obtain a situation there, failed, and then adopted my present profession. I need not tell you the rest." "My dear friend, I think I know the rest pretty well. But don't look sober. A fig for the past. What's the odds, as long as you're happy?" "Are you happy?" inquired Graham. "As long as I'm flush," answered Vincent, shrugging his shoulders. "I'm nearly dead-broke now, and of course I am miserable. However, my story comes next in order. I was a bank teller, appropriated part of the funds of the bank, fled with it, spent it, and then became an ornament to our common profession." "Where was the bank?" "In Canada. I haven't been there since. The climate don't suit me. It's bleak, but I fear it might prove too hot for me. Now we know each other." "You don't allow it to worry you, Vincent," said Graham. "No, I don't. Why should I? I let the dead past bury its dead, as Longfellow says, and act in the living present. That reminds me, we ought to be at work. I have a proposal to make. We won't hunt in couples, but separate, and each will try to bring home something to help the common fund. Is it agreed?" "Yes." "_Au revoir_, then!" "That fellow has no conscience," thought Graham. "Mine is callous, but he goes beyond me. Perhaps he is the better off." Graham shook off his transient dull spirits, and walked on, keeping a sharp lookout for a chance to fleece somebody. In front of a railroad ticket office he espied a stolid-looking German, who was trying to read the placard in the window. Graham approached him, and said politely, "My friend, perhaps I can help you. Are you thinking of buying a railroad ticket?" The German turned, and his confidence was inspired by the friendly interest of Graham's manner. "I go to Minnesota," he said, "where my brother live." "Exactly, and you want a ticket to go there?" "Yes, I want a ticket. Do they sell him here?" "No," said Graham. "That is, they do sell tickets here; but they ask too much." "I will not pay too much," said the German, shaking his head decisively. "Of course not; I will take you to a cheaper place." "That is good," said the German, well pleased. "It is luck I meet mit a friend like you." "Yes," said Graham, linking his arm in that of his new acquaintance. "I don't like to see a worthy man cheated. Come with me. How much money have you?" This inquiry ought to have excited the suspicions of the German; but he was trustful, and answered promptly, "Two hundred dollar." Graham's eyes sparkled. "If I could only get the whole of it," he thought. But that didn't seem easy. They walked through street after street till Graham stopped in front of an office. "Now," said he, "give me your money, and I will buy the ticket." "How much money?" asked his new acquaintance. "I don't know exactly," said Graham carelessly. "Just hand me your pocketbook, and I will pay what is needed." But here the German's characteristic caution came in. "I will go with you," he said. "If you do, I can't get the tickets so cheap. The agent is a friend of mine, and if he thinks it is for me he will give it to me for less. Don't give me all your money. Fifty dollars will do. I will buy the ticket, and bring you the rest of the money." This seemed plausible enough, and Graham would have got what he asked for, but for the interference of Tom, who had come up just in time to hear Graham's proposal. He had no difficulty in comprehending his purpose. "Don't give him the money," he said. "He will cheat you." Both Graham and his intended victim wheeled round, and looked at our hero. "Clear out of here, you young vagabond!" said Graham angrily. "This man wants to cheat you," persisted Tom. "Don't give him your money." The bewildered foreigner looked from one to the other. "This is no ticket office," said Tom. "I will lead you to one, and you shall buy a ticket for yourself." "He wants to swindle you," said Graham quickly. "You shall keep your money in your own hands," said Tom. "I don't want it." "I go with you, my young friend," said the German, convinced by Tom's honest face. "The other man may be all right, but I go with you." Graham protested in vain. His victim went off with Tom, who saw that he was provided with the ticket he wanted. His new friend tried to force a dollar upon him; but this Tom steadily refused. "I'll get even with you yet!" said Graham furiously; but our hero was not disturbed by this menace. Vincent, meantime, was making a tour of observation, ready for any adventure that might put an honest or dishonest penny into his pocket. About half an hour later he found himself on the leading retail street in Cincinnati. In front of him walked a lady, fashionably attired, holding a mother-of-pearl portemonnaie carelessly in her hand. He brushed by her, and at the same moment the pocketbook was snatched from her hand. The lady screamed, and instinctively clutched Vincent by the arm. "This man has robbed me, I think," she said. The crowd began to gather about Vincent, and he saw that he was cornered. Among the crowd, unluckily for himself, was Tom. By a skilful movement Vincent thrust the portemonnaie into our hero's pocket. "You are mistaken, madam," he said coolly; "I saw that boy take your money." Instantly two men seized Tom. "Search him," said Vincent, "and see it I am not right." The portemonnaie was taken from Tom's pocket, amid the hootings of the crowd. "So young, and yet so wicked!" said the lady regretfully. "I didn't take the money, madam," protested Tom, his face scarlet with surprise and mortification. "Don't believe him, ma'am. I saw him take it," said Vincent virtuously. Poor Tom looked from one to another; but all faces were unfriendly. It was a critical time for him. CHAPTER XVII. TOM'S ARREST. To one who is scrupulously honest a sudden charge of dishonesty is almost overwhelming. Now, Tom was honest, not so much because he had been taught that honesty was a virtue, as by temperament and instinct. Yet here he saw himself surrounded by hostile faces, for a crowd soon collected. Not one believed in his innocence, not even the lady, who thought it was such a pity that he was "so young and yet so wicked." "Will somebody call a policeman?" asked Vincent. A policeman soon made his appearance. He was a stout, burly man, and pushed his way through the crowd without ceremony. "What's the row?" he inquired. "This boy has picked a lady's pocket," exclaimed Vincent. The officer placed his hand roughly on Tom's shoulder. "You were a little too smart, young feller!" said he. "You must come along with me." "I didn't take the money," protested Tom, pale, but in a firm voice. "That's too thin," said Vincent, with a sneer. "Yes, it's too thin," repeated two or three in the crowd. "It's true," said Tom. "Perhaps you'll tell us how the money came in your pocket," suggested a bystander. "That man put it in," answered Tom, indicating Vincent. The latter shrugged his shoulders. "He says so, because I exposed him," he remarked, turning to the crowd. "Of course; that's a common game," interposed the policeman. "Have you any reason for what you say, my boy?" asked a quiet-looking man, with a pleasant face. "Of course he hasn't," replied Vincent hastily. "I spoke to the boy, sir." "I have a reason," answered Tom. "A friend of this man roomed with me at Pittsburg, and during the night tried to rob me. We were both passengers on the _River Belle_ on the last trip. During the trip he entered our stateroom, and stole a wallet from my roommate. This man slyly put it into my pocket, in order to escape suspicion." "It's a lie!" exclaimed Vincent uneasily. "Gentlemen, the boy is very artful, and the greatest liar out." "Of course he is!" assented the policeman. "Come along, young feller!" "Wait a minute," said the quiet man. "Have you any proof of your statements, my boy, except your own word?" "Yes, sir; my roommate will tell you the same thing." "Who is he? Where can he be found?" "He is Mr. Nicholas Waterbury, of Marietta. He is now at the Burnet House." "That's all gammon!" said the officer roughly. "Come along. I can't wait here all day." "Don't be in a hurry, officer," said the quiet man. "I know Mr. Waterbury, and I believe the boy's story is correct." "It ain't any of your business!" said the officer insolently. "The boy's a thief, and I'm goin' to lock him up." "Look out, sir!" said the quiet man sternly. "You are overstepping the limits of your duty, and asserting what you have no possible means of knowing. There is reason to believe that this man"--pointing out Vincent--"is the real thief. I call upon you to arrest him." "I don't receive no orders from you, sir," said the policeman. "I'm more likely to take you along." "That's right, officer," said Vincent approvingly. "The man is interfering with you in the exercise of your duty. You have a perfect right to arrest him." "I have a great mind to," said the officer, who was one of the many who are puffed up by a little brief authority, and lose no opportunity of exercising it. The quiet man did not seem in the least alarmed. He smiled, and said, "Perhaps, officer, it might be well for you to inquire my name, before proceeding to arrest me." "Who are you?" demanded the officer insolently. "I am Alderman Morris." A great change came over the policeman. He knew now that the quiet man before him was President of the Board of Aldermen, and he began to be alarmed, remembering with what rudeness he had treated him. "I beg your pardon, sir," he said humbly; "I didn't know you." "What is your name, sir?" demanded the alderman, in a tone of authority. "Jones, sir." "How long have you been on the force?" "Six months, your honor." "Then you ought to be better fitted for your position by this time." "I hope you won't take no offense at what I said, not knowing you, alderman." "That's no personal offense, but I object to your pronouncing upon the guilt of parties arrested when you know nothing of the matter." "Shall I take the boy along, sir?" "Yes, and this man also. I don't wish to interfere with the exercise of justice, but it is my opinion that the boy is innocent." "I protest against this outrage," said Vincent nervously. "Am I to be punished because I expose a thief?" "Come along, sir," said the policeman. "The alderman says so." "I appeal to the gentlemen present," said Vincent, hoping for a forcible deliverance. "Madam," said the alderman to the lady who had been robbed, "did you see the boy take your pocketbook?" "No, sir! I thought it was the man, till he told me it was the boy, and the money was found on the boy." "I should think that told the story," said Vincent. "Any man here might be arrested as soon as I. Fellow citizens, is this a free country, where a man of reputation can be summarily arrested at the bidding of another? If so, I would rather live under a monarchy." There was a murmur of approval, and some sympathy was excited. "There will be no injustice done, sir," said the alderman. "I propose to follow up this matter myself. I will see my friend, Mr. Waterbury, and I can soon learn whether the boy's story is correct." "He may lie, too!" said Vincent, who had very good reasons for fearing Mr. Waterbury's testimony. "Mr. Waterbury is a gentleman of veracity," said Alderman Morris sharply. "I see you recognize the name." "Never heard of him," said Vincent. "I suppose it is one of the boy's confederates." "I will answer for him," said the alderman. "My boy," he said, "I hope we shall be able to prove your innocence. Be under no anxiety. Go with the officer, and I will seek out Mr. Waterbury. Officer, take care to treat him gently." "All right, sir." There was no fear now that Tom would be roughly treated. He had too much regard for his own interest, and his tenure of office, to disoblige a man so influential and powerful as Alderman Morris. Notwithstanding there had been such a turn in his favor, Tom felt humiliated to feel that he was under restraint, and his cheeks burned with shame as he walked beside the officer. Vincent, upon the other side, gnashed his teeth with rage, as he thought of his unexpected detention. Just as revenge was in his grasp, he had been caught in the same trap which he had so willingly set for Tom. "That Alderman Morris is a fool!" he said. "He isn't fit to be in office." "Don't you say nothin' against him!" said the policeman. "It won't be best for you. He's one of our leadin' citizens, Alderman Morris is." "He snubbed you!" sneered Vincent. "He talked to you as if you were a dog." "No, he didn't. You'd better shut up, prisoner." "Oh, well, if you're willing to be trampled upon, it isn't any of my business. I wouldn't stand it, alderman or no alderman. Such things wouldn't be allowed in New York, where I live." "Oh, New York's a model city, so I've heard," retorted the policeman, in a tone of sarcasm. "We don't pretend to come up to New York." Finding that nothing was to be gained by continuing his attacks upon the alderman, Vincent became silent; but his brain was active. He felt that Mr. Waterbury's testimony would be fatal to him. He must escape, if possible. Soon a chance came. He seized his opportunity, shook off the grasp of the officer, and darted away. Not knowing what to do with Tom, who was also under arrest, the officer paused an instant, then, leaving our hero, hastened in pursuit. "Now's your chance to escape, boy!" said a sympathetic bystander to him. "I don't want to escape," answered Tom. "I want my innocence proved. I shall stay where I am till the officer returns." And he kept his word. Ten minutes later the officer came back, puffing and panting, after an unsuccessful pursuit; prepared to find Tom gone also. "What, are you there?" he asked, staring in wonder. "Yes," said Tom; "I don't want to escape. I shall come out right." "I believe you will," said the officer, with a revulsion of sentiment in Tom's favor. "Just walk along beside me, and I won't take hold of you. I'm not afraid of your running away now." CHAPTER XVIII. TOM GETS OUT OF HIS DIFFICULTY. Tom had not been long in the station-house when Alderman Morris, accompanied by Mr. Waterbury, entered. The latter looked at Tom with a humorous smile. "You don't appear to get along very well without my guardianship, Tom," he said. "No, sir," answered Tom. "The trouble is, some of my other friends can't let me alone." "Was it in a fit of emotional insanity that you relieved the lady of her pocketbook?" asked Mr. Waterbury, bent on keeping up the joke. "If I ever do such a thing, you may be sure it is because I am insane," answered Tom positively. "I shall," said Mr. Waterbury seriously. "Now, where is this precious acquaintance of ours who got you into this scrape?" "He has escaped." "Escaped!" exclaimed the alderman hastily. "How is that?" Here the policeman took up the story, and explained that Vincent had taken advantage of his double charge to effect his escape. "I suppose, officer," said Mr. Waterbury, "that you were unwilling to leave Tom in order to pursue him." "I did leave him, sir, and didn't expect to find him when I got back. But there he was, waiting for me as quietly as--anything." "Didn't you feel tempted to escape, too, my boy?" "Why should I, sir? I had done nothing; I had nothing to fear." "Innocence is not always a protection, for justice is sometimes far from clear-sighted. In the present case, however, I think you will not suffer for your confidence." Tom was not brought to trial. Mr. Waterbury's statement of what had passed on the voyage of the _River Belle_ was held to be sufficient to establish Tom's innocence, and he was allowed to walk out with Mr. Waterbury. "Have you anything to do this morning, Tom?" asked his friend. "No, sir." "Then come around and dine with me at the Burnet House. Afterward we will call upon your friends, the Watsons." Mrs. Watson and Jennie had altered their plans and gone to a boarding-house, preferring that to a hotel. "That will be agreeable to me, sir." The dinner was excellent, and Tom did full justice to it. "At one time this morning, Tom, it looked as if you would dine at quite a different place," said Mr. Waterbury, when they were eating the dessert. "Yes, sir." "You won't think much of Cincinnati's hospitality, eh, Tom?" "Any place would be the same, where Vincent was," returned Tom. "Very true; he and Graham will bring discredit on any city which they adopt as a home. How long shall you remain here?" "I should like to stay long enough to see something of the city, but I cannot afford it. I must reach California as soon as possible." "No doubt you are right, in your circumstances. I have been inquiring for you, and find that St. Joseph, in Missouri, is the usual starting-point for travelers across the plains. I find an acquaintance here in the hotel, who will start to-morrow for that place. I have mentioned you to him, and he says he shall be glad to have your company so far. Whether you keep together afterward will depend upon yourselves." "I shall be glad to have company, sir," said Tom. Though manly and self-reliant, he realized that it was quite a serious undertaking for a boy of his age to make the trip alone. He was not sure of meeting with another friend like Mr. Waterbury, and there might be danger of falling in with another brace of worthies like Graham and Vincent. "My friend's name is Ferguson--a Scotchman, rather sedate, but entirely trustworthy. I will introduce you this evening." "Thank you, sir." After dinner they walked to Mrs. Watson's boarding-house. Somewhere on Vine Street, Mr. Waterbury paused in front of a jewelry store. "I want to step in here a minute, Tom," he said. "Certainly, sir." Tom remained near the door, while Mr. Waterbury went into the back part of the store, where he was occupied for a few minutes with one of the proprietors. When he came back he held a small box in his hand. "Please carry this for me, Tom," he said. "With pleasure, sir." They went out into the street together. "Do you know what is in the box, Tom?" asked Mr. Waterbury. "No, sir," answered our hero, a little surprised at the question. "You didn't see what I was buying, then?" continued Mr. Waterbury. "No, sir; I was watching the crowds on the sidewalk." "If you have any curiosity, you may open the box." Previously Tom had felt no curiosity. Now he did feel a little. Opening the box, his eye rested on a neat silver watch, with a chain attached. The case was a pretty one, and Tom glanced at it with approval. "It is very pretty, sir," he said; "but I thought you had a watch already." "I didn't buy it for myself." "For your son?" asked Tom innocently. Mr. Waterbury smiled. "I thought of asking your acceptance of it," he said. "You don't mean that you are going to give it to me, sir?" said Tom eagerly. "If you will accept it." "How kind you are, Mr. Waterbury!" exclaimed Tom gratefully. "There is nothing in the world that I should like so much. How can I thank you?" "By considering it a proof of my interest in you. I was sure you would like it. Before I had reached your age the great object of my ambition was a watch. I received one from my uncle, as a gift, on my seventeenth birthday. I believe I looked at it once in five minutes on an average during the first day." "I dare say it will be so with me, sir," said Tom, who, at the moment, had the watch in his hand, examining it. "As you are to rough it, I thought it best to get you a hunting-case watch, because it will be less liable to injury. When you become a man I hope you will be prosperous enough to buy a gold watch and chain, if you prefer them. While you are a boy silver will be good enough." "Gold wouldn't correspond very well with my circumstances," said Tom. "I didn't dream of even having a silver watch and chain for years to come. I shall write home this evening, and tell mother of my good luck." "Will you mention that you have already been under arrest?" asked Mr. Waterbury, smiling. Tom shook his head. "I am not proud of that," he answered; "and it would only trouble them at home to have an account of it. When I get home, I may mention it sometime." "Better put on your watch and chain, Tom, before we reach Mrs. Watson's." Tom needed no second invitation. "It's lucky mother put a watch-pocket in my vest," he said. "We didn't either of us suppose there would be any occasion for it; but I asked her to do it." In a nice-looking brick boarding-house--for brown-stone houses were not then often to be found--Tom and his friend found Mrs. Watson and Jennie. "I'm so glad to see you, Tom," said Jennie. "I've missed you awfully." "Thank you," said Tom. "I've come to bid you good-by." "Good-by! You don't mean that?" "I expect to start for St. Joseph to-morrow. I am in a hurry to get to California." "That's real mean. I don't see why you can't stay in Cincinnati a week." "I should like to." "Then why don't you?" persisted the young girl. "Jennie," said her mother, "we must remember that Thomas is not traveling for pleasure. He is going to California to seek his fortune. It won't do for him to linger on his way." "A week won't make much difference; will it, Tom?" "I am afraid it will, Jennie. Besides, a friend of Mr. Waterbury will start to-morrow, and has agreed to take me with him." "I suppose you've got to go, then," said Jennie regretfully. "Oh, where did you get that watch, Tom?" "A kind friend gave it to me." "Who do you mean--Mr. Graham?" she asked archly. "He would be more likely to relieve me of it. No, it is Mr. Waterbury." "I am going to kiss you for that, Mr. Waterbury," said Jennie impulsively; and she suited the action to the word. "What will Mr. Waterbury think, Jennie?" said her mother. "He thinks himself well repaid for his gift," answered that gentleman, smiling; "and half inclined to give Tom another watch." "Isn't it my turn, now?" asked Tom, with a courage at which he afterward rather wondered; but he was fast getting rid of his country bashfulness. "I never kiss boys," said Jennie demurely. "Then I will grow into a man as fast as I can," said Tom, "and give somebody a watch, and then---- But that will be a good while to wait." "I may kiss you good-by," said Jennie, "if I feel like it." She did feel like it, and Tom received the kiss. "It strikes me, Tom," said Mr. Waterbury, as they were walking home, "that you and Jennie are getting along fast." "She kissed you first," said Tom, blushing. "But the kiss she gave me was wholly on your account." "She seems just like a sister," said Tom. "She's a tip-top girl." CHAPTER XIX. A MISSOURI TAVERN. The next day Tom started on his way. His new companion, Donald Ferguson, was a sedate Scotchman, and a thoroughly reliable man. He was possessed to the full of the frugality characteristic of the race to which he belonged, and, being more accustomed to traveling than Tom, saved our hero something in the matter of expense. He was always ready to talk of Scotland, which he evidently thought the finest country in the world. He admitted that Glasgow was not as large a city as London, but that it was more attractive. As for New York, that city bore no comparison to the chief city of Scotland. "You must go to Scotland some time, Tom," he said. "If you can't visit but one country in the Old World, go to Scotland." Privately Tom was of opinion that he should prefer to visit England; but he did not venture to hurt the feelings of his fellow-traveler by saying so. "I wonder, Mr. Ferguson," he could not help saying one day, "that you should have been willing to leave Scotland, since you so much prefer it to America." "I'll tell you, my lad," answered the Scotchman. "I would rather live in Scotland than anywhere else on God's footstool; but I won't be denying that it is a poor place for a man to make money, if compared with a new country like this." "There are no gold-mines, I suppose, sir?" "No; and the land is not as rich as the land here. It is rich in historical associations; but a man, you know, can't live on those," he added shrewdly. "No, I should think not," said Tom. "It would be pretty dry diet. How long have you been in the country, Mr. Ferguson?" "A matter of three months only, my lad. It's the gold-mines that brought me over. I read of them in the papers at home, and I took the first ship across the Atlantic." "Have you a family, Mr. Ferguson?" "I've got an old mother at home, my lad, who looks to me for support. I left fifty pounds with her when I came away. It'll last her, I'm thinkin', till I can send her some from California." "Then Mr. Ferguson, you are like me," said Tom. "I am going to California to work for my father and mother. Father is poor, and I have brothers and sisters at home to provide for. I hope I shall succeed, for their sake." "You will, my lad," said the Scotchman, in a tone of calm confidence. "It is a noble purpose, and if you keep to it God will bless you in your undertaking, and give you a good fortune." "I hope we shall both be fortunate." "I have no fear. I put my trust in the Lord, who is always ready to help those who are working for him." Tom found that Mr. Ferguson, though his manner was dry and unattractive, was a religious man, and he respected and esteemed him for his excellent traits. He was not a man to inspire warm affection, but no one could fail to respect him. He felt that he was fortunate in having such a man for his companion, and he was glad that Mr. Ferguson appeared to like him in turn. He also found that the Scotchman, though a man of peace, and very much averse to quarreling, was by no means deficient in the trait of personal courage. One evening they arrived at a small tavern in a Missouri town. Neither Tom nor his companion particularly liked the appearance of the place nor its frequenters, but it appeared to be the only place of entertainment in the settlement. The barroom, which was the only public room set apart for the use of the guests, was the resort of a party of drunken roisterers, who were playing poker in the corner, and betting on the game. At the elbow of each player was set a glass of whisky, and the end of each game was marked by a fresh glass all around. Tom and Mr. Ferguson took a walk after supper, and then sat down quietly at a little distance from the card-players, attracting at first but little attention from them. Presently, at the close of a game, glasses were ordered for the party, at the expense of those who had suffered defeat. "What'll you have, strangers?" inquired a tipsy fellow, with an Indian complexion and long black hair, staggering toward Ferguson. "Thank you, sir," said the Scotchman; "but I don't drink." "Don't drink!" exclaimed the former, in evident surprise. "What sort of a man, pray, may you be?" "I am a temperance man," said Ferguson, adding indiscreetly, "and it would be well for you all if you would shun the vile liquor which is destroying soul and body." "---- your impudence!" ejaculated the other, in a rage. "Do you dare to insult gentlemen like us?" "I never insult anybody," said the Scotchman calmly. "What I have said is for your good, and you would admit it if you were sober." "Do you dare to say I'm drunk?" demanded the man, in a fury. "Mr. Ferguson," said Tom, in a low voice, "I wouldn't provoke him if I were you." But the Scotchman was no coward, and, though generally prudent, he was too fond of argument to yield the point. "Of course, you're drunk," he said calmly. "If you will reflect, you show all the signs of a man that has taken too much liquor. Your face is flushed, your hand is unsteady, and----" He was interrupted by a volley of execrations from the man whom he was coolly describing, and the latter, in a fit of fury, struck the Scotchman in the face. Had the blow been well directed it would, for the time, have marred the small share of personal beauty with which nature had endowed Mr. Ferguson; but it glanced aside and just struck him on his prominent cheek-bone. "A ring! a ring!" shouted the men in the corner, jumping to their feet in excitement. "Let Jim and the Scotchman fight it out." "Gentlemen," said Mr. Ferguson, "I don't wish to fight with your friend. He is drunk, as you can see plainly enough. I don't wish to fight with a drunken man." "Who says I am drunk?" demanded the champion of whisky. "Let me get at him." But his friends were now holding him back. They wanted to see a square fight, according to rule. It would prove, in their opinion, a pleasant little excitement. "I meant no offense," said Ferguson; "I only told the truth." "You are a ---- liar!" exclaimed the man, known as Jim. "I do not heed the words of a man in your condition," said the Scotchman calmly. "Pull his nose, Jim! Make him fight!" exclaimed the friends of the bully. "We'll back you!" The hint was taken. Jim staggered forward, and, seizing the Scotchman's prominent nose, gave it a violent tweak. Now there are few men, with or without self-respect, who can calmly submit to an insult like this. Certainly Mr. Donald Ferguson was not one of them. The color mantled his high cheek-bones, and anger gained dominion over him. He sprang to his feet, grasped the bully in his strong arms, dashed him backward upon the floor of the barroom, and, turning to the companions of the fallen man, he said, "Now come on, if you want to fight. I'll take you one by one, and fight the whole of you, if you like." Instead of being angry, they applauded his pluck. They cared little for the fate of their champion, but were impressed by the evident strength of the stranger. "Stranger," said one of them, "you've proved that you're a man of honor. We thought you were a coward. It's a pity you don't drink. What may your name be?" "Donald Ferguson." "Then, boys, here's to the health of Mr. Ferguson. He's a bully boy, and no coward." "Gentlemen," said the Scotchman, "it's a compliment you mean, no doubt, and I'm suitably thankful. If you'll allow me, I'll drink your health in a liquor which will not injure any one. I'll wish you health and prosperity in a glass of cold water, if the barkeeper happens to have any of that beverage handy. Tom, join with me in the toast." Tom did so, and the speech was well received. "As for this gentleman," said Mr. Ferguson, addressing Jim, who had struggled to his feet, and was surveying the scene in rather a bewildered way, "I hope he won't harbor malice; I've only got even with him. We may as well forgive and forget." "That's the talk! Jim, drink the stranger's health!" Jim looked a little doubtful, but when a glass of whisky was put into his hand he could not resist the seductive draft, and tossed it down. "Now shake hands!" said one of the players. "With all my heart," said Ferguson, and the two shook hands, to the great delight of the company. "You got off pretty well, Mr. Ferguson," said Tom, when they retired for the night. "Yes, my lad, better than I expected. I thought once I would have to fight the whole pack. Poor fellows! I pity them. They are but slaves to their appetites. I hope, my lad, you'll never yield to a like temptation." "No fear for me, Mr. Ferguson. I feel as you do on the subject." The journey continued till one day, about noon, they reached the town of St, Joseph, popularly called St. Joe. CHAPTER XX. ST. JOE. St. Joe was at that time the fitting-out point for overland parties bound for California. As a matter of course it presented a busy, bustling appearance, and seemed full of life and movement. There was a large transient population, of a very miscellaneous character. It included the thrifty, industrious emigrant, prepared to work hard and live poorly, till the hoped-for competence was attained; but there was also the shiftless adventurer, whose chief object was to live without work, and the unscrupulous swindler, who was ready, if opportunity offered, to appropriate the hard earnings of others. "It's a lively place, Mr. Ferguson," said Tom. "It is, indeed, my young friend," said the cautious Scot; "but it is a place, to my thinking, where it behooves a man to look well to his purse." "No doubt you are right, Mr. Ferguson. I have learned to be cautious since my adventure with Graham and Vincent." "There's many like them in the world, Tom. They are like lions, going about seeking whom they may devour." St. Joseph could not at that time boast any first-class hotels. Inns and lodging-houses it had in plenty. At one of these--a two-story building, dignified by the title of "The Pacific Hotel"--our hero and his Scotch friend found accommodations. They were charged two dollars and a half per day--the same price they charged at first-class hotels in New York and Boston, while their rooms and fare were very far from luxurious. The landlord was a stout, jolly host, with a round, good-natured face. "You and your son will room together, I suppose," he said. "He isn't my son, but a young friend of mine," said Mr. Ferguson. "I thought he didn't look much like you," said the landlord. "I am hard and weather-beaten, while he is young and fresh." "Well, gentlemen, I wish you both good luck. What will you take? I have a superior article of whisky that I can recommend." "Thank you, but I beg you will excuse me, sir," said Ferguson. "I never drink." "Nor I," said Tom; "but I am much obliged to you all the same." "Well, that beats me," said the landlord. "Why, you don't know what's good. You ain't a minister, are you?" turning to Ferguson. "I have not that high distinction, my friend. I am an unworthy member of the church of Scotland." "I don't think your countrymen generally refuse whisky." "So much the worse for them. They are only too fond of it. My own brother died a miserable death, brought on by his love of liquor." "Then I won't press you; but I say, strangers, you won't find many of your way of thinking in the country you're going to." "I don't doubt he's right, Tom," said Ferguson to Tom, as they entered the chamber assigned to them. "We may not be together always. I hope you won't be led away by them that offer you strong drink. It would be the ruin of you, boy." "Don't fear for me, Mr. Ferguson. I have no taste for it." "Sometimes it's hard to refuse." "It won't be hard for me." "I am glad to hear you say that, my lad. You are young, strong, and industrious. You'll succeed, I'll warrant, if you steer clear of that quicksand." Later in the day the two friends began to make inquiries about overland travel. They had no wish to remain long at St. Joe. Both were impatient to reach the land of gold, and neither cared to incur the expense of living at the hotel any longer than was absolutely necessary. Luckily this probably would not be long, for nearly every day a caravan set out on the long journey, and doubtless they would be able to join on agreeing to pay their share of the expenses. It was a great undertaking, for the distance to be traversed was over two thousand miles, through an unsettled country, some of it a desert, with the chances of an attack by hostile Indians, and the certainty of weeks, and perhaps months, of privation and fatigue. Mr. Donald Ferguson looked forward to it with some apprehension; for, with characteristic Scotch caution, he counted the cost of whatever he undertook, and did not fail to set before his mind all the contingencies and dangers attending it. "It's a long journey we're going on, my lad," he said, "and we may not reach the end of it in safety." "It isn't best to worry about that, Mr. Ferguson," said Tom cheerfully. "You are right, my lad. It's not for the best to worry, but it is well to make provision for what may happen. Now, if anything happens to me, I am minded to make you my executor." "But don't you think I am too young, Mr. Ferguson?" "You are o'er young, I grant, but you are a lad of good parts, temperate, steady, and honest. I have no other friend I feel like trusting." "I hope, Mr. Ferguson, there will be no occasion to render you any such service, but whatever I can I will do." "It will be very simple. You will take my money, and see that it is sent to my mother, in Glasgow. I will give you her address now, and then, if any sudden fate overtakes me, there will be no trouble. You will know just what to do." Tom was flattered by this mark of confidence. It was evident that the cautious Scotchman had formed a very favorable opinion of him, or he would not have selected so young a boy for so important a trust. "Will you do the same for me, Mr. Ferguson?" he asked, with the sudden reflection that, young as he was, there was no absolute certainty of his living to reach California. "Surely I will, my lad." "If I should die I should want any money I might have left sent to my father." "Give me his address, my lad, and it shall be done. It is a good precaution, and we shan't either of us die the sooner for doing our duty, to the best of our ability, by those who would mourn our loss." Tom and his friend instituted inquiries, and ascertained that two days later a caravan was to start on its way across the continent. They ascertained, also, that the leader of the expedition was a pioneer named Fletcher, who was making his home at the California Hotel. They made their way thither, and were fortunate enough to find Mr. Fletcher at home. He was a stout, broad-shouldered man, a practical farmer, who was emigrating from Illinois. Unlike the majority of emigrants, he had his family with him, namely, a wife, and four children, the oldest a boy of twelve. "My friend," said Ferguson, "I hear that you are soon leaving here with a party for California." "I leave day after to-morrow," answered Fletcher. "Is your party wholly made up?" "We are about full; but we might receive one or two more." "My young friend and I wish to join some good party, as we cannot afford to remain here, and we are anxious to get to work as soon as possible." Some care needed to be exercised in the choice of a party, as there were some who would only give trouble and annoyance, or perhaps fail to pay their proper share of the expenses. But Ferguson's appearance was sufficient guarantee of his reliability, and no one was likely to object to Tom. "Of course," added Ferguson, "we are ready to bear our share of the expense." "Then you can come," said Fletcher. "You will both need revolvers, for we may be attacked by Indians, and must be able to defend ourselves." "Certainly, we will do our part, if need be." This was an expense which Tom had not foreseen; but he at once saw the importance of being armed when crossing such a country as lay before them, and went with Ferguson to make the needful purchase. His Scotch friend instructed him in the method of using his new weapon, and Tom felt a boy's natural pride in his new acquisition. He felt years older then he did on the morning when he left his country home. He had gained some knowledge of the world, and felt a greater confidence in himself on that account. He looked forward to the remainder of his journey with pleasurable excitement, and lost no time in making the necessary preparations. CHAPTER XXI. HOW THINGS WENT ON AT HOME. While Tom was slowly making his way westward, there was one place where tidings from him were anxiously awaited, and where nightly prayers were offered for his health and safe progress. Of course this was the dear, though humble, farmhouse, which had been his home. Twice a week Tom wrote, and his letters were cheerful and reassuring. "Don't trouble yourself about me, dear mother"--he wrote from Cincinnati. "I am making friends, and learning how to travel. I feel years older, and rely much more on myself than when, an inexperienced boy, I bade you good-by. I am a thousand miles from you, and the longest and most difficult part of the journey lies before me; but with health and strength, and prudence, I hope to arrive in good condition at my destination. As to health I never felt better in my life, and I have taken lessons in prudence and caution which will be of essential service to me. I have found that a boy who goes out into the world to seek his fortune cannot trust everybody he falls in with. He will find foes as well as friends, and he will need to be on his guard. "I start to-morrow for St. Joseph, in Missouri, going by way of St. Louis. Mr. Donald Ferguson, a middle-aged Scotchman, is my companion. A younger and livelier companion might prove more agreeable, but perhaps not so safe. Mr. Ferguson is old enough to be my father, and I shall be guided by his judgment where my own is at fault. He is very frugal, as I believe his countrymen generally are, and that, of course, just suits me. I don't know how long I shall be in reaching St. Joseph, but I shall write you once or twice on the way. Give my love to father, Sarah, Walter, and Harry, and keep a great deal for yourself. "Your loving son, "TOM." "Tom is growing manly, Mary," said Mark Nelson to his wife. "It's doing him good to see a little of the world." "I suppose it is, Mark," said his wife; "but the more I think of it the more I feel that he is very young to undertake such a long journey alone." "He is young, but it will make a man of him." "He must be having a tip-top time," said Walter; "I wish I were with him." "You would be more of a hindrance than a help to him, Walter," said Mark Nelson. "You are only a child, you know," said Sarah, in an elder-sister tone. "What do you call yourself?" retorted Walter. "You are only two years older than I am." "Girls always know more than boys of the same age," said Sarah condescendingly. "Besides, I haven't said anything about going out to California." "No, I should think not. A girl that's afraid of a mouse had better stay at home." Walter referred to an incident of the day previous, when the sudden appearance of a mouse threw Sarah into a panic. "Are there any mouses in California?" asked little Harry, with interest. "If there are I could carry a cat with me," returned Sarah good-humoredly. Mark Nelson, though he felt Tom was a boy to be trusted, did ask himself occasionally whether he had been wise in permitting him to leave home under the circumstances. Suppose he continued in health, there were doubts of his success. His golden dreams might not be realized. The two hundred dollars which he had raised for Tom might be lost, and bring in no return; and this would prove a serious loss to Mark, hampered as he was already by a heavy mortgage on his farm. Would Squire Hudson be forbearing, if ill-luck came? This was a question he could not answer. He only knew that such was not the squire's reputation. "Well, Mr. Nelson, what do you hear from Tom," asked the squire, one day about this time. "How far is he on his way?" "We received a letter from Cincinnati yesterday. He then was about starting for St. Joseph." "Does he seem to enjoy the journey?" "He writes in excellent spirits. He says he has met with good friends." "Indeed! How does his money hold out?" "He does not speak of that." "Oh, well, I dare say he is getting along well;" and the squire walked on. "Does he feel interested in Tom, or not?" queried Mark Nelson, as he looked thoughtfully after the squire, as he walked on with stately steps, leaning slightly on his gold-headed cane. He might have been enlightened on this point, if he could have heard a conversation, later in the day, between Squire Hudson and his son Sinclair. "I saw Mark Nelson this morning," he observed at the supper table. "Has he heard from Tom?" "Yes; his son wrote him from Cincinnati." "I wish I could go to Cincinnati," grumbled Sinclair; "I think I have a better right to see the world than Tom Nelson." "All in good time, my son. Tom is not traveling for pleasure." "Still, he is getting the pleasure." "He will have to work hard when he reaches California. Probably he won't have a cent left when he gets there." "What will he do then?" "He must earn money." "Do you think he will do well, father?" "He may, and then again he may not," answered the squire judicially. "If he don't, how is he going to pay you back the money you lent him?" "I always thought your father was foolish to lend his money to a boy like that," said Mrs. Hudson querulously. "Women know nothing about business," said the squire, with an air of superior wisdom. "Sometimes men don't know much," retorted his wife. "If you refer to me, Mrs. Hudson," said her husband, "you need have no anxiety. I did not lend the money to the boy, but to his father." "That isn't much better. Everybody knows that Mark Nelson has all that he can do to get along. His wife hasn't had a new dress for years." The squire's face grew hard and stern. He had never loved his wife, and never forgiven Mrs. Nelson, whom he had loved as much as he was capable of doing, for refusing his hand. "She has made her bed and she must lie upon it," he said curtly. "She might have known that Mark Nelson would never be able to provide for her." "Perhaps she never had any other offer," said Mrs. Hudson, who was ignorant of a certain passage of her husband's life. "Probably she did, for she was a very pretty girl." "Then she's faded," said Mrs. Hudson, tossing her head. Squire Hudson did not reply; but as his eyes rested on the sharp, querulous face of his helpmate, and he compared it mentally with the pleasant face of Mrs. Nelson, he said to himself that, faded or not, the latter was still better looking than his wife had been in the days of her youth. Of course it would not do to say so, for Mrs. Hudson was not amiable. "Mark Nelson has given me security," said the squire, returning to the point under discussion. "I hold a mortgage on his farm for the whole amount he owes me." "Do you think you shall have to foreclose, father?" asked Sinclair. "If Tom does not succeed in California, I probably shall," said the squire. "Do you think he will succeed?" "He may be able to make a living, but I don't think he will be able to help his father any." "Then why did you lend him the money?" "He wanted to go, and was willing to take the risk. I lent the money as a business operation." "Suppose Mr. Nelson loses his farm, what will he do?" inquired Sinclair. "I really don't know," answered the squire, shrugging his shoulders. "That is no concern of mine." "Tom wouldn't put on so many airs if his father had to go to the poorhouse," said Sinclair. "Does he put on airs?" "He seems to think he is as good as I am," said Squire Hudson's heir. "That is perfectly ridiculous," said Mrs. Hudson. "The boy must be a fool." "He is no fool," said the squire, who did not allow prejudice to carry him so far as his wife and son. "He is a boy of very fair abilities; but I apprehend he will find it harder to make his fortune than he anticipated. However, time will show." "Most likely he'll come home in rags, and grow up a day-laborer," said Sinclair complacently. "When I'm a rich man I'll give him work. He won't feel like putting on airs, then." "What a good heart Sinclair has!" said Mrs. Hudson admiringly. Squire Hudson said nothing. Possibly the goodness of his son's heart was not so manifest to him. CHAPTER XXII. THE YOUNG MAN FROM BOSTON. Soon after leaving St. Joe, the emigrant train which Tom had joined, entered the territory of Kansas. At that early day the settlement of this now prosperous State had scarcely begun. Its rich soil was as yet unvexed by the plow and the spade, and the tall prairie grass and virgin forest stretched for many and many a mile westward in undisturbed loneliness. One afternoon, toward the setting of the sun, the caravan halted on the site of the present capital of the State, Topeka. The patient oxen, wearied with the twenty miles they had traveled, were permitted to graze. The ten baggage wagons or "ships of the plain," as they were sometimes called--came to anchor in a sea of verdure. They were ranged in a circle, the interior space being occupied as a camping-ground. Then began preparations for supper. Some of the party were sent for water. A fire was built, and the travelers, with a luxurious enjoyment of rest, sank upon the grass. Donald Ferguson looked thoughtfully over the vast expanse of unsettled prairie, and said to Tom, "It's a great country, Tom. There seems no end to it." "That's the way I felt when I was plodding along to-day through the mud," said Tom, laughing. "It's because the soil is so rich," said the Scotchman. "It'll be a great farming country some day, I'm thinking." "I suppose the soil isn't so rich in Scotland, Mr. Ferguson?" "No, my lad. It's rocky and barren, and covered with dry heather; but it produces rare men, for all that." Mr. Ferguson was patriotic to the backbone. He would not claim for Scotland what she could not fairly claim; but he was all ready with some compensating claim. "How do you stand the walking, Mr. Ferguson?" "I'm getting used to it." "Then it's more than I am. I think it's beastly." These words were not uttered by Tom, but by rather a dandified-looking young man, who came up limping. He was from Boston, and gave his name as Lawrence Peabody. He had always lived in Boston, where he had been employed in various genteel avocations; but in an evil hour he had been lured from his comfortable home by the seductive cry of gold, and, laying down his yardstick, had set out for California across the plains. He was a slender young man, with limbs better fitted for dancing than for tramping across the prairie, and he felt bitterly the fatigue of the journey. "Are you tired, Mr. Peabody?" asked Tom. "I am just about dead. I didn't bargain for walking all the way across the prairies. Why couldn't old Fletcher let me ride?" "The oxen have had all they could do to-day to draw the wagons through the mud." "Look at those boots," said the Bostonian ruefully, pointing to a pair of light calfskin boots, which were so overlaid with mud that it was hard to tell what was their original color. "I bought those boots in Boston only two weeks ago. Everybody called them stylish. Now they are absolutely disreputable." "It seems to me, my friend," said the Scotchman, "that you did not show much sagacity in selecting such boots for your journey. My young friend, Tom, is much better provided." "His boots are cowhide," said Mr. Lawrence Peabody disdainfully. "Do you think I would wear cowhide boots?" "You would find them more serviceable, Mr. Peabody," said Tom. "Besides, I don't believe anybody could tell the difference now." "How much did you pay for them?" asked the Bostonian. "A dollar and a half." "Humph! I thought so," returned Peabody contemptuously. "We don't wear cowhide boots in Boston." "You are not in Boston now." "I wish I was," said Peabody energetically. "I wouldn't have started if I had known what was before me. I expected to travel like a gentleman, instead of wading through this cursed mud till I'm ready to drop. Look at my pantaloons, all splashed with mire. What would my friends say if I should appear in this rig on Washington Street?" "They might take you for a bog-trotter," said Tom, smiling. "I have always been particular about my appearance," said Peabody plaintively. "'He looks just as if he'd come out of a bandbox,' some of my lady friends used to say. How do I look now?" "Like a dirty-handed son of toil," said Tom humorously. "So do you," retorted Peabody, who felt that this was uncomplimentary. "I admit it," said Tom; "and that's just what I expect to be. You don't expect to dig gold with kid gloves on, do you, Mr. Peabody?" "I wish I had brought some with me," said the Bostonian seriously. "It would have saved my hands looking so dingy." "How came you to start for California, my friend?" inquired Ferguson. "The fact is," said Peabody, "I am not rich. There are members of our family who are wealthy; but I am not one of the lucky number." "You were making a living at home, were you not?" "Yes; but my income was only enough for myself." "I suppose you were in love, then," said Tom. "I don't mind saying that I was; confidentially, of course," said Mr. Peabody complacently. "Was your love returned?" "I may say it was. The young lady was the daughter of a merchant prince. I saw that she loved me, but her father would not consent to our union, on account of my limited means. I read in the _Transcript_ of the gold discoveries in California. I determined to go out there, and try my fortune. If I am successful I will go home, and, with a bag of gold in each hand, demand the hand of Matilda from her haughty sire. When he asks me for my credentials, I will point to the gold, and say, 'Behold them here!'" "If both your hands are full I don't see how you can point to the bags of gold," said Tom, who liked to tease the young Bostonian. "There are a great many things you don't understand," said Mr. Peabody, irritably. "He is right, Tom," said Ferguson, with a quiet smile. "If you are both against me, I will give it up," said Tom. "All I can say is, I hope you'll get the two bags of gold, Mr. Peabody, and that you'll get the young lady, too." Here Fletcher came up, and called upon Tom to assist in preparations for supper. Our hero readily complied with the request. Indeed, he always showed himself so obliging that he won the favorable regards of all. Mr. Peabody continued the conversation with Mr. Ferguson. "Do you think there's as much gold in California as people say?" he asked. "No," answered the Scotchman. "You don't?" ejaculated the Bostonian, in dismay. "No; people always magnify when they talk of a new country. Now, my friend, how much do you expect to get in the first year?" "Well, about fifty thousand dollars," answered Peabody. "And how much were you earning in Boston--a thousand dollars?" "About that," answered Peabody vaguely. In fact, he had been working on a salary of twelve dollars a week, in a retail dry-goods store on Washington Street. "Then you expect to make fifty times as much as at home?" "Don't you think I will?" "I have never had such large expectations. If I make three or four thousand dollars in twelve months it will satisfy me." "But a man would never get rich, at that rate," said Lawrence Peabody uneasily. "I don't know about that. It depends as much on what a man does with his money, as on the amount he makes," said the prudent Scot. "I am afraid I did wrong in leaving Boston," said Peabody gloomily. "If I am to travel many weeks through the mud, and get no more than that, I shall feel that I am poorly paid." "You don't feel like my young friend Tom. He is full of hope, and enjoys everything." "He hasn't been brought up as I have," said Peabody. "A country boy in cowhide boots is tough, and don't mind roughing it." Ferguson did not have a chance to answer, for there was a summons to supper--a welcome call, that made even Mr. Lawrence Peabody look cheerful for the time being. CHAPTER XXIII. MR. PEABODY'S TROUBLES. When the party camped for the night the custom was to arrange the baggage wagons in a semicircle, and provide a resting-place for the women and children inside. As they were passing through a country occupied by Indians it was necessary to post one or more sentinels to keep watch through the night, and give notice of any who might be seen lurking near the camp. Fortunately, however, an Indian attack was seldom made at night. The time generally selected was in the morning, when the party were preparing to start on their day's march. Tom, as a boy, would have been excused taking his turn; but this did not suit him. He requested as a favor, that he might stand watch with the rest. "Can he be relied upon? Is he not too young?" asked Fletcher, the leader, of Mr. Ferguson. "You can depend upon him," said the Scotchman confidently. "There's more manliness in Tom than in many men of twice his years." "Then I will put his name on the list," said Fletcher. "That's right. I'll answer for him." But there was one of the travelers who was by no means eager to stand on watch. This was Lawrence Peabody, the young man from Boston. He sought an interview with Fletcher, and asked to be excused. "On what grounds, Mr. Peabody?" asked Fletcher, surprised. "It doesn't agree with me to lose my night's sleep," said Peabody. "I am naturally delicate, and----" "Your excuse is not satisfactory, Mr. Peabody. We are banded together in a little community, having mutual rights and mutual obligations. In the arrangements made for the common safety it is your duty to bear your part." "I am willing to provide a substitute," said Peabody eagerly. "Where will you find a substitute?" "I have been talking with Tom Nelson. He says he is willing to serve in my turn." "He will serve when his own turn comes; that will be all we can expect of him." "But he is only a boy. Why should he be expected to take his turn?" "If he is old enough to be a substitute, he is old enough to stand watch for himself." "But, Mr. Fletcher, I am very delicate," protested Lawrence Peabody. "I must have my regular sleep, or I shall be sick." "We must take our chances of that, Mr. Peabody." "I shall be very likely to go to sleep on my post." "I wouldn't advise you to," said Fletcher seriously. "It might be dangerous." "Dangerous!" ejaculated Peabody nervously. "Precisely. If a lurking Indian should surprise you, you might wake up to find yourself scalped." "Good gracious!" exclaimed the Bostonian, his teeth chattering, for he was not of the stuff of which heroes are made. "Do you--think there is any danger of that?" "Considerable, if you neglect your duty." "But perhaps I can't help falling asleep." "Mr. Peabody," said Fletcher sternly, "you must keep awake. Not only your own safety, but that of the whole camp, may depend upon your vigilance. If you choose to risk your own life, I don't complain of that, but you shall not imperil ours. I therefore give you notice, that if you fall asleep on guard you will be drummed out of camp, and left to shift for yourself." "But I couldn't find my way on the prairie," said Peabody, very much alarmed. "You had better think of that when you are tempted to close your eyes, Mr. Peabody," replied Fletcher. Lawrence Peabody walked off, feeling very much disconcerted. Fervently he wished himself back in Boston, where there are no Indians, and a man might sleep from one week's end to another without any danger of losing his scalp. "What's the matter, Mr. Peabody?" asked Tom, observing his melancholy appearance. "I don't think I shall ever live to see California," answered Mr. Peabody plaintively. "Why, what's the matter now?" asked Tom, checking an inclination to laugh; "are you sick?" "I don't feel very well, Tom. I'm very delicate, and this journey is almost too much for my strength." "Oh, cheer up, Mr. Peabody! Think of the gold that awaits you at the end of the journey." "It's all that keeps me up, I do assure you. But I am afraid I shall never live to get there," said Peabody, with a groan. "Don't think of such things, Mr. Peabody. Of course none of us is sure of living, but the chances are, that we shall reach California in health, make our fortunes, and go home rich. At any rate, that's what I am looking forward to." "I wouldn't mind so much but for one thing, Tom." "What is that?" "Fletcher insists that I shall take my turn in standing guard. If I were not so delicate I wouldn't mind; but I know I can't stand it. I'll give you two dollars to take my place, every time my turn comes." "I am willing, if Mr. Fletcher is," said Tom, who was by no means averse to making a little extra money. "But he isn't. I proposed it to him, for I was sure I could arrange with you; but he refused." "I suppose," said Tom slyly, "he thought I couldn't fill your place. You are a brave, resolute man, and I am only a boy." "Tom--I--I don't mind telling you; but I am afraid I am not brave." "Oh, nonsense, Mr. Peabody! that is only your modesty." "But I assure you," said the young Bostonian earnestly, "I am speaking the truth. If I should see an Indian crawling near the camp I'm really afraid I should faint." "You won't know how brave you are till you are put to the test." "But do you think there is any chance of my being put to the test? Do you think there are any Indians near?" asked Lawrence Peabody, wiping the damp perspiration from his brow. "Of course there must be," said Tom. "We are passing through their hunting-grounds, you know." "Why did I ever leave Boston?" said Mr. Peabody sadly. "You came, as I did, to make your fortune, Mr. Peabody." "I'm afraid I can't keep awake, Tom; Mr. Fletcher tells me, if I don't, that he will turn me adrift on the prairie. Isn't that hard?" "I am afraid it is a necessary regulation. But you won't fall asleep. Your turn will only come about once in two weeks, and that isn't much." "The nights will seem very long." "I don't think so. I think it'll be fun, for my part." "But suppose--when you are watching--you should all at once see an Indian, Tom?" said Peabody, with a shiver. "I think it would be rather unlucky for the Indian," said Tom coolly. "You are a strange boy, Tom," said Mr. Peabody. "What makes you think so?" "You don't seem to care anything about the danger of being scalped." "I don't believe I should like being scalped any more than you do." "You might have got off from standing watch; but you asked to be allowed to." "That is quite true, Mr. Peabody. I want to meet my fair share of danger and fatigue." "You can stand it, for you are strong and tough. You have not my delicacy of constitution." "Perhaps that's it," said Tom, laughing. "Would you mind speaking to Fletcher, and telling him you are willing to take my place?" "I will do it, if you wish me to, Mr. Peabody." "Thank you, Tom; you are a true friend;" and Mr. Peabody wrung the hand of his young companion. Tom was as good as his word. He spoke to Fletcher on the subject; but the leader of the expedition was obdurate. "Can't consent, my boy," he said. "It is enough for you to take your turn. That young dandy from Boston needs some discipline to make a man of him. He will never do anything in a country like California unless he has more grit than he shows at present. I shall do him a favor by not excusing him." Tom reported the answer to Peabody, who groaned in spirit, and nervously waited for the night when he was to stand watch. CHAPTER XXIV. A SAD SIGHT. A day later, while the wagon-train was slowly winding through a mountain defile, they encountered a sight which made even the stout-hearted leader look grave. Stretched out stiff and stark were two figures, cold in death. They were men of middle age, apparently. From each the scalp had been removed, thus betraying that the murderers were Indians. "I should like to come across the red devils who did this," said Fletcher. "What would you do with them?" asked Ferguson. "Shoot them down like dogs, or if I could take them captive they should dangle upon the boughs of yonder tree." "I hope I shall be ready to die when my time comes," said Ferguson; "but I want it to be in a Christian bed, and not at the hands of a dirty savage." Just then Lawrence Peabody came up. He had been lagging in the rear, as usual. "What have you found?" he inquired, not seeing the bodies at first, on account of the party surrounding them. "Come here, and see for yourself, Peabody," said one of the company. Lawrence Peabody peered at the dead men--he was rather near-sighted--and turned very pale. "Is it the Indians?" he faltered. "Yes, it's those devils. You can tell their work when you see it. Don't you see that they are scalped?" "I believe I shall faint," said Peabody, his face becoming of a greenish hue. "Tom, let me lean on your shoulder. Do--do you think it has been done lately?" "Yesterday, probably," said Ferguson. "The bodies look fresh." "Then the Indians that did it must be near here?" "Probably." "These men were either traveling by themselves, or had strayed away from their party," said Fletcher. "It shows how necessary it is for us to keep together. In union there is strength." The bodies were examined. In the pocket of one was found a letter addressed to James Collins, dated at some town in Maine. The writer appeared to be his wife. She spoke of longing for the time when he should return with money enough to redeem their farm from a heavy mortgage. "Poor woman!" said Ferguson. "She will wait for her husband in vain. The mortgage will never be paid through his exertions." Tom looked sober, as he glanced compassionately at the poor emigrant. "He came on the same errand that I did," he said. "I hope my journey will have a happier ending." "Always hope for the best, Tom," said his Scotch friend. "You will live happier while you do live, and, if the worst comes, it will be time enough to submit to it when you must." "That is good philosophy, Mr. Ferguson." "Indeed it is, my lad. Don't borrow trouble." "We must bury these poor men," said Fletcher. "We can't leave them out here, possibly to be devoured by wild beasts. Who will volunteer for the service?" "Come, Peabody," said John Miles, a broad-shouldered giant, who had a good-natured contempt for the young man from Boston. "Suppose you and I volunteer." Lawrence Peabody shrank back in dismay at the unwelcome proposition. "I couldn't do it," he said, shivering. "I never touched a dead body in my life. I am so delicate that I couldn't do it, I assure you." "It's lucky we are not all delicate," said Miles, "or the poor fellows would be left unburied. I suppose if anything happens to you, Peabody, you will expect us to bury you?" "Oh, don't mention such a thing, Mr. Miles," entreated Peabody, showing symptoms of becoming hysterical. "I really can't bear it." "It's my belief that nature has made a mistake, and Peabody was meant for a woman," said Miles, shrugging his shoulders. "I will assist you, my friend," said the Scotchman. "It's all that remains for us to do for the poor fellows." "Not quite all," said Tom. "Somebody ought to write to the poor wife. We have her address in the letter you took from the pocket." "Well thought of, my lad," said Fletcher. "Will you undertake it?" "If you think I can do it properly," said Tom modestly. "It'll be grievous news, whoever writes it. You can do it as well as another." In due time Mrs. Collins received a letter revealing the sad fate of her husband, accompanied with a few simple words of sympathy. Over the grave a rude cross was planted, fashioned of two boards, with the name of James Collins, cut out with a jack-knife, upon them. This inscription was the work of Miles. "Somebody may see it who knows Collins," he said. It happened that, on the second night after the discovery of Collins and his unfortunate companion, Lawrence Peabody's turn came to stand watch. He was very uneasy and nervous through the day. In the hope of escaping the ordeal he so much dreaded he bound a handkerchief round his head. "What's the matter, Mr. Peabody?" asked Fletcher. "I've got a fearful headache," groaned Peabody. "It seems to me as if it would split open." "Let me feel of it," said Fletcher. "It doesn't feel hot; it doesn't throb," he said. "It aches terribly," said Peabody. "I'm very subject to headache. It is the effect of a delicate constitution." "The fellow is shamming," said Fletcher to himself; and he felt disgust rather than sympathy. "It's a little curious, Mr. Peabody, that this headache should not come upon you till the day you are to stand on watch," remarked the leader, with a sarcasm which even the young man from Boston detected. "Yes, it's strange," he admitted, "and very unlucky, for of course you won't expect a sick man to watch." "You don't look at it in the right light, Mr. Peabody. I regard it as rather lucky than otherwise." Lawrence Peabody stared. "I don't understand you, Mr. Fletcher," he said. "If you have the headache, it will prevent you from going to sleep, and you remember you expressed yourself as afraid that you might. If you were quite well, I might feel rather afraid of leaving the camp in your charge. Now, I am sure you won't fall asleep." Mr. Peabody listened in dismay. The very plan to which he had resorted in the hope of evading duty was likely to fasten that duty upon him. "He'll be well before night," thought Fletcher shrewdly; and he privately imparted the joke to the rest of the party. The result was that Mr. Peabody became an object of general attention. In half an hour the young man from Boston removed his handkerchief from his head. "Are you feeling better, Mr. Peabody?" asked Tom. "Very much better," said Peabody. "Your headache seems to pass off suddenly." "Yes, it always does," said the young Bostonian. "I am like mother in that. She had a delicate constitution, just like mine. One minute she would have a headache as if her head would split open, and half an hour afterward she would feel as well as usual." "You are very fortunate. I was afraid your headache would make it uncomfortable for you to watch to-night." "Yes, it would; but, as the captain said, it would have kept me awake. Now I don't believe I can keep from sleeping on my post." "Why don't you tell Fletcher so?" "Won't you tell him, Tom? He might pay more attention to it if you told him." "No, Mr. Peabody. You are certainly the most suitable person to speak to him. What makes you think he would pay more attention to me, who am only a boy?" "He seems to like you, Tom." "I hope he does, but really, Mr. Peabody, you must attend to your own business." Fletcher was at the head of the train, walking beside the first wagon. Hearing hurried steps, he turned, and saw Mr. Lawrence Peabody, panting for breath. "Have you got over your headache, Mr. Peabody?" he asked, with a quiet smile. "Yes, Mr. Fletcher, it's all gone." "I am glad to hear it." "It would have kept me awake to-night, as you remarked," said Peabody. "Now, I am really afraid that I shall fall asleep." "That would be bad for you." "Why so?" "You remember those two poor fellows whom we found scalped the other day?" "I shall never forget them," said Lawrence Peabody, with a shudder. "Better think of them to-night. If you go to sleep on watch, those very Indians may serve you in the same way." "Oh, good gracious!" ejaculated Peabody, turning pale. "They or some of their tribe are, no doubt, near at hand." "Don't you think you could excuse me, Mr. Fletcher?" stammered Peabody, panic-stricken. "No!" thundered Fletcher, so sternly that the unhappy Bostonian shrank back in dismay. For the credit of Boston, it may be said that John Miles--a broad-shouldered young giant, who did not know what fear was--more honorably represented the same city. CHAPTER XXV. A NIGHT PANIC. Lawrence Peabody's feelings when night approached were not unlike those of a prisoner under sentence of death. He was timid, nervous, and gifted with a lively imagination. His fears were heightened by the sad spectacle that he had recently witnessed. His depression was apparent to all; but I regret to say that it inspired more amusement than sympathy. Men winked at each other as they saw him pass; and, with the exception of Tom and his Scotch friend, probably nobody pitied the poor fellow. "He's a poor creature, Tom," said Donald Ferguson; "but I pity him. We wouldn't mind watching to-night; but I doubt it's a terrible thing to him." "I would volunteer in his place, but Mr. Fletcher won't agree to it," said Tom. "He is right. The young man must take his turn. He won't dread it so much a second time." "What would the poor fellow do if he should see an Indian?" "Faint, likely; but that is not probable." "Mr. Fletcher thinks there are some not far off." "They don't attack in the night, so I hear." "That seems strange to me. I should think the night would be most favorable for them." "It's their way. Perhaps they have some superstition that hinders." "I am glad of it, at any rate. I can sleep with greater comfort." The rest were not as considerate as Tom and Ferguson. They tried, indeed, to excite still further the fears of the young Bostonian. "Peabody," said Miles, "have you made your will?" "No," answered Peabody nervously. "Why should I?" "Oh, I was thinking that if anything happened to you to-night you might like to say how your things are to be disposed of. You've got a gold watch, haven't you?" "Yes," said Peabody nervously. "And a little money, I suppose." "Not very much, Mr. Miles." "No matter about that. Of course if you are killed you won't have occasion for it," said Miles, in a matter-of-fact tone. "I wish you wouldn't talk that way," said Peabody irritably. "It makes me nervous." "What's the use of being nervous? It won't do any good." "Do you really think, Mr. Miles, there is much danger?" faltered Peabody. "Of course there is danger. But the post of danger is the post of honor. Now, Peabody, I want to give you a piece of advice. If you spy one of those red devils crouching in the grass, don't stop to parley, but up with your revolver, and let him have it in the head. If you can't hit him in the head, hit him where you can." "Wouldn't it be better," suggested Peabody, in a tremulous voice, "to wake you up, or Mr. Fletcher?" "While you were doing it the savage would make mince-meat of you. No, Peabody, fire at once. This would wake us all up, and if you didn't kill the reptile we would do it for you." "Perhaps he would see me first," suggested Peabody, in a troubled tone. "You mustn't let him. You must have your eyes all about you. You are not near-sighted, are you?" "I believe I am--a little," said Peabody eagerly, thinking that this might be esteemed a disqualification for the position he dreaded. "Oh, well, I guess it won't make any difference, only you will need to be more vigilant." "I wish I was blind; just for to-night," thought Peabody to himself, with an inward sigh. "Then they would have to excuse me." John Miles overtook Fletcher, who was with the head wagon. "Captain Fletcher," he said, "I am afraid Peabody will make a mighty poor watch." "Just my opinion." "He is more timid than the average woman. I've got a sister at home that has ten times his courage. If she hadn't I wouldn't own the relationship." "I am not willing to excuse him." "Of course not; but I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll keep an eye open myself, so that we sha'n't wholly depend on him." "If you are willing to do it, Miles, we shall all be indebted to you. Don't let him know it, though." "I don't mean to. He shall suppose he is the only man awake in camp." At a comparatively early hour the party stretched themselves out upon the ground, inviting sleep. Generally they did not have to wait long. The day's march brought with it considerable physical fatigue. Even those who were light sleepers at home slept well on the trip across the plains. Few or none remained awake half an hour after lying down. So Peabody knew that he would soon be practically alone. With a heavy heart he began to pace slowly forward and back. He came to where Tom lay. "Tom--Tom Nelson," he called, in a low voice. "What's the matter?" asked Tom, in a sleepy tone. "Are you asleep?" "No; but I soon shall be." "Won't you try to keep awake a little while? It won't seem so lonesome." "Sorry I can't accommodate you, Mr. Peabody; but I'm awfully tired and sleepy." "Who's that talking there?" drowsily demanded the nearest emigrant. "Can't you keep quiet, and let a fellow sleep?" "Good night, Mr. Peabody," said Tom, by way of putting an end to the conversation. "Good night," returned the sentinel disconsolately. The hours passed on, and Lawrence Peabody maintained his watch. He was in no danger of going to sleep, feeling too timid and nervous. He began to feel a little more comfortable. He could see nothing suspicious, and hear nothing except the deep breathing of his sleeping comrades. "It is not so bad as I expected," he muttered to himself. He began to feel a little self-complacent, and to reflect that he had underrated his own courage. He privately reflected that he was doing as well as any of his predecessors in duty. He began to think that after he had got back to Boston with a fortune, gained in California, he could impress his friends with a narrative of his night-watch on the distant prairies. But his courage had not yet been tested. He took out his watch to see how time was passing. It pointed to twelve o'clock. Why there should be anything more alarming in twelve o'clock than in any other hour I can't pretend to say, but the fact none will question. Mr. Peabody felt a nervous thrill when his eyes rested on the dial. He looked about him, and the darkness seemed blacker and more awe-inspiring than ever, now that he knew it to be midnight. "Will it ever be morning?" he groaned. "Four long hours at least before there will be light. I don't know how I am going to stand it." Now, there was attached to the wagon-train one of those universally despised but useful animals, a donkey, the private property of a man from Iowa, who expected to make it of service in California. The animal was tethered near the camp, and was generally quiet. But to-night he was wakeful, and managed about midnight to slip his tether, and wandered off. Peabody did not observe his escape. His vigilance was somewhat relaxed, and with his head down he gave way to mournful reflection. Suddenly the donkey, who was now but a few rods distant, uplifted his voice in a roar which the night stillness made louder than usual. It was too much for the overwrought nerves of the sentinel. He gave a shriek of terror, fired wildly in the air, and sank fainting to the ground. Of course the camp was roused. Men jumped to their feet, and, rubbing their eyes, gazed around them in bewilderment. It was not long before the truth dawned upon them. There lay the sentinel, insensible from fright, his discharged weapon at his feet, and the almost equally terrified donkey was in active flight, making the air vocal with his peculiar cries. There was a great shout of laughter, in the midst of which Peabody recovered consciousness. "Where am I?" he asked, looking about him wildly, and he instinctively felt for his scalp, which he was relieved to find still in its place. "What's the matter?" asked the leader. "What made you fire?" "I--I thought it was the Indians," faltered Peabody. "I thought I heard their horrid war-whoop." "Not very complimentary to the Indians to compare them with donkeys," said Miles. Lawrence Peabody was excused from duty for the remainder of the night, his place being taken by Miles and Tom in turn. It was a long time before he heard the last of his ridiculous panic, but he was not sensitive as to his reputation for courage, and he bore it, on the whole, pretty well. CHAPTER XXVI. MR. PEABODY IS WORSTED. The traveler of to-day who is whirled across the continent in six days and a half has little conception of what the overland journey was in the year 1850. Week after week and month after month slipped away between the start and the arrival on the western slope of the Sierra Nevadas. Delicate women and children of tender years developed extraordinary endurance, and showed remarkable fortitude on the wearisome trip. But the hope of bettering their fortunes was the magnet that drew them steadily on, day after day, in their march across the plains. Tom was at an age when adventure has a charm. His feet were often weary; but he never tired of the journey. Every morning found him active, alert, and ready for the toilsome walk. He was, indeed, impatient for the time to come when he could be earning something to pay up his debt to Squire Hudson, and so relieve his father from the additional burden assumed for his sake. Otherwise he was quite content to plod on, seeing something new every day. "You're always cheerful, Tom, my lad," said Ferguson, one day. "Yes," said Tom. "I am having a good time." "Youth is aye the time for enjoyment. When I was a lad like you I might have been the same." "Don't you enjoy the journey, Mr. Ferguson?" asked Tom. "I'm getting tired of it, Tom. I look upon it as a means to an end. I'm in a hurry to reach the mines." "So am I, Mr. Ferguson, for that matter." "And I can't help thinking, what if they don't turn out as well as we expect? Then there'll be months lost, besides a good bit of money," replied Ferguson. "Oh, I'm sure there is plenty of gold, and we shall get our share," said Tom confidently; "that is, if we have our health." "I hope it'll be as you say, my lad. Indeed, I think you are right. You have taught me a lesson." "Have I, Mr. Ferguson? What is it?" "Always to look on the bright side. It is a lesson worth learning. It makes a man feel happier, and often gives courage to press on to the accomplishment of his purpose." "I suppose it is natural to me," said Tom. "It is a happy gift. It is a pity that poor creature from Boston hadn't it." Lawrence Peabody was approaching, and this no doubt led to the allusion. He was limping along, looking decidedly down in the mouth, which, indeed, was not unusual. "What is the matter with you, Mr. Peabody?" asked Tom. "I'm almost gone," groaned Peabody. "My strength is exhausted, and, besides, I've got a terrible corn on my left foot." "How long has that been?" "For two or three days. It's torture for me to walk. I don't know but you'll have to leave me here on the prairie to perish." "Not so bad as that, Mr. Peabody, I hope. Perhaps Mr. Chapman will lend you his donkey to ride upon." The owner of the donkey was within hearing distance, and at once expressed a willingness to lend his animal to Mr. Peabody. "That will be better than perishing on the prairies," said Tom cheerfully. "I am not much used to riding," said Peabody cautiously. "He won't run away with you, Peabody," said the owner. "He's too lazy." Lawrence Peabody was already aware of this fact, and it gave him courage to accept the offered help. He mounted Solomon--as the donkey was called, for some unknown reason--and for a time enjoyed the relief from the toil of walking. He became quite cheerful, and was disposed to congratulate himself upon his success, when an unfortunate fit of obstinacy came over Solomon. It dawned upon the sagacious animal that it would be much easier to travel without a load, and, turning his head, he looked thoughtfully at his rider. "Get up, Solomon!" exclaimed Peabody, striking the animal on the haunch. Solomon felt that this was taking a personal liberty and he stood stock-still, his face expressive of obstinacy. "Why don't he go on?" asked Peabody, perplexed. "He's stopping to rest," said Tom. "I am afraid he is lazy." "Go along!" exclaimed Peabody, again using his whip. But the animal did not budge. "This is really very provoking," murmured the rider. "What shall I do?" "Don't give up to him," advised one of the company. "Here, let me whip him." "Thank you; I wish you would." It was an unlucky speech. The other complied with the request, and delivered his blow with such emphasis that Solomon's equanimity was seriously disturbed. He dashed forward with what speed he could command, Mr. Peabody holding on, in a sort of panic, till he was a hundred yards away. Then he stopped suddenly, lowering his head, and his hapless rider was thrown over it, landing some distance in advance. Solomon looked at him with grim humor, if a donkey is capable of such a feeling, and, apparently satisfied, turned and walked complacently back to the wagon-train. Several of the company, witnessing the accident, hurried forward to Mr. Peabody's assistance. They picked him up, groaning and bewildered, but not much hurt. "None of your limbs broken," said Miles. "I guess you'll do." "I'm badly shaken up," moaned Peabody. "It will do you good," said Miles bluntly. "You had better try it yourself, then," retorted Peabody, with unwonted spirit. "Good for you!" laughed Miles. "I suspect you are not dead yet." "What made you put me on such a vicious beast?" asked Peabody of the owner. "Solomon isn't vicious; he's only lazy," said Chapman. "We can't blame him much." "I think he ought to be shot," said Peabody, painfully rising, and stretching out one limb after another to make sure that none was broken. "You seem to be unlucky, Mr. Peabody," said Tom. "I'm always unlucky," moaned Peabody. "Will you ride again, Mr. Peabody?" asked Chapman. "I'll catch Solomon for you, if you like." "Not for fifty dollars!" exclaimed Peabody energetically. "It is as much as anybody's life is worth." "If you will make me the same offer, I won't refuse, Mr. Chapman," said Tom. "You can mount him, if you like." Tom waited for no second invitation. He approached Solomon cautiously, vaulted upon his back, and the animal, disagreeably surprised, had recourse to the same tactics which had proved so successful in the case of the young man from Boston. But he had a different kind of a rider to deal with. Tom had been accustomed to ride from the time he was six years of age, and he stuck to his seat in spite of all attempts to dislodge him. So far from feeling alarmed, he enjoyed the struggle. "It's no go, Solomon!" he said gaily. "You've tackled the wrong customer this time. Better make up your mind to go as I want you to." Solomon came to the same conclusion after a time. He had tried his ordinary tactics, and they had proved unavailing. The struggle had been witnessed with some interest by the other members of the company. "You can ride, youngster; that's a fact," said the owner of the donkey. "I didn't say anything, but I rather expected to see you follow Peabody." "I'm used to riding," said Tom modestly. "Mr. Peabody is not." "Every lad ought to know how to ride," said Ferguson. "It's a deal manlier than smoking a cigar, to my thinking." "I can smoke a cigar," said Peabody, desirous probably of appearing to possess one manly accomplishment. "You will hardly find it as useful as riding in the new country you are going to, Mr. Peabody," said Ferguson dryly. "I'd give something for a good cigar myself," said John Miles. "I prefer riding," said Tom. "I never smoked a cigar in my life." "You are just as well off without it, my lad," said the Scotchman. "It don't do men any good, and always harms boys." Peabody never again mounted Solomon. One trial was sufficient, and, footsore and lame as he was, he decidedly preferred to walk. CHAPTER XXVII. THE LOST HORSE. Day followed day, and every sunset found the party from eighteen to twenty miles nearer the land of gold. They had not yet been molested by Indians, though on more than one occasion they had encountered the remains of those whom the savages had ruthlessly slaughtered. When they witnessed such a spectacle they were moved less by fear than indignation. "I didn't think I should ever thirst for a fellow creature's blood," said John Miles; "but if I could meet the savages that did this bloody work, I would shoot them down like dogs, and sleep all the more soundly for it. How is it with you, friend Ferguson?" "I am inclined to agree with you," said the Scotchman. "When an Indian makes himself a beast of prey he should be treated accordingly." "Are there any Indians in California?" asked Peabody nervously. "I don't think we shall have any trouble with them there, Mr. Peabody," said Ferguson. "Then I wish I was there now. It must be terrible to be scalped;" and the young man from Boston shuddered. "I don't think it would be an agreeable surgical operation," said Fletcher, who had just come up. "Let us hope that we shall not be called upon to undergo it." The next morning, when breakfast was over, and the party was preparing to start, an unpleasant discovery was made. One of the most valuable horses was missing. He must have slipped his tether during the night, and strayed away; as they were situated, the loss of such an animal would be felt. "He can't be far away," said Fletcher. "Some of us must go after him." "Let Peabody mount the mustang, and undertake to find him," suggested John Miles, winking at the captain. "Mr. Peabody," said Captain Fletcher gravely, "will you undertake to recover the horse? We shall all feel under great obligations to you." "I--I hope you will excuse me, Captain Fletcher," stammered Peabody, in great alarm. "I know I couldn't find the horse. I shouldn't know where to look." "This is where he got away. You can see his trail in the grass," said Scott, a young man from Indiana. "All you will have to do will be to follow the trail, Mr. Peabody." "I'm very near-sighted," pleaded Peabody. "I should lose my way, and never come back." "Carrying the mustang with you? That would be a loss indeed," said John Miles pointedly. "On the whole, Captain Fletcher, we had better excuse Mr. Peabody." "Mr. Peabody is excused," said the leader. "Thank you," said Peabody, looking relieved. "I would go, I am sure, if I could do any good; but I know I couldn't." "Who will volunteer?" asked Fletcher. "Let me go," said Tom eagerly. "You are not afraid of losing your way, Tom?" said Miles. "No; or if I do, I will find it again." "That boy is more of a man now than Peabody will ever be," said Miles, in a low voice to Ferguson. "That he is," said the Scotchman, who was a firm friend of our young hero. "There is the making of a noble man in him." "I believe you." "I have no objection to your going, Tom," said Fletcher; "but it is better that you should have company. Who will go with the boy?" "I," said several, among them John Miles and Henry Scott. "You may go, Scott," said the leader. "I have work for Miles at camp. The sooner you get started the better." "All right, captain. Come along, Tom." The two were in the saddle before two minutes had passed, and, guided by the trail, struck out upon the prairie. Scott was a tall, broad-shouldered young farmer, not over twenty-five, strong and athletic, and reported, the best runner, wrestler, and vaulter in the party. Tom was very well pleased to have his company. CHAPTER XXVIII. INDIAN CASUISTRY. "I should like to know when the horse got away," said Scott, as he and Tom rode on side by side; "then we could calculate how far we should have to go before overtaking him." "He wouldn't be likely to travel all the time, would he?" asked Tom. "Probably not. He may have gone only a mile or two. Are your eyes good?" "Pretty good." "Look about, then, and see if you can anywhere see anything of the rover." Scott and Tom, drawing rein, looked searchingly in all directions; but nowhere was the lost animal visible. "Somebody may have found him," suggested Tom. "That may be. If so, we have a harder job before us." The prairie was not quite level, but was what is called a rolling prairie, and this limited the view. Otherwise it would have been easy for a person, whose sight was keen, to have distinguished an object as large as a horse at a distance of many miles. "Are you sure we are on the right track, Mr. Scott?" asked Tom. "Yes, I can see by the trail." "I can see no hoof-marks." "Not just here; but look closely, and you will see slight marks of disturbance in the grass. As long as these signs last we need have no doubts as to our being on the right track." "The same trail will lead us back to our party," said Tom. "Yes, I shouldn't like to part from them in this country. It would be rather a bad place to be lost without provisions." They had ridden about five miles, when the trail became clearer and better defined. In fact, the marks in the prairie grass appeared more numerous than a single horse would be likely to make. Scott looked grave. "We will halt here a moment, Tom," he said. "I want to examine the trail." "Shall I get off my horse?" "No; it is not necessary." Scott dismounted and walked about, closely examining the marks in the grass. Finally he looked up. "I begin to think it doubtful whether we shall recover Dan," he said. "Why?" "He has been found and carried off," was the reply. "Do you see the double trail?" "Yes," said Tom, after a brief examination. "It means that a horseman has found Dan, and led him away. This rather complicates matters." "What do you think we had better do?" inquired Tom. "That requires consideration. I could tell better if I knew by whom the horse had been found. The finder may be honest, and would, in that case, surrender it on our appearing, and claiming him. But, again, he may be dishonest, and resist our claims." "We are two to one," said Tom stoutly. "We don't know that. The man may belong to a party." "The members of his party would know that the horse was not his." "Quite true, if the party was composed of decent persons, like our own; but that is not certain." "Then will you go back without Dan?" asked Tom. "I don't want to do that. In fact I should be ashamed to. Captain Fletcher would conclude that he might as well have sent Peabody; and I am not anxious to be classed with him." "Nor I," said Tom, smiling. "So the only thing is to push on, and make what discoveries we may." "All right," said Tom cheerfully. They rode on for a couple of miles, having no difficulty in following the trail, until they reached the brow of a small eminence. Here they were greeted with a sight that startled them. A group of a dozen Indians were reclining on the grass, with their horses fastened near them. Startled as they were, they detected the animal of which they were in search among the Indian horses. "We've walked into a trap with our eyes open, Tom," said Scott, halting his horse mechanically. His bronzed face was a little pale, for he knew well the character of the savages before him, the hopelessness of escape, and the terrible fate that probably awaited them. "Shall we turn and fly, Mr. Scott?" asked Tom hurriedly. "It would be of no use, Tom. We must stay and face the music." Upon the appearance of the two friends the Indians had sprung to their feet, and the colloquy was scarcely over before there was an Indian at each bridle-rein. They made signs, easily understood, for Tom and Scott to dismount. "Stop a minute," said Scott, with creditable coolness, considering the great peril in which he knew himself to be. "Is there any one here who speaks English?" An elderly Indian stepped forward quickly, and said, "Speak, white man. I speak English a little." "Good," said Scott; "then I want you to tell your friends here that I came after a horse that left our camp last night. Do you understand?" The Indian inclined his head. "There he is," continued Scott, pointing with his finger to Dan. "Give him to me, and I will go away." The interpreter turned to his companions, and repeated what Scott had said. Evidently it was not favorably received, as Scott could see by the menacing looks that were turned upon him. He waited, with some anxiety, for the answer to his claim. He had to wait for some minutes, during which the Indians appeared to be consulting. It came at last. "The white man has lied," said the Indian sententiously. "The horse is ours." "That's pretty cool, eh, Tom?" said Scott, provoked; not only by the denial of his claim, but by the charge of falsehood. Tom did not answer, thinking silence more prudent. The Indian interpreter looked suspiciously from one to the other. He understood what "cool" meant, but was not familiar with the special sense in which Scott used it. "I will prove that the horse is ours," said Scott. "Here, Dan!" The horse whinnied, and tried to reach Scott, upon hearing his name pronounced. "There," said Scott triumphantly, "you see the horse knows me. I have not lied." The speech was an imprudent one. Indians are not lawyers, but they understand the familiar saying, that "possession is nine points of the law." That the horse was a valuable one they understood; and they had no intention of parting with him. Still more, they looked with covetous eyes at the horses ridden by Scott and the boy, and they had already made up their minds to seize them also. "The white man is a magician," said the interpreter. "He has bewitched the horse. The horse is ours. He has always belonged to us." "It's no use, Tom," said Scott. "They are bound to keep Dan, and I don't see how we can help it. We had better give him up, and get away if we can. All the same, the fellow is an outrageous liar." He spoke in a low voice, and the interpreter, though listening attentively, did not quite catch what was said. "I guess you are right," said Tom. Scott turned to the interpreter. "Well, if you think it is yours, squire, I reckon you will keep it. So we'll say good morning, and go." He pulled the rein, but the Indian at his bridle did not let go. "Good morning, gentlemen," said Scott. "We are going." "White man must stay," said the Indian interpreter decisively. "Why?" demanded Scott impatiently. "He has tried to steal Indian's horse," said the wily savage. "Well, by gosh; that's turning the tables with a vengeance," ejaculated Scott. "They're rather ahead of white rogues, Tom. Will you let the boy go?" he asked. "White boy stay, too," answered the interpreter, after a brief reference to the leader of the Indian party. "Tom," said Scott rapidly, and not appearing to be excited, lest his excitement should lead to suspicion, "none of them are mounted. Lash your horse, and tear from the grasp of the man that holds him; then follow me. It is our only chance." Tom's heart beat rapidly. He knew that all his nerve was called for; but he did not falter. "Give the signal," he said. "One, two, three!" said Scott rapidly. Simultaneously both lashed their horses. The startled animals sprang forward. The grips of the Indians, who were not suspecting any attempts at escape, were already relaxed, and before they were fully aware of what was intended our two friends were galloping away. CHAPTER XXIX. A RACE FOR LIFE. The Indians were taken by surprise. They so outnumbered their intended captives that they had not anticipated an attempt at escape. But they had no intention of losing their prey. There was a howl of surprise and disappointment; then they sprang for their horses, and, with little delay, were on the track of our two friends. The delay was small, but it was improved by Scott and Tom. Pressing their animals to their highest speed they gained a lead of several hundred feet before their savage pursuers had fairly started. It was well that Tom was a good rider, or he might not have been able to keep his seat. In fact, he had never ridden so rapidly before: but he felt that he was riding for his life, and was only anxious to ride faster. Scott had felt a little anxious on this point; but his anxiety vanished when he saw how easily and fearlessly his boy companion kept at his side. "Well done, Tom!" he said, as they flew over the prairie. "Keep up this pace, and we will escape yet." "I can do it, if my horse holds out," returned Tom briefly. Scott looked over his shoulder, and, brave man as he was, it almost made him shudder. The whole party of Indians was on his track. He could see their dusky faces, distorted by wrath, and the longing for a savage revenge. He knew that Tom and he had little to hope for if they were caught. Fortunately their horses were strong and fleet, and not likely to break down. "Ride for your life, Tom!" he shouted. "They will show us no mercy if they catch us." "All right, Mr. Scott!" said Tom, his face flushed, and panting with excitement. If he had not felt that so much depended upon it; if he could have thrust out from his mind the sense of the awful peril in which he stood--he would have enjoyed the furious pace at which his horse was carrying him. The horses ridden by the Indians were not equal in speed or endurance to those which the two friends bestrode. They were fresher indeed, but they did not make up for the difference between them. There was one exception, however: Dan, the stolen horse, was not only equal to either of their horses, but had the advantage of being fresher. This, after a while, began to tell. It was ridden by a young Indian brave, a brother of the leader. Soon he drew away from his companions, and, yard by yard, lessened the distance between himself and the pursued. At the end of three miles he was close upon them, and at least fifty rods in advance of his comrades. Scott saw this in one of his backward glances. "Tom," said he, "the redskin on Dan is overhauling us." "Will he catch us?" "I mean to catch him," said Scott coolly. Tom did not need to ask for an explanation. Scott wheeled round, took hasty but accurate aim at the Indian, and fired. The hapless warrior reeled in his saddle, loosed his hold of the reins, and fell to the ground, while his horse, continuing in his course, his pace accelerated by fright, soon galloped alongside of Scott. There was a howl of rage from the main body of Indians, who saw the fate of their comrade, without being able to help him. "Now, Tom, ride as you never rode before!" shouted Scott. "We will circumvent those Indian devils yet, and bring Dan safe into camp. Come along, Dan, old fellow; you're doing nobly." Dan recognized the familiar voice. He entered into the spirit of the race, and, relieved from the weight of his rider, dashed forward with increased speed, till he led, and Scott and Tom were forced to follow. The Indians were mad with rage. Their comrade had received a fatal wound. They saw the round hole in his breast, from which the life-blood was gushing, and they thirsted for vengeance. Should two palefaces, one of them a boy, escape from them? That would be a disgrace, indeed; the blood of their brother called for blood in return. Could they have inspired their horses with the same spirit which animated themselves, they might, perhaps, have overtaken their intended captives; but, happily for our two friends, the horses were less interested than their riders. The danger was well-nigh over. It was scarcely two miles to the camp. There they would be so re-enforced that the Indians would not venture an attack. That was the goal they had in view. Already they could see in the distance the wagon-train, ready for a start. They were surely safe now. But at this unlucky moment Tom's horse stumbled. The motion was so rapid that he could not retain his seat. He was thrown over the horse's head, and lay stunned and insensible upon the ground. His horse kept on his way to the camp. CHAPTER XXX. TOM BECOMES AN INDIAN. Scott did not immediately notice Tom's mishap. The boy had shown himself so good a rider that such an accident had not occurred to him as likely to happen. When he did look back there was already a considerable distance between them. In fact, Tom lay midway between the Indians and himself. What was he to do? If he returned there was no hope of rescuing Tom; and he would infallibly fall into the hands of the Indian pursuers. In that case his fate was sealed. He had killed an Indian warrior, and his life would pay the forfeit. By going on he could head a rescuing party from the camp. His heart ached for Tom. It was hard to leave him in the hands of the savage foe; but Tom was a boy, and there was hope that he would be spared; so he felt that it was better to continue his flight. There was a shout of fierce joy when the Indians saw Tom's fall. They would have preferred to capture Scott, for he it was who had killed their comrade; but they were glad to have one prisoner. They reined up their horses, and halted beside the still insensible boy. They held a brief consultation, and decided not to continue the pursuit. They could see the encampment, which Scott was sure to reach before he could be overtaken. They could not tell the number of the party to which he belonged; but, being few in numbers themselves, the risk would be a hazardous one. They decided to retire with their prisoner. Tom was lifted to a seat in front of one of the party, and they rode leisurely back. This was the position in which our hero found himself when he roused from his stupor. One glance revealed to him the whole. His heart sank within him. They might kill him. Remembering the ghastly sights he had seen on his trip across the plains, he thought it likely that they would. Life was sweet to Tom. To what boy of sixteen is it not? It seemed hard to be cut off in the threshold of an active career, and by savage hands. But there was an additional pang in the thought that now he would be unable to help his father. The result of his plan would only be to impose an additional burden upon the modest home which his father found it so hard to keep up. Tom sighed; and, for the first time in his life, he felt discouraged. He looked about him, scanning the dark, grave faces, and read no hope or encouragement in any. Finally the Indians came to a halt at their old camping-ground, and Tom was lifted from the horse. He was placed upon the ground, in the center of the group. Then followed a consultation. From the glances directed toward him Tom understood that he was the subject of deliberation. In fact, his fate was being decided. It was certainly a trying ordeal for our young hero. He was not sure of half an hour's life. An unfavorable decision might be followed by immediate execution. Tom felt that his best course was to remain perfectly passive. He could not understand what was said; but we are able to acquaint the reader with the general purport of the conference. Several of the Indians favored immediate death. "Our brother's blood calls for vengeance," they said. "The white boy must die." "The boy did not kill him," said others. "It was the white warrior who spilled our brother's blood. He must be pursued and slain." "What, then, shall be done with the boy? Shall he go?" "No; we will keep him. He has strong limbs. We will adopt him into our tribe. He will make a brave warrior." "He shall be my brother," said the chief. "I will take him in place of my brother who is dead." There was a low murmur of approval. Even those who had first recommended the infliction of death seemed to have changed their minds. They looked at the boy as he lay stretched out upon the ground. He was stout, comely, and strongly made. He had proved that he was an admirable rider. If he should join them he would grow up into a warrior who would do credit to their tribe. So the matter was settled. The only thing that remained was to acquaint the prisoner with the decision. The interpreter approached Tom, and said, "White boy, you are our captive. Why should we not kill you?" "You can if you wish," answered Tom; "but why should you kill me? I have done you no harm." "Our brother is killed. He lies dead upon the plain." "I did not kill him," said Tom. "The white boy speaks truth. He did not kill our brother, but his white friend took his life." "You ought not to kill me for that," said Tom, gathering courage, for he inferred he was to live. "The white boy speaks truth, and therefore he shall live, but he must join us. He must live with us, hunt with us, and fight for us." "You want me to become an Indian!" ejaculated Tom. "We will take you in place of the warrior that is gone," said the interpreter. Tom looked thoughtful. He did not enjoy the prospect before him, but it was, at all events, better than death. While there was life there was hope of escape. He concluded to make one appeal for freedom, and, if that was denied, to accept the proposal. "I have a father and mother far away," he said; "I have brothers and a sister, who will mourn for me. My father is poor; he needs my help. Let me go back to them." The interpreter communicated Tom's words to his companions, but it was easy to see that they were not favorably received. The original advocates of the death penalty looked at our hero with hostile eyes, and he saw that he had made a mistake. "The white boy must become one of us; he must take our brother's place, or he must die," said the interpreter. Tom very sensibly concluded that it would be better to live with the Indians than to be killed, and signified his acceptance of the offer. Upon this the Indians formed a circle about him, and broke into a monotonous chant, accompanied with sundry movements of the limbs, which appeared to be their way of welcoming him into their tribe. It seemed like a dream to Tom. He found it very hard to realize his position, so unexpectedly had he been placed in it. He could not help wondering what the family at home would say when they should learn that he had joined an Indian tribe far beyond the Mississippi. CHAPTER XXXI. TOM GIVES A MAGICAL SOIREE. Tom had no intention of passing his life with the Indians. In joining them he submitted to necessity. It gave him a respite, and a chance to devise plans of escape. He understood very well that, if he made the attempt and failed, his life would be the forfeit. But Tom determined to take the risk, though his life was sweet to him; but, of course, he must wait for a favorable opportunity. There was a chance of his being rescued by his party, but this chance was diminished by the decision of his Indian captors to break camp, and proceed in a northerly direction, while the course of the emigrant train was, of course, westward. Little time was wasted. The Indians mounted their horses, Tom being put on the horse of the fallen brave. The leader put himself at the head, and Tom was placed in the center, surrounded by Indians. It was evident that they were not willing to trust him yet. They meant to afford him no chance of escape. As the only one of the band with whom Tom could converse was the interpreter, who rode at the head with the chief, he rode in silence. The Indians on either side of him never turned their heads toward him, but, grave and impassive, rode on, looking straight before them. "This is easier than walking," thought Tom; "but I would a hundred times rather walk with Scott, or Miles, than ride in my present company." They rode for three hours, and then dismounted for the midday rest. Nothing had been seen or heard of his old friends, and that made Tom anxious and thoughtful. "They have gone on without me, leaving me to my fate," he said to himself, and the reflection gave him a pang. He had been on such pleasant and friendly terms with the whole party, that this cold desertion--as it appeared--wounded him. The young are more sensitive in such cases than their elders. As we grow older we cease to expect too much of those whose interests differ from our own. Tom felt that his fate was more and more bound up with the Indians. If some days should pass before he could escape, he would find himself in an embarrassing condition. Suppose he got away safely, he would find himself in a pathless plain, without provisions, and with no other guide than the sun. If he should meet with no party, he would die of starvation. The prospect seemed by no means bright. I am bound to say that, for a time, Tom, in spite of his bright, sanguine temperament, was greatly depressed; but his spirits were elastic. "I won't give up to despair," he said to himself. "Something tells me that I shall come out right. I must wait and watch my chances." Upon this his face brightened, and his air, which had been listless, became more animated. The Indians glanced at him, with grave approval. They concluded that he was becoming reconciled to living among them. When the simple midday meal was placed upon the ground, and the Indians gathered around it in a sitting posture, Tom followed their example, and did full justice to the dinner. In fact, he had taken so much exercise that he felt hungry. Besides, he knew that he must keep up his strength, if he wished to escape; so, instead of keeping aloof in sullen dissatisfaction, he displayed a "healthy appetite." After resting several hours the Indians resumed their journey, but did not travel far. They were in no hurry. They had no long journey to make across the continent. They only wished to go far enough to be safe from attack by a rescuing party of Tom's friends. Again they encamped, and this time, from the preparations made, he understood that it was for the night. One thing Tom could not help noticing--the silence of these red children of the plains. They seemed to make no conversation with each other, except on necessary matters, and then their words were few in number, replies being often made in a monosyllable. "They don't seem very social," thought Tom. "I suppose they have nothing to talk about. I wonder if the squaws ever have sewing-circles. If they have, they can't be much like Yankee women if they don't find plenty to talk about." The silence became oppressive. Tom would have liked to take a walk, but he knew that this would not be allowed. It would be thought that he wanted to escape. Yet to sit mute hour after hour seemed to Tom intolerably stupid. A bold idea came to him. He would try to afford them some amusement. Accordingly, he said to the interpreter: "Shall I show you a trick?" The interpreter communicated the proposal to his comrades, and permission was granted. Tom took from his pocket a penny. He explained to the interpreter that he would swallow the penny, and make it come out at his nose--a common boy's trick. The Indians, to whom this also was communicated, looked curious and incredulous, and Tom proceeded. Now, I am not going to explain how Tom accomplished the illusion. That I leave to the ingenuity of my boy readers to discover. It is enough to say that he succeeded, to the great amazement of his copper-colored spectators. There was a chorus of ughs! and Tom was requested to repeat the trick. He did so, the Indians being as puzzled as before. Now, Indians are, in many respects, like children. They displayed, on this occasion, a childish curiosity and wonder that amused Tom. They insisted on his opening his month, to ascertain whether there was any hidden avenue from his mouth to his nose, and found, to their surprise, that his mouth was like their own. Then one of the Indians volunteered to try the experiment, and nearly choked himself with the penny, which, it must be remembered, was one of the large, old-fashioned, copper coins, in circulation before the war. It cannot be said that he turned black in the face, but he certainly gasped, and rolled his eyes in a manner that alarmed his friends, and they instinctively looked to Tom for help. Tom was equal to the emergency. He rose hastily, slapped the Indian forcibly on the back, and the cent was ejected from his mouth. There was another chorus of ughs! and it was evident that Tom had risen vastly in their opinion. They looked upon him as a white magician, and even were a little afraid that he might work them injury in some way. But Tom's frank, good-humored manner reassured them. They asked him, through the interpreter, if he could perform any other tricks. Tom knew a few, that he had learned out of an old tattered book which had fallen in his way at home; and such as he had facilities for he attempted, to the great delight of his new friends. Tom was becoming popular; and even those who had at first recommended death were glad that his life had been spared. CHAPTER XXXII. TOM'S ESCAPE. Night came, and the Indian camp was hushed and still. It was long before Tom went to sleep. Generally he was a good sleeper, but his mind at present was too active for slumber. "How long is this strange life going to last?" he asked himself. "How long am I to be exiled from civilization?" This was more easily asked than answered. When he slept, his sleep was troubled. He dreamed that Lawrence Peabody was a captive, and that the chief was about to scalp him, when suddenly he awoke. He could not at first tell where he was, but a glance revealed the disheartening truth. He must have slept several hours, for the gray dawn was creeping up the sky, heralding sunrise. He leaned on his elbow, and bent a searching glance upon his companions. They were stretched motionless upon the ground, hushed in the insensibility of sleep. "Are they asleep?" Tom asked himself. He satisfied himself that the slumber was genuine, and there sprang up in his heart the wild hope of escape. A few rods distant the horses were fastened. Could he unfasten and mount one before any of them a wakened? Tom's heart beat quick with excitement. He knew that he ran a fearful risk; but he made up his mind that now was his time. Slowly, and without noise, he raised himself to his feet. As he stood erect, he closely scanned the sleepers. There was not a motion. With stealthy steps he crept to the horses. He selected the one he had ridden the day before, and unloosed him. The animal gave a slight whinny, and Tom's heart was in his throat. But no one stirred. He quickly mounted the animal, and walked him for a few rods, then gave him a loose rein, and was soon speeding away. Just then the sun rose, and this guided him in the direction he was to take. He had got a mile away, when, looking back through the clear air, he saw, to his dismay, that his flight had been discovered. The Indians were mounting their horses. "I must gallop for life," thought Tom. "They will kill me if they catch me." He urged on his horse by all the means in his power. Luckily it was one of the two fleetest horses the Indians possessed, the other being ridden by their leader. Tom's hope was sustained by this fact, which he had proof of the day before. Rather to his surprise, he did not feel as much frightened as he anticipated. He felt excited, and this was his prominent feeling. Probably he felt like a soldier in the heat of battle. But the odds against Tom were terrible, and his chance of escape seemed very slender. Behind him was a band of savages, accustomed to the plains, strong, wily, enduring, and persistent. He was new to the plains, and a mere boy. Moreover, he did not know where to find his party. There were no sign-boards upon the prairies, but a vast, uniform expanse stretching farther than the eye could reach. Inch by inch, foot by foot, the Indians gained upon him, the leader considerably in advance. Even if he alone were to overtake Tom, our hero would of course be no match for a strong, full-grown warrior, more especially as he had no weapon with him. By some mischance he had left it in the camp. Tom's heart began to fail him. His horse could not always, perhaps not long, keep up his headlong speed. Then would follow capture, and a painful death. "It's hard," thought Tom sadly; "hard for me and for my dear parents and brothers and sisters. Why did I ever leave home?" He turned in the saddle, and saw the Indian leader, evidently nearer. But he saw something else. He saw a herd of buffaloes, thousands in number, impetuously rushing across the plain from the west. Their speed was great. They seemed to be blindly following their leader. "Good heavens!" ejaculated Tom, in great excitement; "the Indians are in their path. If the herd does not stop, they will be destroyed." The Indians were fully aware of their great danger. They knew the plains well, and the terrible, resistless power of these wild herds when once on the march. They no longer thought of Tom, but of their own safety. But the buffaloes were close at hand. They were sweeping on like a whirlwind. The Indians could only ride on, and trust to clear them. But their pathway was wide. It reached to within a furlong of where Tom was riding. They never paused; some of the animals in the advance might have veered to the right or left on seeing the Indians, but the pressure from behind prevented. The savages saw their fate, and it inspired them with more dread than an encounter with white foes. Finally, they halted in despair, and their fate overtook them. Riders and steeds were overthrown as by a flash of lightning. The dark, shaggy herd did not stop, but dashed on. Tom, in awe and excitement, halted his horse, and watched the terrible sight. He could not but sympathize with his late companions, though he knew they would have taken his life. The buffaloes passed on, but left no life behind them. The Indians and their horses were all trampled to death. Tom was alone upon the plains. He thanked God in his heart for his self-deliverance; though he shuddered at the manner in which it was wrought. He, too, had been near being overwhelmed, but, through God's mercy, had escaped. But for what had he escaped? Unless he found his own party, or some other, he would starve to death, or might fall into the power of some other tribe of Indians. He must ride on. An hour later he thought he saw in the distance a solitary horseman. It might be an Indian; but that was not likely, for they generally traveled in numbers. It was more likely to be a white man. Any white man would be a friend, and could guide him to safety, unless he were himself lost. At any rate, there seemed but one course to follow, and that to ride toward the stranger. When Tom drew near his heart was filled with sudden joy, for, in the new arrival, he recognized John Miles. Miles was no less delighted. "Tom, old boy," he said, "is it you? How did you get away? I was afraid we should never see you again." "I feared so myself," said Tom; "but I have been saved in a wonderful manner. Has the train moved on?" "Do you think we would go on without you? Not a man was willing to stir till you were found. Even Peabody, though afraid of falling into the hands of the Indians, and losing his scalp, was in favor of our waiting. The boys are very anxious about you." Tom heard this with satisfaction. The esteem of our friends and associates is dear to us all; and it is always sad to think that we may be forgotten in absence. "But you have not told me of your escape, Tom," said Miles. "Where are the Indians who captured you?" "All dead!" answered Tom solemnly. "Good heavens! You don't mean to say----" "That I killed them? Oh, no! Look over there! Can you see anything?" Miles looked earnestly. "I think I see upon the ground some men and horses." "It is the Indians. They were pursuing me when they were trampled to death by a herd of buffaloes." "Wonderful!" ejaculated Miles. "I have heard of such things, but hardly believed in them." "It was a terrible sight," said Tom soberly. "I wish I could have been saved in some other way." "It was you or they," said Miles sententiously. "It is well as it is." * * * * * They were warmly welcomed at the camp. Tom was looked upon as one raised from the dead; and the particulars of his wonderful escape were called for again and again. "You are sure they didn't scalp you, Tom?" asked Mr. Peabody. "Feel and see, Mr. Peabody," said Tom, smiling. "I believe my hair is pretty firm." "I wouldn't have been in your shoes for all the gold in California," said Peabody fervently. "I believe you, Mr. Peabody. Indeed, I think I may say that I wouldn't be placed in the same situation again for all the gold in the world." "Tom," said Scott, "you are bound to succeed." "What makes you think so?" "You have shown so much pluck and coolness that you are sure to get along." "I hope so, I am sure, for my father's sake." * * * * * Some weeks later a wagon-train was seen slowly climbing a mountain pass on the crest of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. They reached the summit, and, looking eagerly to the westward, saw the land of gold at their feet. They had been months in reaching it. Now it lay spread before them, glorious in the sunlight. "Yonder lies the promised land, my lad," said Ferguson. "It remains to be seen whether we shall be rewarded for our long and toilsome journey." "If hard work will win success, I mean to succeed," said Tom stoutly. "I don't see any gold," said Lawrence Peabody, with a disappointed air. "Did you think it grew on trees, Mr. Peabody?" asked Scott sarcastically. "I should like to stop a week at a first-class hotel before getting to work," remarked Peabody. "I don't like roughing it." "We will leave you at the first hotel of that sort we meet. Now, boys, gather about me, and give three rousing cheers for California." Thus spoke Miles, and swung his hat. The cheers were given with a will, and the wagon-train commenced the descent. THE END. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: The original text did not include a table of contents. One was added to assist the reader. Obvious punctuation errors repaired. Page 61, word "don't" added to text. (I don't doubt) Page 66, "dosen't" changed to "doesn't" (it doesn't look to) Page 105, a repeated sentence was removed. ("I'm out of luck, and out of cash, Vincent.") Page 207, "twelev" changed to "twelve" (pointed to twelve) 
5417	----	Digitized by Cardinalis Etext Press [C.E.K.] Modified for Project Gutenberg by Andrew Sly STRUGGLING UPWARD OR LUKE LARKIN'S LUCK BY HORATIO ALGER, JR. CHAPTER I THE WATERBURY WATCH One Saturday afternoon in January a lively and animated group of boys were gathered on the western side of a large pond in the village of Groveton. Prominent among them was a tall, pleasant-looking young man of twenty-two, the teacher of the Center Grammar School, Frederic Hooper, A. B., a recent graduate of Yale College. Evidently there was something of importance on foot. What it was may be learned from the words of the teacher. "Now, boys," he said, holding in his hand a Waterbury watch, of neat pattern, "I offer this watch as a prize to the boy who will skate across the pond and back in the least time. You will all start together, at a given signal, and make your way to the mark which I have placed at the western end of the lake, skate around it, and return to this point. Do you fully understand?" "Yes, sir!" exclaimed the boys, unanimously. Before proceeding, it may be well to refer more particularly to some of the boys who were to engage in the contest. First, in his own estimation, came Randolph Duncan, son of Prince Duncan, president of the Groveton Bank, and a prominent town official. Prince Duncan was supposed to be a rich man, and lived in a style quite beyond that of his neighbors. Randolph was his only son, a boy of sixteen, and felt that in social position and blue blood he was without a peer in the village. He was a tall, athletic boy, and disposed to act the part of boss among the Groveton boys. Next came a boy similar in age and physical strength, but in other respects very different from the young aristocrat. This was Luke Larkin, the son of a carpenter's widow, living on narrow means, and so compelled to exercise the strictest economy. Luke worked where he could, helping the farmers in hay-time, and ready to do odd jobs for any one in the village who desired his services. He filled the position of janitor at the school which he attended, sweeping out twice a week and making the fires. He had a pleasant expression, and a bright, resolute look, a warm heart, and a clear intellect, and was probably, in spite of his poverty, the most popular boy in Groveton. In this respect he was the opposite of Randolph Duncan, whose assumption of superiority and desire to "boss" the other boys prevented him from having any real friends. He had two or three companions, who flattered him and submitted to his caprices because they thought it looked well to be on good terms with the young aristocrat. These two boys were looked upon as the chief contestants for the prize offered by their teacher. Opinions differed as to which would win. "I think Luke will get the watch," said Fred Acken, a younger boy. "I don't know about that," said Tom Harper. "Randolph skates just as well, and he has a pair of club skates. His father sent to New York for them last week. They're beauties, I tell you. Randolph says they cost ten dollars." "Of course that gives him the advantage," said Percy Hall. "Look at Luke's old-fashioned wooden skates! They would be dear at fifty cents!" "It's a pity Luke hasn't a better pair," said Harry Wright. "I don't think the contest is a fair one. Luke ought to have an allowance of twenty rods, to make up for the difference in skates." "He wouldn't accept it," said Linton Tomkins, the son of a manufacturer in Groveton, who was an intimate friend of Luke, and preferred to associate with him, though Randolph had made advances toward intimacy, Linton being the only boy in the village whom he regarded as his social equal. "I offered him my club skates, but he said he would take the chances with his own." Linton was the only boy who had a pair of skates equal to Randolph's. He, too, was a contestant, but, being three years younger than Luke and Randolph, had no expectation of rivaling them. Randolph had his friends near him, administering the adulation he so much enjoyed. "I have no doubt you'll get the watch, Randolph," said Sam Noble. "You're a better skater any day than Luke Larkin." "Of course you are!" chimed in Tom Harper. "The young janitor doesn't think so," said Randolph, his lips curling. "Oh, he's conceited enough to think he can beat you, I make no doubt," said Sam. "On those old skates, too! They look as if Adam might have used them when he was a boy!" This sally of Tom's created a laugh. "His skates are old ones, to be sure," said Randolph, who was quick-sighted enough to understand that any remark of this kind might dim the luster of his expected victory. "His skates are old enough, but they are just as good for skating as mine." "They won't win him the watch, though," said Sam. "I don't care for the watch myself," said Randolph, loftily. "I've got a silver one now, and am to have a gold one when I'm eighteen. But I want to show that I am the best skater. Besides, father has promised me ten dollars if I win." "I wish I had ten dollars," said Sam, enviously. He was the son of the storekeeper, and his father allowed him only ten cents a week pocket-money, so that ten dollars in his eyes was a colossal fortune. "I have no doubt you would, Sam," said Tom, joyously; "but you couldn't be trusted with so much money. You'd go down to New York and try to buy out A. T. Stewart." "Are you ready, boys?" asked Mr. Hooper. Most of the boys responded promptly in the affirmative; but Luke, who had been tightening his straps, said quickly: "I am not ready, Mr. Hooper. My strap has broken!" "Indeed, Luke, I am sorry to hear it," said the teacher, approaching and examining the fracture. "As matters stand, you can't skate." Randolph's eyes brightened. Confident as he professed to feel, he knew that his chances of success would be greatly increased by Luke's withdrawal from the list. "The prize is yours now," whispered Tom. "It was before," answered Randolph, conceitedly. Poor Luke looked disappointed. He knew that he had at least an even chance of winning, and he wanted the watch. Several of his friends of his own age had watches, either silver or Waterbury, and this seemed, in his circumstances, the only chance of securing one. Now he was apparently barred out. "It's a pity you shouldn't skate, Luke," said Mr. Hooper, in a tone of sympathy. "You are one of the best skaters, and had an excellent chance of winning the prize. Is there any boy willing to lend Luke his skates?" "I will," said Frank Acken. "My dear boy," said the teacher, "you forget that your feet are several sizes smaller than Luke's." "I didn't think of that," replied Frank, who was only twelve years old. "You may use my skates, Luke," said Linton Tomkins. "I think they will fit you." Linton was only thirteen, but he was unusually large for his age. "You are very kind, Linton," said Luke, "but that will keep you out of the race." "I stand no chance of winning," said Linton, "and I will do my skating afterward." "I don't think that fair," said Randolph, with a frown. "Each boy ought to use his own skates." "There is nothing unfair about it," said the teacher, "except that Luke is placed at disadvantage in using a pair of skates he is unaccustomed to." Randolph did not dare gainsay the teacher, but he looked sullen. "Mr. Hooper is always favoring that beggar!" he said in a low voice, to Tom Harper. "Of course he is!" chimed in the toady. "You are very kind, Linny," said Luke, regarding his friend affectionately. "I won't soon forget it." "Oh, it's all right, Luke," said Linton. "Now go in and win!" CHAPTER II TOM HARPER'S ACCIDENT Tom Harper and Sam Noble were not wholly disinterested in their championship of Randolph. They were very ordinary skaters, and stood no chance of winning the match themselves. They wished Randolph to win, for each hoped, as he had a silver watch himself already, he might give the Waterbury to his faithful friend and follower. Nothing in Randolph's character granted such a hope, for he was by no means generous or open-handed, but each thought that he might open his heart on this occasion. Indeed, Tom ventured to hint as much. "I suppose, Randolph," he said, "if you win the watch you will give it to me?" "Why should I?" asked Randolph, surveying Tom with a cold glance. "You've got a nice silver watch yourself, you know." "I might like to have two watches." "You'll have the ten dollars your father promised you." "What if I have? What claim have you on me?" Tom drew near and whispered something in Randolph's ear. "I'll see about it," said Randolph, nodding. "Are you ready?" asked the teacher, once more. "Aye, aye!" responded the boys. "One--two--three--go!" The boys darted off like arrows from a bow. Luke made a late start, but before they were half across the pond he was even with Randolph, and both were leading. Randolph looked sidewise, and shut his mouth tight as he saw his hated rival on equal terms with him and threatening to pass him. It would be humiliating in the extreme, he thought, to be beaten by such a boy. But beaten he seemed likely to be, for Luke was soon a rod in advance and slowly gaining. Slowly, for Randolph was really a fine skater and had no rival except Luke. But Luke was his superior, as seemed likely to be proved. Though only these two stood any chance of final success, all the boys kept up the contest. A branch of a tree had been placed at the western end of the pond, and this was the mark around which the boys were to skate. Luke made the circuit first, Randolph being about half a dozen rods behind. After him came the rest of the boys in procession, with one exception. This exception was Tom Harper, who apparently gave up the contest when half-way across, and began skating about, here and there, apparently waiting for his companions to return. "Tom Harper has given up his chance," said Linton to the teacher. "So it seems," replied Mr. Hooper, "but he probably had no expectation of succeeding." "I should think he would have kept on with the rest. I would have done so, though my chance would have been no better than his." Indeed, it seemed strange that Tom should have given up so quickly. It soon appeared that it was not caprice, but that he had an object in view, and that a very discreditable one. He waited till the boys were on their way back. By this time Luke was some eight rods in advance of his leading competitor. Then Tom began to be on the alert. As Luke came swinging on to victory he suddenly placed himself in his way. Luke's speed was so great that he could not check himself. He came into collision with Tom, and in an instant both were prostrate. Tom, however, got the worst of it. He was thrown violently backward, falling on the back of his head, and lay stunned and motionless on the ice. Luke fell over him, but was scarcely hurt at all. He was up again in an instant, and might still have kept the lead, but instead he got down on his knees beside Tom and asked anxiously: "Are you much hurt, Tom?" Tom didn't immediately answer, but lay breathing heavily, with his eyes still closed. Meanwhile, Randolph, with a smile of triumph, swept on to his now assured victory. Most of the boys, however, stopped and gathered round Luke and Tom. This accident had been watched with interest and surprise from the starting-point. "Tom must be a good deal hurt," said Linton. "What could possibly have made him get in Luke's way?" "I don't know," said the teacher, slowly; "it looks strange." "It almost seemed as if he got in the way on purpose," Linton continued. "He is a friend of Randolph Duncan, is he not?" asked the teacher, abruptly. "They are together about all the time." "Ha!" commented the teacher, as if struck by an idea. He didn't, however, give expression to the thought in his mind. A minute more, and Randolph swept into the presence of the teacher. "I believe I have won?" he said, with a smile of gratification on his countenance. "You have come in first," said the teacher coldly. "Luke was considerably ahead when he ran into Tom," suggested Linton. "That's not my lookout," said Randolph, shrugging his shoulders. "The point is that I have come in first." "Tom Harper is a friend of yours, is he not?" asked the teacher. "Oh, yes!" answered Randolph, indifferently. "He seems to be a good deal hurt. It was very strange that he got in Luke's way." "So it was," said Randolph, without betraying much interest. "Will you lend me your skates, Randolph?" asked Linton. "I should like to go out and see if I can help Tom in any way." If any other boy than Linton had made the request, Randolph would have declined, but he wished, if possible, to add Linton to his list of friends, and graciously consented. Before Linton could reach the spot, Tom had been assisted to his feet, and, with a dazed expression, assisted on either side by Luke and Edmund Blake, was on his way back to the starting-point. "What made you get in my way, Tom?" asked Luke, puzzled. "I don't know," answered Tom, sullenly. "Are you much hurt?" "I think my skull must be fractured," moaned Tom. "Oh, not so bad as that," said Luke, cheerfully. "I've fallen on my head myself, but I got over it." "You didn't fall as hard as I did," groaned Tom. "No, I presume not; but heads are hard, and I guess you'll be all right in a few days." Tom had certainly been severely hurt. There was a swelling on the back of his head almost as large as a hen's egg. "You've lost the watch, Luke," said Frank Acken. "Randolph has got in first." "Yes, I supposed he would," answered Luke, quietly. "And there is Linton Tomkins coming to meet us on Randolph's skates." "Randolph is sitting down on a log taking it easy. What is your loss, Luke, is his gain." "Yes." "I think he might have come back to inquire after you, Tom, as you are a friend of his." Tom looked resentfully at Randolph, and marked his complacent look, and it occurred to him also that the friend he had risked so much to serve was very ungrateful. But he hoped now, at any rate, to get the watch, and thought it prudent to say nothing. The boys had now reached the shore. "Hope you're not much hurt, Tom?" said Randolph, in a tone of mild interest. "I don't know but my skull is fractured," responded Tom, bitterly. "Oh, I guess not. It's the fortune of war. Well, I got in first." Randolph waited for congratulations, but none came. All the boys looked serious, and more than one suspected that there had been foul play. They waited for the teacher to speak. CHAPTER III RANDOLPH GETS THE WATCH "It is true," said the teacher, slowly. "Randolph has won the race." Randolph's face lighted up with exultation. "But it is also evident," continued Mr. Hooper, "that he would not have succeeded but for the unfortunate collision between Luke Larkin and Tom Harper." Here some of Luke's friends brightened up. "I don't know about that," said Randolph. "At any rate, I came in first." "I watched the race closely," said the teacher, "and I have no doubt on the subject. Luke had so great a lead that he would surely have won the race." "But he didn't," persisted Randolph, doggedly. "He did not, as we all know. It is also clear that had he not stopped to ascertain the extent of Tom's injuries he still might have won." "That's so!" said half a dozen boys. "Therefore I cannot accept the result as indicating the superiority of the successful contestant." "I think I am entitled to the prize," said Randolph. "I concede that; but, under the circumstances, I suggest to you that it would be graceful and proper to waive your claim and try the race over again." The boys applauded, with one or two exceptions. "I won't consent to that, Mr. Hooper," said Randolph, frowning. "I've won the prize fairly and I want it." "I am quite willing Randolph should have it, sir," said Luke. "I think I should have won it if I had not stopped with Tom, but that doesn't affect the matter one way or the other. Randolph came in first, as he says, and I think he is entitled to the watch." "Then," said Mr. Hooper, gravely, "there is nothing more to be said. Randolph, come forward and receive the prize." Randolph obeyed with alacrity, and received the Waterbury watch from the hands of Mr. Hooper. The boys stood in silence and offered no congratulations. "Now, let me say," said the teacher, "that I cannot understand why there was any collision at all. Tom Harper, why did you get in Luke's way?" "Because I was a fool, sir," answered Tom, smarting from his injuries, and the evident indifference of Randolph, in whose cause he had incurred them. "That doesn't answer my question. Why did you act like a fool, as you expressed it?" "I thought I could get out of the way in time," stammered Tom, who did not dare to tell the truth. "You had no other reason?" asked the teacher, searchingly. "No, sir. What other reason could I have?" said Tom, but his manner betrayed confusion. "Indeed, I don't know," returned the teacher, quietly. "Your action, however, spoiled Luke's chances and insured the success of Randolph." "And got me a broken head," muttered Tom, placing his hand upon the swelling at the back of his head. "Yes, you got the worst of it. I advise you to go home and apply cold water or any other remedy your mother may suggest." Randolph had already turned away, meaning to return home. Tom joined him. Randolph would gladly have dispensed with his company, but had no decent excuse, as Tom's home lay in the same direction as his. "Well, Randolph, you've won the watch," said Tom, when they were out of hearing of the other boys. "Yes," answered Randolph, indifferently. "I don't care so much for that as for the ten dollars my father is going to give me." "That's what I thought. You've got another watch, you know--more valuable." "Well, what of it?" said Randolph, suspiciously. "I think you might give me the Waterbury. I haven't got any." "Why should I give it to you?" answered Randolph, coldly. "Because but for me you wouldn't have won it, nor the ten dollars, neither." "How do you make that out?" "The teacher said so himself." "I don't agree to it." "You can't deny it. Luke was seven or eight rods ahead when I got in his way." "Then it was lucky for me." "It isn't lucky for me. My head hurts awfully." "I'm very sorry, of course." "That won't do me any good. Come, Randolph, give me the watch, like a good fellow." "Well, you've got cheek, I must say. I want the watch myself." "And is that all the satisfaction I am to get for my broken head?" exclaimed Tom, indignantly. Randolph was a thoroughly mean boy, who, if he had had a dozen watches, would have wished to keep them all for himself. "I've a great mind to tell Luke and the teacher of the arrangement between us." "There wasn't any arrangement," said Randolph, sharply. "However, as I'm really sorry for you, I am willing to give you a quarter. There, now, don't let me hear any more about the matter." He drew a silver quarter from his vest pocket and tendered it to Tom. Tom Harper was not a sensitive boy, but his face flushed with indignation and shame, and he made no offer to take the money. "Keep your quarter, Randolph Duncan," he said scornfully. "I think you're the meanest specimen of a boy that I ever came across. Any boy is a fool to be your friend. I don't care to keep company with you any longer." "This to me!" exclaimed Randolph, angrily. "This is the pay I get for condescending to let you go with me." "You needn't condescend any longer," said Tom, curtly, and he crossed to the other side of the street. Randolph looked after him rather uneasily. After all, he was sorry to lose his humble follower. "He'll be coming round in a day or two to ask me to take him back," he reflected. "I would be willing to give him ten cents more, but as for giving him the watch, he must think me a fool to part with that." CHAPTER IV LUKE'S NIGHT ADVENTURE "I am sorry you have lost the watch, Luke," said the teacher, after Randolph's departure. "You will have to be satisfied with deserving it." "I am reconciled to the disappointment, sir," answered Luke. "I can get along for the present without a watch." Nevertheless, Luke did feel disappointed. He had fully expected to have the watch to carry home and display to his mother. As it was, he was in no hurry to go home, but remained for two hours skating with the other boys. He used his friend Linton's skates, Linton having an engagement which prevented his remaining. It was five o'clock when Luke entered the little cottage which he called home. His mother, a pleasant woman of middle age, was spreading the cloth for supper. She looked up as he entered. "Well, Luke?" she said inquiringly. "I haven't brought home the watch, mother," he said. "Randolph Duncan won it by accident. I will tell you about it." After he had done so, Mrs. Larkin asked thoughtfully. "Isn't it a little singular that Tom should have got in your way?" "Yes; I thought so at the time." "Do you think there was any arrangement between him and Randolph?" "As you ask me, mother, I am obliged to say that I do." "It was a very mean trick!" said Mrs. Larkin, resentfully. "Yes, it was; but poor Tom was well punished for it. Why, he's got a bunch on the back of his head almost as large as a hen's egg." "I don't pity him," said Mrs. Larkin. "I pity him, mother, for I don't believe Randolph will repay him for the service done him. If Randolph had met with the same accident I am not prepared to say that I should have pitied him much." "You might have been seriously injured yourself, Luke." "I might, but I wasn't, so I won't take that into consideration. However, mother, watch or no watch, I've got a good appetite. I shall be ready when supper is." Luke sat down to the table ten minutes afterward and proved his words good, much to his mother's satisfaction. While he is eating we will say a word about the cottage. It was small, containing only four rooms, furnished in the plainest fashion. The rooms, however, were exceedingly neat, and presented an appearance of comfort. Yet the united income of Mrs. Larkin and Luke was very small. Luke received a dollar a week for taking care of the schoolhouse, but this income only lasted forty weeks in the year. Then he did odd jobs for the neighbors, and picked up perhaps as much more. Mrs. Larkin had some skill as a dressmaker, but Groveton was a small village, and there was another in the same line, so that her income from this source probably did not average more than three dollars a week. This was absolutely all that they had to live on, though there was no rent to pay; and the reader will not be surprised to learn that Luke had no money to spend for watches. "Are you tired, Luke?" asked his mother, after supper. "No, mother. Can I do anything for you?" "I have finished a dress for Miss Almira Clark. I suppose she will want to wear it to church to-morrow. But she lives so far away, I don't like to ask you to carry it to her." "Oh, I don't mind. It won't do me any harm." "You will get tired." "If I do, I shall sleep the better for it." "You are a good son, Luke." "I ought to be. Haven't I got a good mother?" So it was arranged. About seven o'clock, after his chores were done--for there was some wood to saw and split--Luke set out, with the bundle under his arm, for the house of Miss Clark, a mile and a half away. It was a commonplace errand, that on which Luke had started, but it was destined to be a very important day in his life. It was to be a turning-point, and to mark the beginning of a new chapter of experiences. Was it to be for good or ill? That we are not prepared to reveal. It will be necessary for the reader to follow his career, step by step, and decide for himself. Of course, Luke had no thought of this when he set out. To him it had been a marked day on account of the skating match, but this had turned out a disappointment. He accomplished his errand, which occupied a considerable time, and then set out on his return. It was half-past eight, but the moon had risen and diffused a mild radiance over the landscape. Luke thought he would shorten his homeward way by taking a path through the woods. It was not over a quarter of a mile, but would shorten the distance by as much more. The trees were not close together, so that it was light enough to see. Luke had nearly reached the edge of the wood, when he overtook a tall man, a stranger in the neighborhood, who carried in his hand a tin box. Turning, he eyed Luke sharply. "Boy, what's your name?" he asked. "Luke Larkin," our hero answered, in surprise. "Where do you live?" "In the village yonder." "Will you do me a favor?" "What is it, sir?" "Take this tin box and carry it to your home. Keep it under lock and key till I call for it." "Yes, sir, I can do that. But how shall I know you again?" "Take a good look at me, that you may remember me." "I think I shall know you again, but hadn't you better give me a name?" "Well, perhaps so," answered the other, after a moment's thought. "You may call me Roland Reed. Will you remember?" "Yes, sir." "I am obliged to leave this neighborhood at once, and can't conveniently carry the box," explained the stranger. "Here's something for your trouble." Luke was about to say that he required no money, when it occurred to him that he had no right to refuse, since money was so scarce at home. He took the tin box and thrust the bank-bill into his vest pocket. He wondered how much it was, but it was too dark to distinguish. "Good night!" said Luke, as the stranger turned away. "Good night!" answered his new acquaintance, abruptly. If Luke could have foreseen the immediate consequences of this apparently simple act, and the position in which it would soon place him, he would certainly have refused to take charge of the box. And yet in so doing it might have happened that he had made a mistake. The consequences of even our simple acts are oftentimes far-reaching and beyond the power of human wisdom to foreknow. Luke thought little of this as, with the box under his arm, he trudged homeward. CHAPTER V LUKE RECEIVES AN INVITATION "What have you there, Luke?" asked Mrs. Larkin, as Luke entered the little sitting-room with the tin box under his arm. "I met a man on my way home, who asked me to keep it for him." "Do you know the man?" asked his mother, in surprise. "No," answered Luke. "It seems very singular. What did he say?" "He said that he was obliged to leave the neighborhood at once, and could not conveniently carry the box." "Do you think it contains anything of value?" "Yes, mother. It is like the boxes rich men have to hold their stocks and bonds. I was at the bank one day, and saw a gentleman bring in one to deposit in the safe." "I can't understand that at all, Luke. You say you did not know this man?" "I never met him before." "And, of course, he does not know you?" "No, for he asked my name." "Yet he put what may be valuable property in your possession." "I think," said Luke, shrewdly, "he had no one else to trust it to. Besides, a country boy wouldn't be very likely to make use of stocks and bonds." "No, that is true. I suppose the tin box is locked?" "Yes, mother. The owner--he says his name is Roland Reed--wishes it put under lock and key." "I can lock it up in my trunk, Luke." "I think that will be a good idea." "I hope he will pay you for your trouble when he takes away the tin box." "He has already. I forgot to mention it," and Luke drew from his vest pocket, the bank-note he had thrust in as soon as received. "Why, it's a ten-dollar bill!" he exclaimed. "I wonder whether he knew he was giving me as much?" "I presume so, Luke," said his mother, brightening up. "You are in luck!" "Take it, mother. You will find a use for it." "But, Luke, this money is yours." "No, it is yours, for you are going to take care of the box." It was, indeed, quite a windfall, and both mother and son retired to rest in a cheerful frame of mind, in spite of Luke's failure in the race. "I have been thinking, Luke," said his mother, at the breakfast-table, "that I should like to have you buy a Waterbury watch out of this money. It will only cost three dollars and a half, and that is only one-third." "Thank you, mother, but I can get along without the watch. I cared for it chiefly because it was to be a prize given to the best skater. All the boys know that I would have won but for the accident, and that satisfies me." "I should like you to have a watch, Luke." "There is another objection, mother. I don't want any one to know about the box or the money. If it were known that we had so much property in the house, some attempt might be made to rob us." "That is true, Luke. But I hope it won't be long before you have a watch of your own." When Luke was walking, after breakfast, he met Randolph Duncan, with a chain attached to the prize watch ostentatiously displayed on the outside of his vest. He smiled complacently, and rather triumphantly, when he met Luke. But Luke looked neither depressed nor angry. "I hope your watch keeps good time, Randolph," he said. "Yes; it hasn't varied a minute so far. I think it will keep as good time as my silver watch." "You are fortunate to have two watches." "My father has promised me a gold watch when I am eighteen," said Randolph, pompously. "I don't know if I shall have any watch at all when I am eighteen." "Oh, well, you are a poor boy. It doesn't matter to you." "I don't know about that, Randolph. Time is likely to be of as much importance to a poor boy as to a rich boy." "Oh, ah! yes, of course, but a poor boy isn't expected to wear a watch." Here the conversation ended. Luke walked on with an amused smile on his face. "I wonder how it would seem to be as complacent and self-satisfied as Randolph?" he thought. "On the whole, I would rather be as I am." "Good morning, Luke!" It was a girl's voice that addressed him. Looking up, he met the pleasant glance of Florence Grant, considered by many the prettiest girl in Groveton. Her mother was a widow in easy circumstances, who had removed from Chicago three years before, and occupied a handsome cottage nearly opposite Mr. Duncan's residence. She was a general favorite, not only for her good looks, but on account of her pleasant manner and sweet disposition. "Good morning, Florence," said Luke, with an answering smile. "What a pity you lost the race yesterday!" "Randolph doesn't think so." "No; he is a very selfish boy, I am afraid." "Did you see the race?" asked Luke. "No, but I heard all about it. If it hadn't been for Tom Harper you would have won, wouldn't you?" "I think so." "All the boys say so. What could have induced Tom to get in the way?" "I don't know. It was very foolish, however. He got badly hurt." "Tom is a friend of Randolph," said Florence significantly. "Yes," answered Luke; "but I don't think Randolph would stoop to such a trick as that." "You wouldn't, Luke, but Randolph is a different boy. Besides, I hear he was trying for something else." "I know; his father offered him ten dollars besides." "I don't see why it is that some fare so much better than others," remarked Florence, thoughtfully. "The watch and the money would have done you more good." "So they would, Florence, but I don't complain. I may be better off some day than I am now." "I hope you will, Luke," said Florence, cordially. "I am very much obliged to you for your good wishes," said Luke, warmly. "That reminds me, Luke, next week, Thursday, is my birthday, and I am to have a little party in the evening. Will you come?" Luke's face flushed with pleasure. Though he knew Florence very well from their being schoolfellows, he had never visited the house. He properly regarded the invitation as a compliment, and as a mark of friendship from one whose good opinion he highly valued. "Thank you, Florence," he said. "You are very kind, and I shall have great pleasure in being present. Shall you have many?" "About twenty. Your friend Randolph will be there." "I think there will be room for both of us," said Luke, with a smile. The young lady bade him good morning and went on her way. Two days later Luke met Randolph at the dry-goods store in the village. "What are you buying?" asked Randolph, condescendingly. "Only a spool of thread for my mother." "I am buying a new necktie to wear to Florence Grant's birthday party," said Randolph, pompously. "I think I shall have to do the same," said Luke, enjoying the surprise he saw expressed on Randolph's face. "Are you going?" demanded Randolph, abruptly. "Yes." "Have you been invited?" "That is a strange question," answered Luke, indignantly. "Do you think I would go without an invitation?" "Really, it will be quite a mixed affair," said Randolph, shrugging his shoulders. "If you think so, why do you go?" "I don't want to disappoint Florence." Luke smiled. He was privately of the opinion that the disappointment wouldn't be intense. CHAPTER VI PREPARING FOR THE PARTY The evening of the party arrived. It was quite a social event at Groveton, and the young people looked forward to it with pleasant anticipation. Randolph went so far as to order a new suit for the occasion. He was very much afraid it would not be ready in time, but he was not to be disappointed. At five o'clock on Thursday afternoon it was delivered, and Randolph, when arrayed in it, surveyed himself with great satisfaction. He had purchased a handsome new necktie, and he reflected with pleasure that no boy present--not even Linton--would be so handsomely dressed as himself. He had a high idea of his personal consequence, but he was also of the opinion that "fine feathers make fine birds," and his suit was of fine cloth and stylish make. "I wonder what the janitor will wear?" he said to himself, with a curl of the lip. "A pair of overalls, perhaps. They would be very appropriate, certainly." This was just the question which was occupying Luke's mind. He did not value clothes as Randolph did, but he liked to look neat. Truth to tell, he was not very well off as to wardrobe. He had his every-day suit, which he wore to school, and a better suit, which he had worn for over a year. It was of mixed cloth, neat in appearance, though showing signs of wear; but there was one trouble. During the past year Luke had grown considerably, and his coat-sleeves were nearly two inches too short, and the legs of his trousers deficient quite as much. Nevertheless, he dressed himself, and he, too, surveyed himself, not before a pier-glass, but before the small mirror in the kitchen. "Don't my clothes look bad, mother?" he asked anxiously. "They are neat and clean, Luke," said his mother, hesitatingly. "Yes, I know; but they are too small." "You have been growing fast in the last year, Luke," said his mother, looking a little disturbed. "I suppose you are not sorry for that?" "No," answered Luke, with a smile, "but I wish my coat and trousers had grown, too." "I wish, my dear boy, I could afford to buy you a new suit." "Oh, never mind, mother," said Luke, recovering his cheerfulness. "They will do for a little while yet. Florence didn't invite me for my clothes." "No; she is a sensible girl. She values you for other reasons." "I hope so, mother. Still, when I consider how handsomely Randolph will be dressed, I can't help thinking that there is considerable difference in our luck." "Would you be willing to exchange with him, Luke?" "There is one thing I wouldn't like to exchange." "And what is that?" "I wouldn't exchange my mother for his," said Luke, kissing the widow affectionately. "His mother is a cold, proud, disagreeable woman, while I have the best mother in the world." "Don't talk foolishly, Luke," said Mrs. Larkin; but her face brightened, and there was a warm feeling in her heart, for it was very pleasant to her to hear Luke speak of her in this way. "I won't think any more about it, mother," said Luke. "I've got a new necktie, at any rate, and I will make that do." Just then there was a knock at the door, and Linton entered. "I thought I would come round and go to the party with you, Luke," he said. Linton was handsomely dressed, though he had not bought a suit expressly, like Randolph. He didn't appear to notice Luke's scant suit. Even if he had, he would have been too much of a gentleman to refer to it. "I think we shall have a good time," he said. "We always do at Mrs. Grant's. Florence is a nice girl, and they know how to make it pleasant. I suppose we shall have dancing." "I don't know how to dance," said Luke, regretfully. "I should like to have taken lessons last winter when Professor Bent had a class, but I couldn't afford it." "You have seen dancing?" "Oh, yes." "It doesn't take much knowledge to dance a quadrille, particularly if you get on a side set. Come, we have an hour before it is time to go. Suppose I give you a lesson?" "Do you think I could learn enough in that time to venture?" "Yes, I do. If you make an occasional mistake it won't matter. So, if your mother will give us the use of the sitting-room, I will commence instructions." Luke had looked at some dancers in the dining-room at the hotel, and was not wholly a novice, therefore. Linton was an excellent dancer, and was clear in his directions. It may also be said that Luke was a ready learner. So it happened at the end of the hour that the pupil had been initiated not only in the ordinary changes of the quadrille, but also in one contra dance, the Virginia Reel, which was a great favorite among the young people of Groveton. "Now, I think you'll do, Luke," said Linton, when the lesson was concluded. "You are very quick to learn." "You think I won't be awkward, Linton?" "No, if you keep cool and don't get flustered." "I am generally pretty cool. But I shall be rather surprised to see myself on the floor," laughed Luke. "No doubt others will be, but you'll have a great deal more fun." "So I shall. I don't like leaning against the wall while others are having a good time." "If you could dance as well as you can skate you would have no trouble, Luke." "No; that is where Randolph has the advantage of me." "He is a very great dancer, though he can't come up to you in skating. However, dancing isn't everything. Dance as well as he may, he doesn't stand as high in the good graces of Florence Grant as he would like to do." "I always noticed that he seemed partial to Florence." "Yes, but it isn't returned. How about yourself, Luke?" Luke, being a modest boy, blushed. "I certainly think Florence a very nice girl," he said. "I was sure of that," said Linton, smiling. "But I don't want to stand in your way, Linton," continued Luke, with a smile. "No danger, Luke. Florence is a year older than I am. Now, you are nearly two years older than she, and are better matched. So you needn't consider me in the matter." Of course, this was all a joke. It was true, however, that of all the girls in Groveton, Luke was more attracted by Florence Grant than by any other, and they had always been excellent friends. It was well known that Randolph also was partial to the young lady, but he certainly had never received much encouragement. Finally the boys got out, and were very soon at the door of Mrs. Grant's handsome cottage. It was large upon the ground, with a broad veranda, in the Southern style. In fact, Mrs. Grant was Southern by birth, and, erecting the house herself, had it built after the fashion of her Southern birthplace. Most of the young visitors had arrived when Luke and Linton put in an appearance. They had been detained longer than they were aware by the dancing-lesson. Randolph and Sam Noble were sitting side by side at one end of the room, facing the entrance. "Look," said Randolph, with a satirical smile, to his companion, "there comes the young janitor in his dress suit. Just look at his coat-sleeves and the legs of his trousers. They are at least two inches too short. Any other boy would be ashamed to come to a party in such ridiculous clothes." Sam looked and tittered. Luke's face flushed, for, though he did not hear the words, he guessed their tenor. But he was made to forget them when Florence came forward and greeted Linton and himself with unaffected cordiality. CHAPTER VII FLORENCE GRANT'S PARTY Luke's uncomfortable consciousness of his deficiencies in dress soon passed off. He noticed the sneer on Randolph's face and heard Sam's laugh, but he cared very little for the opinion of either of them. No other in the company appeared to observe his poor dress, and he was cordially greeted by them all, with the two exceptions already named. "The janitor ought to know better than to intrude into the society of his superiors," said Randolph to Sam. "He seems to enjoy himself," said Sam. This was half an hour after the party had commenced, when all were engaged in one of the plays popular at a country party. "I am going to have a party myself in a short time," continued Randolph, "but I shall be more select than Florence in my invitations. I shall not invite any working boys." "Right you are, Randolph," said the subservient Sam. "I hope you won't forget me." "Oh, no; I shall invite you. Of course, you don't move exactly in my circle, but, at any rate, you dress decently." If Sam Noble had had proper pride he would have resented the insolent assumption of superiority in this speech, but he was content to play second fiddle to Randolph Duncan. His family, like himself, were ambitious to be on good terms with the leading families in the village, and did not mind an occasional snub. "Shall you invite Tom Harper?" he asked. He felt a little jealous of Tom, who had vied with him in flattering attentions to Randolph. "No, I don't think so. Tom isn't here, is he?" "He received an invitation, but ever since his accident he has been troubled with severe headaches, and I suppose that keeps him away." "He isn't up to my standard," said Randolph, consequentially. "He comes of a low family." "You and he have been together a good deal." "Oh, I have found him of some service, but I have paid for it." Yet this was the boy who, at his own personal risk, had obtained for Randolph the prize at the skating-match. Privately, Sam thought Randolph ungrateful, but he was, nevertheless, pleased at having distanced Tom in the favor of the young aristocrat. After an hour, spent in various amusements, one of the company took her place at the piano, and dancing began. "Now is your time, Luke," said Linton. "Secure a partner. It is only a quadrille." "I feel a little nervous," said Luke. "Perhaps I had better wait till the second dance." "Oh, nonsense! Don't be afraid." Meanwhile, Randolph, with a great flourish, had invited Florence to dance. "Thank you," she answered, taking his arm. Randolph took his place with her as head couple. Linton and Annie Comray faced them. To Randolph's amazement, Luke and Fanny Pratt took their places as one of the side couples. Randolph, who was aware that Luke had never taken lessons, remarked this with equal surprise and disgust. His lip curled as he remarked to his partner: "Really, I didn't know that Luke Larkin danced." "Nor I," answered Florence. "I am sorry he is in our set." "Why?" asked Florence, regarding him attentively. "He will probably put us out by his clownish performance." "Wouldn't it be well to wait and see whether he does or not?" responded Florence, quietly. Randolph shrugged his shoulders. "I pity his partner, at any rate," he said. "I can't join in any such conversation about one of my guests," said Florence, with dignity. Here the first directions were given, and the quadrille commenced. Luke felt a little nervous, it must be confessed, and for that reason he watched with unusual care the movements of the head couples. He was quick to learn, and ordinarily cool and self-possessed. Besides, he knew that no one was likely to criticize him except Randolph. He saw the latter regarding him with a mocking smile, and this stimulated him to unusual carefulness. The result was that he went through his part with quite as much ease and correctness as any except the most practiced dancers. Florence said nothing, but she turned with a significant smile to Randolph. The latter looked disappointed and mortified. His mean disposition would have been gratified by Luke's failure, but this was a gratification he was not to enjoy. The dance was at length concluded, and Luke, as he led his partner to a seat, felt that he had scored a success. "May I have the pleasure of dancing with you next time, Florence?" asked Randolph. "Thank you, but I should not think it right to slight my other guests," said the young lady. Just then Luke came up and preferred the same request. He would not have done so if he had not acquitted himself well in the first quadrille. Florence accepted with a smile. "I was not aware that dancing was one of your accomplishments, Luke," she said. "Nor I, till this evening," answered Luke. "There stands my teacher," and he pointed to Linton. "You do credit to your teacher," said Florence. "I should not have known you were such a novice." Luke was pleased with this compliment, and very glad that he had been spared the mortification of breaking down before the eyes of his ill-wisher, Randolph Duncan. It is hardly necessary to say that he did equally well in the second quadrille, though he and Florence were head couple. The next dance was the Virginia Reel. Here Florence had Linton for a partner, and Luke secured as his own partner a very good dancer. From prudence, however, he took his place at some distance from the head, and by dint of careful watching he acquitted himself as well as in the quadrilles. "Really, Luke, you are doing wonderfully well," said Linton, when the dance was over. "I can hardly believe that you have taken but one lesson, and that from so poor a teacher as I am." "I couldn't have had a better teacher, Lin," said Luke. "I owe my success to you." "Didn't you say Luke couldn't dance?" asked Sam Noble of Randolph, later in the evening. "He can't," answered Randolph, irritably. "He gets along very well, I am sure. He dances as well as I do." "That isn't saying much," answered Randolph, with a sneer. He could not help sneering even at his friends, and this was one reason why no one was really attached to him. Sam walked away offended. The party broke up at half-past ten. It was an early hour, but late enough considering the youth of the participants. Luke accompanied home one of the girls who had no brother present, and then turned toward his own home. He had nearly reached it, when a tall figure, moving from the roadside, put a hand on his shoulder. "You are Luke Larkin?" said the stranger, in questioning tone. "Yes, sir." "Is the tin box safe?" "Yes, sir." "That is all--for the present," and the stranger walked quickly away. "Who can he be," thought Luke, in wonder, "and why should he have trusted a complete stranger--and a boy?" Evidently there was some mystery about the matter. Had the stranger come honestly by the box, or was Luke aiding and abetting a thief? He could not tell. CHAPTER VIII MISS SPRAGUE DISCOVERS A SECRET About this time it became known to one person in the village that the Larkins had in their possession a tin box, contents unknown. This is the way it happened: Among the best-known village residents was Miss Melinda Sprague, a maiden lady, who took a profound interest in the affairs of her neighbors. She seldom went beyond the limits of Groveton, which was her world. She had learned the business of dressmaking, and often did work at home for her customers. She was of a curious and prying disposition, and nothing delighted her more than to acquire the knowledge of a secret. One day--a few days after Florence Grant's party--Mrs. Larkin was in her own chamber. She had the trunk open, having occasion to take something from it, when, with a light step, Miss Sprague entered the room. The widow, who was on her knees before the trunk, turning, recognized the intruder, not without displeasure. "I hope you'll excuse my coming in so unceremoniously, Mrs. Larkin," said Melinda, effusively. "I knocked, but you didn't hear it, being upstairs, and I took the liberty, being as we were so well acquainted, to come upstairs in search of you." "Yes, certainly," answered Mrs. Larkin, but her tone was constrained. She quickly shut the lid of the trunk. There was only one thing among its contents which she was anxious to hide, but that Miss Melinda's sharp eyes had already discovered. Unfortunately, the tin box was at one side, in plain sight. "What on earth does Mrs. Larkin do with a tin box?" she asked herself, with eager curiosity. "Can she have property that people don't know of? I always thought she was left poor." Melinda asked no questions. The sudden closing of the trunk showed her that the widow would not be inclined to answer any questions. "I won't let her think I saw anything," she said to herself. "Perhaps she'll get anxious and refer to it." "We will go downstairs, Melinda," said Mrs. Larkin. "It will be more comfortable." "If you have anything to do up here, I beg you won't mind me," said the spinster. "No, I have nothing that won't wait." So the two went down into the sitting-room. "And how is Luke?" asked Miss Sprague, in a tone of friendly interest. "Very well, thank you." "Luke was always a great favorite of mine," continued the spinster. "Such a manly boy as he is!" "He is a great help to me," said Mrs. Larkin. "No doubt he is. He takes care of the schoolhouse, doesn't he?" "Yes." "How much pay does he get?" "A dollar a week." "I hope he will be able to keep the position." "What do you mean, Melinda?" asked the widow, not without anxiety. "You know Doctor Snodgrass has resigned on the school committee, and Squire Duncan has been elected in his place." "Well?" "Mrs. Flanagan went to him yesterday to ask to have her son Tim appointed janitor in place of Luke, and I heard that she received considerable encouragement from the squire." "Do they find any fault with Luke?" asked Mrs. Larkin, jealously. "No, not as I've heard; but Mrs. Flanagan said Luke had had it for a year, and now some one else ought to have the chance." "Are you quite sure of this, Melinda?" Miss Sprague, though over forty, was generally called by her first name, not as a tribute to her youth, but to the fact of her being still unmarried. "Yes, I am; I had it from Mrs. Flanagan herself." "I don't think Tim would do as well as Luke. He has never been able to keep a place yet." "Just so; but, of course, his mother thinks him a polygon." Probably Miss Sprague meant a paragon--she was not very careful in her speech, but Mrs. Larkin did not smile at her mistake. She was too much troubled at the news she had just heard. A dollar a week may seem a ridiculous trifle to some of my readers, but, where the entire income of the family was so small, it was a matter of some consequence. "I don't think Luke has heard anything of this," said the widow. "He has not mentioned it to me." "Perhaps there won't be any change, after all," said Melinda. "I am sure Tim Flanagan wouldn't do near as well as Luke." Miss Melinda was not entirely sincere. She had said to Mrs. Flanagan that she quite agreed with her that Luke had been janitor long enough, and hoped Tim would get the place. She was in the habit of siding with the person she chanced to be talking with at the moment, and this was pretty well understood. Luke, however, had heard of this threatened removal. For this, it may be said, Randolph was partly responsible. Just after Mrs. Flanagan's call upon the squire to solicit his official influence, Prince Duncan mentioned the matter to his son. "How long has Luke Larkin been janitor at the schoolhouse?" he asked. "About a year. Why do you ask?" "Does he attend to the duties pretty well?" "I suppose so. He's just fit to make fires and sweep the floor," answered Randolph, his lip curling. "Mrs. Flanagan has been here to ask me to appoint her son Tim in Luke's place." "You'd better do it, pa," said Randolph, quickly. "Why? You say Luke is well fitted for the position." "Oh, anybody could do as well, but Luke puts on airs. He feels too big for his position." "I suppose Mrs. Larkin needs the money." "So does Mrs. Flanagan," said Randolph. "What sort of a boy is Tim? I have heard that he is lazy." "Oh, I guess he'll do. Of course, I am not well acquainted with a boy like him," said the young aristocrat. "But I'm quite disgusted with Luke. He was at Florence Grant's party the other evening, and was cheeky enough to ask her to dance with him." "Did she do so?" "Yes; I suppose it was out of pity. He ought to have known better than to attend a party with such a suit. His coat and pantaloons were both too small for him, but he flourished around as if he were fashionably dressed." Squire Duncan made no reply to his son's comments, but he felt disposed, for reasons of his own, to appoint Tim Flanagan. He was hoping to be nominated for representative at the next election, and thought the appointment might influence the Irish vote in his favor. "Shall you appoint Tim, pa?" asked Randolph. "I think it probable. It seems only right to give him a chance. Rotation in office is a principle of which I approve." "That's good!" thought Randolph, with a smile of gratification. "It isn't a very important place, but Luke will be sorry to lose it. The first time I see him I will give him a hint of it." Randolph met Luke about an hour later in the village street. He did not often stop to speak with our hero, but this time he had an object in doing so. CHAPTER IX LUKE LOSES HIS POSITION "Luke Larkin!" Luke turned, on hearing his name called, and was rather surprised to see Randolph hastening toward him. "How are you, Randolph?" he said politely. "Where are you going?" asked Randolph, not heeding the inquiry. "To the schoolhouse, to sweep out." "How long have you been janitor?" asked Randolph, abruptly. "About a year," Luke answered, in surprise. "That's a good while." Luke was puzzled. Why should Randolph feel such an interest, all at once, in his humble office? "I suppose you know that my father is now on the school committee?" Randolph continued. "Yes; I heard so." "He thinks of appointing Tim Flanagan janitor in your place." Luke's face showed his surprise and concern. The loss of his modest income would, as he knew, be severely felt by his mother and himself. The worst of it was, there seemed no chance in Groveton of making it up in any other way. "Did your father tell you this?" he asked, after a pause. "Yes; he just told me," answered Randolph, complacently. "Why does he think of removing me? Are there any complaints of the way I perform my duties?" "Really, my good fellow," said Randolph, languidly, "I can't enlighten you on that point. You've held the office a good while, you know." "You are very kind to tell me--this bad news," said Luke, pointedly. "Oh, don't mention it. Good morning. Were you fatigued after your violent exercise at Florence Grant's party?" "No. Were you?" "I didn't take any," said Randolph, haughtily. "I danced--I didn't jump round." "Thank you for the compliment. Is there anything more you wish to say to me?" "No." "Then good morning." When Luke was left alone he felt serious. How was he going to make up the dollar a week of which he was to be deprived? The more he considered the matter the further he was from thinking anything. He was not quite sure whether the news was reliable, or merely invented by Randolph to tease and annoy him. Upon this point, however, he was soon made certain. The next day, as he was attending to his duties in the schoolhouse, Tim Flanagan entered. "Here's a note for you, Luke," he said. Luke opened the note and found it brief but significant. It ran thus: "LUKE LARKIN: I have appointed the bearer, Timothy Flanagan, janitor in your place. You will give him the key of the schoolhouse, and he will at once assume your duties. "PRINCE DUNCAN." "Well, Tim," said Luke, calmly, "it appears that you are going to take my place." "Yes, Luke, but I don't care much about it. My mother went to the squire and got me the job. The pay's a dollar a week, isn't it?" "Yes." "That isn't enough." "It isn't very much, but there are not many ways of earning money here in Groveton." "What do you have to do?" "Make the fire every morning and sweep out twice a week. Then there's dusting, splitting up kindlings, and so on." "I don't think I'll like it. I ain't good at makin' fires." "Squire Duncan writes you are to begin at once." "Shure, I'm afraid I won't succeed." "I'll tell you what, Tim. I'll help you along till you've got used to the duties. After a while they'll get easy for you." "Will you now? You're a good feller, Luke. I thought you would be mad at losin' the job." "I am not mad, but I am sorry. I needed the money, but no doubt you do, also. I have no grudge against you." Luke had just started in his work. He explained to Tim how to do it, and remained with him till it was done. "I'll come again to-morrow, Tim," he said. "I will get you well started, for I want to make it easy for you." Tim was by no means a model boy, but he was warm-hearted, and he was touched by Luke's generous treatment. "I say, Luke," he exclaimed, "I don't want to take your job. Say the word, and I'll tell mother and the squire I don't want it." "No, Tim, it's your duty to help your mother. Take it and do your best." On his way home Luke chanced to meet the squire, walking in his usual dignified manner toward the bank, of which he was president. "Squire Duncan," he said, walking up to him in a manly way, "I would like to speak a word to you." "Say on, young man." "Tim Flanagan handed me a note from you this morning ordering me to turn over my duties as janitor to him." "Very well?" "I have done so, but I wish to ask you if I have been removed on account of any complaints that my work was not well done?" "I have heard no complaints," answered the squire. "I appointed Timothy in your place because I approved of rotation in office. It won't do any good for you to make a fuss about it." "I don't intend to make a fuss, Squire Duncan," said Luke, proudly. "I merely wished to know if there were any charges against me." "There are none." "Then I am satisfied. Good morning, sir." "Stay, young man. Is Timothy at the schoolhouse?" "Yes, sir. I gave him some instruction about the work, and promised to go over to-morrow to help him." "Very well." Squire Duncan was rather relieved to find that Luke did not propose to make any fuss. His motive, as has already been stated, was a political one. He wished to ingratiate himself with Irish voters and obtain an election as representative; not that he cared so much for this office, except as a stepping-stone to something higher. Luke turned his steps homeward. He dreaded communicating the news to his mother, for he knew that it would depress her, as it had him. However, it must be known sooner or later, and he must not shrink from telling her. "Mother," he said, as he entered the room where she was sewing, "I have lost my job as janitor." "I expected you would, Luke," said his mother, soberly. "Who told you?" asked Luke, in surprise. "Melinda Sprague was here yesterday and told me Tim Flanagan was to have it." "Miss Sprague seems to know everything that is going on." "Yes, she usually hears everything. Have you lost the place already?" "Tim brought me a note this morning from Squire Duncan informing me that I was removed and he was put in my place." "It is going to be a serious loss to us, Luke," said Mrs. Larkin, gravely. "Yes, mother, but I am sure something will turn up in its place." Luke spoke confidently, but it was a confidence he by no means felt. "It is a sad thing to be so poor as we are," said Mrs. Larkin, with a sigh. "It is very inconvenient, mother, but we ought to be glad that we have perfect health. I am young and strong, and I am sure I can find some other way of earning a dollar a week." "At any rate, we will hope so, Luke." Luke went to bed early that night. The next morning, as they were sitting at breakfast, Melinda Sprague rushed into the house and sank into a chair, out of breath. "Have you heard the news?" "No. What is it?" "The bank has been robbed! A box of United States bonds has been taken, amounting to thirty or forty thousand dollars!" Luke and his mother listened in amazement. CHAPTER X MELINDA MAKES MISCHIEF "Where did you hear this, Melinda?" asked Mrs. Larkin. "I called on Mrs. Duncan just now--I was doing some work for her--and she told me. Isn't it awful?" "Was the bank broken open last night, Miss Sprague?" asked Luke. "I don't know when it was entered." "I don't understand it at all," said Luke, looking puzzled. "All I know is that, on examining the safe, the box of bonds was missing." "Then it might have been taken some time since?" "Yes, it might." The same thought came to Luke and his mother at once. Was the mysterious stranger the thief, and had he robbed the bank and transferred the tin box to Luke? It might be so, but, as this happened more than a fortnight since, it would have been strange in that case that the box had not been missed sooner at the bank. Luke longed to have Miss Sprague go, that he might confer with his mother on this subject. He had been told to keep the possession of the box secret, and therefore he didn't wish to reveal the fact that he had it unless it should prove to be necessary. "Were any traces of the robber discovered?" he added. "Not that I heard of; but I pity the thief, whoever he is," remarked Melinda. "When he's found out he will go to jail, without any doubt." "I can't understand, for my part, how an outside party could open the safe," said Mrs. Larkin. "It seems very mysterious." "There's many things we can't understand," said Melinda, shaking her head sagely. "All crimes are mysterious." "I hope they'll find out who took the bonds," said the widow. "Did they belong to the bank?" "No, they belonged to a gentleman in Cavendish, who kept them in the bank, thinking they would be safer than in his own house. Little did he know what iniquity there was even in quiet country places like Groveton." "Surely, Melinda, you don't think any one in Groveton robbed the bank?" said Mrs. Larkin. "There's no knowing!" said Miss Sprague, solemnly. "There's those that we know well, or think we do, but we cannot read their hearts and their secret ways." "Have you any suspicions, Miss Sprague?" asked Luke, considerably amused at the portentous solemnity of the visitor. "I may and I may not, Luke," answered Melinda, with the air of one who knew a great deal more than she chose to tell; "but it isn't proper for me to speak at present." Just then Miss Sprague saw some one passing who, she thought, had not heard of the robbery, and, hastily excusing herself, she left the house. "What do you think, Luke?" asked his mother, after the spinster had gone. "Do you think the box we have was taken from the bank?" "No, I don't, mother. I did think it possible at first, but it seems very foolish for the thief, if he was one, to leave the box in the same village, in the charge of a boy. It would have been more natural and sensible for him to open it, take out the bonds, and throw it away or leave it in the woods." "There is something in that," said Mrs. Larkin, thoughtfully. "There is certainly a mystery about our box, but I can't think it was stolen from the bank." Meanwhile, Miss Sprague had formed an important resolve. The more she thought of it, the more she believed the missing box was the one of which she had caught a glimpse of in Mrs. Larkin's trunk. True, Luke and the widow had not betrayed that confusion and embarrassment which might have been anticipated when the theft was announced, but she had noticed the look exchanged between them, and she was sure it meant something. Above all, her curiosity was aroused to learn how it happened that a woman as poor as the Widow Larkin should have a tin box in her trunk, the contents of which might be presumed to be valuable. "I don't like to get Luke and his mother into trouble," Melinda said to herself, "but I think it my duty to tell all I know. At any rate, they will have to tell how the box came into their possession, and what it contains. I'll go to the bank and speak to Squire Duncan." Prince Duncan had called an extra meeting of the directors to consider the loss which had been discovered, and they were now seated in the bank parlor. There were three of them present, all of whom resided in Groveton--Mr. Manning, the hotelkeeper; Mr. Bailey, a storekeeper, and Mr. Beane, the Groveton lawyer. Miss Sprague entered the bank and went up to the little window presided over by the paying-teller. "Is Squire Duncan in the bank?" she asked. "Yes, Miss Sprague." "I would like to speak with him." "That is impossible. He is presiding at a directors' meeting." "Still, I would like to see him," persisted Melinda. "You will have to wait," said the paying-teller, coldly. He had no particular respect or regard for Miss Sprague, being quite familiar with her general reputation as a gossip and busybody. "I think he would like to see me," said Melinda, nodding her head with mysterious significance. "There has been a robbery at the bank, hasn't there?" "Do you know anything about it, Miss Sprague?" demanded the teller, in surprise. "Maybe I do, and maybe I don't; but I've got a secret to tell to Squire Duncan." "I don't believe it amounts to anything," thought the teller. "Well, I will speak to Squire Duncan," he said aloud. He went to the door of the directors' room, and after a brief conference with Prince Duncan he returned with the message, "You may go in, Miss Sprague." She nodded triumphantly, and with an air of conscious importance walked to the bank parlor. Prince Duncan and his associates were sitting round a mahogany table. Melinda made a formal curtsy and stood facing them. "I understand, Miss Sprague, that you have something to communicate to us in reference to the loss the bank has just sustained," said the squire, clearing his throat. "I thought it my duty to come and tell you all I knew, Squire Duncan and gentlemen," said Melinda. "Quite right, Miss Sprague. Now, what can you tell us?" "The article lost was a tin box, was it not?" "Yes." "About so long?" continued Miss Sprague, indicating a length of about fifteen inches. "Yes." "What was there in it?" "Government bonds." "I know where there is such a box," said Miss Sprague, slowly. "Where? Please be expeditious, Miss Sprague." "A few days since I was calling on Mrs. Larkin--Luke's mother--just happened in, as I may say, and, not finding her downstairs, went up into her chamber. I don't think she heard me, for when I entered the chamber and spoke to her she seemed quite flustered. She was on her knees before an open trunk, and in that trunk I saw the tin box." The directors looked at each other in surprise, and Squire Duncan looked undeniably puzzled. "I knew the box was one such as is used to hold valuable papers and bonds," proceeded Melinda, "and, as I had always looked on the widow as very poor, I didn't know what to make of it." "Did you question Mrs. Larkin about the tin box?" asked Mr. Beane. "No; she shut the trunk at once, and I concluded she didn't want me to see it." "Then you did not say anything about it?" "No; but I went in just now to tell her about the bank being robbed." "How did it seem to affect her?" asked Mr. Bailey. "She and Luke--Luke was there, too--looked at each other in dismay. It was evident that they were thinking of the box in the trunk." Melinda continued her story, and the directors were somewhat impressed. "I propose," said Mr. Manning, "that we get out a search-warrant and search Mrs. Larkin's cottage. That box may be the one missing from the bank." CHAPTER XI LUKE IS ARRESTED Just after twelve o'clock, when Luke was at home eating dinner, a knock was heard at the front door. "I'll go, mother," said Luke, and he rose from the table, and, going into the entry, opened the outer door. His surprise may be imagined when he confronted Squire Duncan and the gentlemen already mentioned as directors of the Groveton bank. "Did you wish to see mother?" he asked. "Yes; we have come on important business," said Squire Duncan, pompously. "Walk in, if you please." Luke led the way into the little sitting-room, followed by the visitors. The dinner-table was spread in the kitchen adjoining. The room looked very much filled up with the unwonted company, all being large men. "Mother," called Luke, "here are some gentlemen who wish to see you." The widow entered the room, and looked with surprise from one to another. All waited for Squire Duncan, as the proper person, from his official position, to introduce the subject of their visit. "Mrs. Larkin," said the squire, pompously, "it has possibly come to your ears that the Groveton Bank, of which you are aware that I am the president, has been robbed of a box of bonds?" "Yes, sir. I was so informed by Miss Melinda Sprague this morning." "I am also informed that you have in your custody a tin box similar to the one that has been taken." He expected to see Mrs. Larkin show signs of confusion, but she answered calmly: "I have a box in my custody, but whether it resembles the one lost I can't say." "Ha! you admit that you hold such a box?" said the squire, looking significantly at his companions. "Certainly. Why should I not?" "Are you willing to show it to us?" "Yes, we are willing to show it," said Luke, taking it upon himself to answer, "but I have no idea that it will do you any good." "That is for us to decide, young man," said Squire Duncan. "Do you suppose it is the box missing from the bank, sir?" "It may be." "When did you miss the box?" "Only this morning, but it may have been taken a month ago." "This box has been in our possession for a fortnight." "Such is your statement, Luke." "It is the truth," said Luke, flushing with indignation. "My boy," said Mr. Beane, "don't be angry. I, for one, have no suspicion that you have done anything wrong, but it is our duty to inquire into this matter." "Who told you that we had such a box, Mr. Beane?" "Miss Melinda Sprague was the informant." "I thought so, mother," said Luke. "She is a prying old maid, and it is just like her." "Miss Sprague only did her duty," said the squire. "But we are losing time. We require you to produce the box." "I will get it, gentlemen," said the widow, calmly. While she was upstairs, Mr. Manning inquired: "Where did you get the box, Luke?" "If you identify it as the box taken from the bank," answered Luke, "I will tell you. Otherwise I should prefer to say nothing, for it is a secret of another person." "Matters look very suspicious, in my opinion, gentlemen," said Squire Duncan, turning to his associates. "Not necessarily," said Mr. Beane, who seemed inclined to favor our hero. "Luke may have a good reason for holding his tongue." Here Mrs. Larkin presented herself with the missing box. Instantly it became an object of attention. "It looks like the missing box," said the squire. "Of course, I can offer no opinion," said Mr. Beane, "not having seen the one lost. Such boxes, however, have a general resemblance to each other." "Have you the key that opens it?" asked the squire. "No, sir." "Squire Duncan," asked Mr. Beane, "have you the key unlocking the missing box?" "No, sir," answered Squire Duncan, after a slight pause. "Then I don't think we can decide as to the identity of the two boxes." The trustees looked at each other in a state of indecision. No one knew what ought to be done. "What course do you think we ought to take, Squire Duncan?" asked Mr. Bailey. "I think," said the bank president, straightening up, "that there is sufficient evidence to justify the arrest of this boy Luke." "I have done nothing wrong, sir," said Luke, indignantly. "I am no more of a thief than you are." "Do you mean to insult me, you young jackanapes?" demanded Mr. Duncan, with an angry flush on his face. "I intend to insult no one, but I claim that I have done nothing wrong." "That is what all criminals say," sneered the squire. Luke was about to make an angry reply, but Mr. Beane, waving his hand as a signal for our hero to be quiet, remarked calmly: "I think, Duncan, in justice to Luke, we ought to hear his story as to how the box came into his possession." "That is my opinion," said Mr. Bailey. "I don't believe Luke is a bad boy." Prince Duncan felt obliged to listen to that suggestion, Mr. Bailey and Mr. Beane being men of consideration in the village. "Young man," he said, "we are ready to hear your story. From whom did you receive this box?" "From a man named Roland Reed," answered Luke. The four visitors looked at each other in surprise. "And who is Roland Reed?" asked the president of the bank. "It seems very much like a fictitious name." "It may be, for aught I know," said Luke, "but it is the name given me by the person who gave me the box to keep for him." "State the circumstances," said Mr. Beane. "About two weeks since I was returning from the house of Miss Almira Clark, where I had gone on an errand for my mother. To shorten my journey, I took my way through the woods. I had nearly passed through to the other side, when a tall man, dark-complexioned, whom I had never seen before stepped up to me. He asked me my name, and, upon my telling him, asked if I would do him a favor. This was to take charge of a tin box, which he carried under his arm." "The one before us?" asked Mr. Manning. "Yes, sir." "Did he give any reason for making this request?" "He said he was about to leave the neighborhood, and wished it taken care of. He asked me to put it under lock and key." "Did he state why he selected you for this trust?" asked Mr. Beane. "No, sir; he paid me for my trouble, however. He gave me a bank-note, which, when I reached home, I found to be a ten-dollar bill." "And you haven't seen him since?" "Once only." "When was that?" "On the evening of Florence Grant's party. On my way home the same man came up to me and asked if the box was safe. I answered, 'Yes.' He said, 'That is all--for the present,' and disappeared. I have not seen him since." "That is a very pretty romance," said Prince Duncan, with a sneer. "I can confirm it," said Mrs. Larkin, calmly. "I saw Luke bring in the box, and at his request I took charge of it. The story he told at that time is the same that he tells now." "Very possibly," said the bank president. "It was all cut and dried." "You seem very much prejudiced against Luke," said Mrs. Larkin, indignantly. "By no means, Mrs. Larkin. I judge him and his story from the standpoint of common sense. Gentlemen, I presume this story makes the same impression on you as on me?" Mr. Beane shook his head. "It may be true; it is not impossible," he said. "You believe, then, there is such a man as Roland Reed?" "There may be a man who calls himself such." "If there is such a man, he is a thief." "It may be so, but that does not necessarily implicate Luke." "He would be a receiver of stolen property." "Not knowing it to be such." "At all events, I feel amply justified in causing the arrest of Luke Larkin on his own statement." "Surely you don't mean this?" exclaimed Mrs. Larkin, in dismay. "Don't be alarmed, mother," said Luke, calmly. "I am innocent of wrong, and no harm will befall me." CHAPTER XII LUKE AS A PRISONER Prince Duncan, who was a magistrate, directed the arrest of Luke on a charge of robbing the Groveton Bank. The constable who was called upon to make the arrest performed the duty unwillingly. "I don't believe a word of it, Luke," he said. "It's perfect nonsense to say you have robbed the bank. I'd as soon believe myself guilty." Luke was not taken to the lock-up, but was put in the personal custody of Constable Perkins, who undertook to be responsible for his appearance at the trial. "You mustn't run away, or you'll get me into trouble, Luke," said the good-natured constable. "It's the last thing I'd be willing to do, Mr. Perkins," said Luke, promptly. "Then everybody would decide that I was guilty. I am innocent, and want a chance to prove it." What was to be done with the tin box, was the next question. "I will take it over to my house," said Squire Duncan. "I object," said Mr. Beane. "Do you doubt my integrity?" demanded the bank president, angrily. "No; but it is obviously improper that any one of us should take charge of the box before it has been opened and its contents examined. We are not even certain that it is the one missing from the bank." As Mr. Beane was a lawyer, Prince Duncan, though unwillingly, was obliged to yield. The box, therefore, was taken to the bank and locked up in the safe till wanted. It is hardly necessary to say that the events at the cottage of Mrs. Larkin, and Luke's arrest, made a great sensation in the village. The charge that Luke had robbed the bank was received not only with surprise, but with incredulity. The boy was so well and so favorably known in Groveton that few could be found to credit the charge. There were exceptions, however. Melinda Sprague enjoyed the sudden celebrity she had achieved as the original discoverer of the thief who had plundered the bank. She was inclined to believe that Luke was guilty, because it enhanced her own importance. "Most people call Luke a good boy," she said, "but there was always something about him that made me suspicious. There was something in his expression--I can't tell you what--that set me to thinkin' all wasn't right. Appearances are deceitful, as our old minister used to say." "They certainly are, if Luke is a bad boy and a thief," retorted the other, indignantly. "You might be in better business, Melinda, than trying to take away the character of a boy like Luke." "I only did my duty," answered Melinda, with an air of superior virtue. "I had no right to keep secret what I knew about the robbery." "You always claimed to be a friend of the Larkins. Only last week you took tea there." "That's true. I am a friend now, but I can't consent to cover up inquiry. Do you know whether the bank has offered any reward for the detection of the thief?" "No," said the other, shortly, with a look of contempt at the eager spinster. "Even if it did, and poor Luke were found guilty, it would be blood-money that no decent person would accept." "Really, Mrs. Clark, you have singular ideas," said the discomfited Melinda. "I ain't after no money. I only mean to do my duty, but if the bank should recognize the value of my services, it would be only right and proper." There was another who heard with great satisfaction of Luke's arrest. This was Randolph Duncan. As it happened, he was late in learning that his rival had got into trouble, not having seen his father since breakfast. "This is great news about Luke," said his friend Sam Noble, meeting him on the street. "What news? I have heard nothing," said Randolph, eagerly. "He has been arrested." "You don't say so!" exclaimed Randolph. "What has he done?" "Robbed the bank of a tin box full of bonds. It was worth an awful lot of money." "Well, well!" ejaculated Randolph. "I always thought he was a boy of no principle." "The tin box was found in his mother's trunk." "What did Luke say? Did he own up?" "No; he brazened it out. He said the box was given him to take care of by some mysterious stranger." "That's too thin. How was it traced to Luke?" "It seems Old Maid Sprague"--it was lucky for Melinda's peace of mind that she did not hear this contemptuous reference to her--"went to the Widow Larkin's house one day and saw the tin box in her trunk." "She didn't leave the trunk open, did she?" "No; but she had it open, looking into it, when old Melinda crept upstairs softly and caught her at it." "I suppose Luke will have to go to State's prison," said Randolph, with a gratified smile. "I hope it won't be quite so bad as that," said Sam, who was not equal in malice to his aristocratic friend. "I haven't any pity for him," said Randolph, decidedly. "If he chooses to steal, he must expect to be punished." Just then Mr. Hooper, the grammar-school teacher, came up. "Mr. Hooper," said Randolph, eagerly, "have you heard about Luke?" "I have heard that he has been removed from his janitorship, and I'm sorry for it." "If he goes to jail he wouldn't be able to be janitor," said Randolph. "Goes to jail! What do you mean?" demanded the teacher, sharply. Hereupon Randolph told the story, aided and assisted by Sam Noble, to whom he referred as his authority. "This is too ridiculous!" said Mr. Hooper, contemptuously. "Luke is no thief, and if he had the tin box he has given the right explanation of how he came by it." "I know he is a favorite of yours, Mr. Hooper, but that won't save him from going to jail," said Randolph, tartly. "If he is a favorite of mine," said the teacher, with dignity, "it is for a very good reason. I have always found him to be a high-minded, honorable boy, and I still believe him to be so, in spite of the grave accusation that has been brought against him." There was something in the teacher's manner that deterred Randolph from continuing his malicious attack upon Luke. Mr. Hooper lost no time in inquiring into the facts of the case, and then in seeking out Luke, whom he found in the constable's house. "Luke," he said, extending his hand, "I have heard that you were in trouble, and I have come to see what I can do for you." "You are very kind, Mr. Hooper," said Luke, gratefully. "I hope you don't believe me guilty." "I would as soon believe myself guilty of the charge, Luke." "That's just what I said, Mr. Hooper," said Constable Perkins. "Just as if there wasn't more than one tin box in the world." "You never told any one that you had a tin box in your custody, I suppose, Luke?" "No, sir; the man who asked me to take care of it especially cautioned me to say nothing about it." "What was his name?" "Roland Reed." "Do you know where to find him? It would be of service to you if you could obtain his evidence. It would clear you at once." "I wish I could, sir, but I have no idea where to look for him." "That is unfortunate," said the teacher, knitting his brows in perplexity. "When are you to be brought to trial?" "To-morrow, I hear." "Well, Luke, keep up a good heart and hope for the best." "I mean to, sir." CHAPTER XIII IN THE COURT-ROOM It was decided that Luke should remain until his trial in the personal custody of Constable Perkins. Except for the name of it, his imprisonment was not very irksome, for the Perkins family treated him as an honored guest, and Mrs. Perkins prepared a nicer supper than usual. When Mr. Perkins went out he said to his wife, with a quizzical smile: "I leave Luke in your charge. Don't let him run away." "I'll look out for that," said Mrs. Perkins, smiling. "Perhaps I had better leave you a pistol, my dear?" "I am afraid I should not know how to use it." "You might tie my hands," suggested Luke. "That wouldn't prevent your walking away." "Then my feet." "It won't be necessary, husband," said Mrs. Perkins. "I've got the poker and tongs ready." But, though treated in this jesting manner, Luke could not help feeling a little anxious. For aught he knew, the tin box taken from his mother's trunk might be the same which had been stolen from the bank. In that case Roland Reed was not likely to appear again, and his story would be disbelieved. It was a strange one, he could not help admitting to himself. Yet he could not believe that the mysterious stranger was a burglar. If he were, it seemed very improbable that he would have left his booty within half a mile of the bank, in the very village where the theft had been committed. It was all very queer, and he could not see into the mystery. "I should like to do something," thought Luke. "It's dull work sitting here with folded hands." "Isn't there something I can do, Mrs. Perkins?" he said. "I am not used to sitting about the house idle." "Well, you might make me some pies," said Mrs. Perkins. "You'd never eat them if I did. I can boil eggs and fry potatoes. Isn't there some wood to saw and split?" "Plenty out in the shed." "I understand that, at any rate. Have you any objection to my setting to work?" "No, if you won't run away." "Send out Charlie to watch me." Charlie was a youngster about four years of age, and very fond of Luke, who was a favorite with most young children. "Yes, that will do. Charlie, go into the shed and see Luke saw wood." "Yes, mama." "Don't let him run away." "No, I won't," said Charlie, gravely. Luke felt happier when he was fairly at work. It took his mind off his troubles, as work generally does, and he spent a couple of hours in the shed. Then Mrs. Perkins came to the door and called him. "Luke," she said, "a young lady has called to see the prisoner." "A young lady! Who is it?" "Florence Grant." Luke's face brightened up with pleasure; he put on his coat and went into the house. "Oh, Luke, what a shame!" exclaimed Florence, hastening to him with extended hand. "I only just heard of it." "Then you're not afraid to shake hands with a bank burglar?" said Luke. "No, indeed! What nonsense it is! Who do you think told me of your arrest?" "Randolph Duncan." "You have guessed it." "What did he say? Did he seem to be shocked at my iniquity?" "I think he seemed glad of it. Of course, he believes you guilty." "I supposed he would, or pretend to, at any rate. I think his father is interested to make me out guilty. I hope you don't think there is any chance of it?" "Of course not, Luke. I know you too well. I'd sooner suspect Randolph. He wanted to know what I thought of you now." "And what did you answer?" "That I thought the same as I always had--that you were one of the best boys in the village. 'I admire your taste,' said Randolph, with a sneer. Then I gave him a piece of my mind." "I should like to have heard you, Florence." "I don't know; you have no idea what a virago I am when I am mad. Now sit down and tell me all about it." Luke obeyed, and the conversation was a long one, and seemed interesting to both. In the midst of it Linton Tomkins came in. "Have you come to see the prisoner, also, Linton?" asked Florence. "Yes, Florence. What a desperate-looking ruffian he is! I don't dare to come too near. How did you break into the bank, Luke?" First Luke smiled, then he became grave. "After all, it is no joke to me, Linny," he said. "Think of the disgrace of being arrested on such a charge." "The disgrace is in being a burglar, not in being arrested for one, Luke. Of course, it's absurd. Father wants me to say that if you are bound over for trial he will go bail for you to any amount." "Your father is very kind, Linny. I may need to avail myself of his kindness." The next day came, and at ten o'clock, Luke, accompanied by Constable Perkins, entered the room in which Squire Duncan sat as trial justice. A considerable number of persons were gathered, for it was a trial in which the whole village was interested. Among them was Mrs. Larkin, who wore an anxious, perturbed look. "Oh, Luke," she said sorrowfully, "how terrible it is to have you here!" "Don't be troubled, mother," said Luke. "We both know that I am innocent, and I rely on God to stand by me." "Luke," said Mr. Beane, "though I am a bank trustee, I am your friend and believe you innocent. I will act as your lawyer." "Thank you, Mr. Beane. I shall be very glad to accept your services." The preliminary proceedings were of a formal character. Then Miss Melinda Sprague was summoned to testify. She professed to be very unwilling to say anything likely to injure her good friends, Luke and his mother, but managed to tell, quite dramatically, how she first caught a glimpse of the tin box. "Did Mrs. Larkin know that you saw it?" asked the squire. "She didn't know for certain," answered Melinda, "but she was evidently afraid I would, for she shut the trunk in a hurry, and seemed very much confused. I thought of this directly when I heard of the bank robbery, and I went over to tell Luke and his mother." "How did they receive your communication?" "They seemed very much frightened." "And you inferred that they had not come honestly by the tin box?" "It grieves me to say that I did," said Melinda, putting her handkerchief to her eyes to brush away an imaginary tear. Finally Melinda sat down, and witnesses were called to testify to Luke's good character. There were more who wished to be sworn than there was time to hear. Mr. Beane called only Mr. Hooper, Mr. Tomkins and Luke's Sunday-school teacher. Then he called Luke to testify in his own defense. Luke told a straightforward story--the same that he had told before--replying readily and easily to any questions that were asked him. "I submit, Squire Duncan," said Mr. Beane, "that my client's statement is plain and frank and explains everything. I hold that it exonerates him from all suspicion of complicity with the robbery." "I differ with you," said Squire Duncan, acidly. "It is a wild, improbable tale, that does not even do credit to the prisoner's invention. In my opinion, this mysterious stranger has no existence. Is there any one besides himself who has seen this Roland Reed?" At this moment there was a little confusion at the door. A tall, dark-complexioned stranger pushed his way into the court-room. He advanced quickly to the front. "I heard my name called," he said. "There is no occasion to doubt my existence. I am Roland Reed!" CHAPTER XIV AN IMPORTANT WITNESS The effect of Roland Reed's sudden appearance in the court-room, close upon the doubt expressed as to his existence, was electric. Every head was turned, and every one present looked with eager curiosity at the mysterious stranger. They saw a dark-complexioned, slender, but wiry man, above the middle height, with a pair of keen black eyes scanning, not without sarcastic amusement, the faces turned toward him. Luke recognized him at once. "Thank God!" he ejaculated, with a feeling of intense relief. "Now my innocence will be made known." Squire Duncan was quite taken aback. His face betrayed his surprise and disappointment. "I don't know you," he said, after a pause. "Perhaps not, Mr. Duncan," answered the stranger, in a significant tone, "but I know you." "Were you the man who gave this tin box to the defendant?" "Wouldn't it be well, since this is a court, to swear me as a witness?" asked Roland Reed, quietly. "Of course, of course," said the squire, rather annoyed to be reminded of his duty by this stranger. This being done, Mr. Beane questioned the witness in the interest of his client. "Do you know anything about the tin box found in the possession of Luke Larkin?" he asked. "Yes, sir." "Did you commit it to his charge for safe-keeping?" "I did." "Were you previously acquainted with Luke?" "I was not." "Was it not rather a singular proceeding to commit what is presumably of considerable value to an unknown boy?" "It would generally be considered so, but I do many strange things. I had seen the boy by daylight, though he had never seen me, and I was sure I could trust him." "Why, if you desired a place of safe-keeping for your box, did you not select the bank vaults?" Roland Reed laughed, and glanced at the presiding justice. "It might have been stolen," he said. "Does the box contain documents of value?" "The contents are valuable to me, at any rate." "Mr. Beane," said Squire Duncan, irritably, "I think you are treating the witness too indulgently. I believe this box to be the one taken from the bank." "You heard the remark of the justice," said the lawyer. "Is this the box taken from the bank?" "It is not," answered the witness, contemptuously, "and no one knows this better than Mr. Duncan." The justice flushed angrily. "You are impertinent, witness," he said. "It is all very well to claim this box as yours, but I shall require you to prove ownership." "I am ready to do so," said Roland Reed, quietly. "Is that the box on the table?" "It is." "Has it been opened?" "No; the key has disappeared from the bank." "The key is in the hands of the owner, where it properly belongs. With the permission of the court, I will open the box." "I object," said Squire Duncan, quickly. "Permit me to say that your refusal is extraordinary," said Mr. Beane, pointedly. "You ask the witness to prove property, and then decline to allow him to do so." Squire Duncan, who saw that he had been betrayed into a piece of folly, said sullenly: "I don't agree with you, Mr. Beane, but I withdraw my objection. The witness may come forward and open the box, if he can." Roland Reed bowed slightly, advanced to the table, took a bunch of keys from his pocket, and inserting one of the smallest in the lock easily opened the box. Those who were near enough, including the justice, craned their necks forward to look into the box. The box contained papers, certificates of stock, apparently, and a couple of bank-books. "The box missing from the vault contained government bonds, as I understand, Squire Duncan?" said the lawyer. "Yes," answered the justice, reluctantly. "Are there any government bonds in the box, Mr. Reed." "You can see for yourself, sir." The manner of the witness toward the lawyer was courteous, though in the tone in which he addressed the court there had been a scarcely veiled contempt. "I submit, then, that my young client has been guilty of no wrong. He accepted the custody of the box from the rightful owner, and this he had a clear right to do." "How do you know that the witness is the rightful owner of the box?" demanded the justice, in a cross tone. "He may have stolen it from some other quarter." "There is not a shadow of evidence of this," said the lawyer, in a tone of rebuke. "I am not sure but that he ought to be held." "You will hold me at your peril, Mr. Duncan," said the witness, in clear, resolute tones. "I have a clear comprehension of my rights, and I do not propose to have them infringed." Squire Duncan bit his lips. He had only a smattering of law, but he knew that the witness was right, and that he had been betrayed by temper into making a discreditable exhibition of himself. "I demand that you treat me with proper respect," he said angrily. "I am ready to do that," answered the witness, in a tone whose meaning more than one understood. It was not an apology calculated to soothe the ruffled pride of the justice. "I call for the discharge of my young client, Squire Duncan," said the lawyer. "The case against him, as I hardly need say, has utterly failed." "He is discharged," said the justice, unwillingly. Instantly Luke's friends surrounded him and began to shower congratulations upon him. Among them was Roland Reed. "My young friend," he said, "I am sincerely sorry that by any act of mine I have brought anxiety and trouble upon you. But I can't understand how the fact that you had the box in your possession became known." This was explained to him. "I have a proposal to make to you and your mother," said Roland Reed, "and with your permission I will accompany you home." "We shall be glad to have you, sir," said Mrs. Larkin, cordially. As they were making their way out of the court-room, Melinda Sprague, the cause of Luke's trouble, hurried to meet them. She saw by this time that she had made a great mistake, and that her course was likely to make her generally unpopular. She hoped to make it up with the Larkins. "I am so glad you are acquitted, Luke," she began effusively. "I hope, Mrs. Larkin, you won't take offense at what I did. I did what I thought to be my duty, though with a bleeding heart. No one is more rejoiced at dear Luke's vindication." "Miss Sprague," said she, "if you think you did your duty, let the consciousness of that sustain you. I do not care to receive any visits from you hereafter." "How cruel and unfeeling you are, Mrs. Larkin," said the spinster, putting her handkerchief to her eyes. Mrs. Larkin did not reply. Miss Sprague found herself so coldly treated in the village that she shortly left Groveton on a prolonged visit to some relatives in a neighboring town. It is to be feared that the consciousness of having done her duty did not wholly console her. What she regretted most, however, was the loss of the reward which she had hoped to receive from the bank. CHAPTER XV THE LARKINS ARE IN LUCK Luke and his mother, accompanied by Roland Reed, took their way from the court-room to the widow's modest cottage. "You may take the tin box, Luke," said the stranger, "if you are not afraid to keep in your charge what has given you so much trouble." "All's well that ends well!" said Luke. "Yes; I don't think it will occasion you any further anxiety." Roland Reed walked in advance with Mrs. Larkin, leaving Luke to follow. "What sort of a man is this Mr. Duncan?" he asked abruptly. "Squire Duncan?" "Yes, if that is his title." "He is, upon the whole, our foremost citizen," answered the widow, after a slight hesitation. "Is he popular?" "I can hardly say that." "He is president of the bank, is he not?" "Yes." "How long has he lived in Groveton?" "Nearly twenty years." "Was he born in this neighborhood?" "I think he came from the West." "Does he say from what part of the western country?" "He says very little about his past life." Roland Reed smiled significantly. "Perhaps he has his reasons," he said meditatively. "Is he thought to be rich?" he asked, after a pause. "Yes, but how rich no one knows. He is taxed for his house and grounds, but he may have a good deal of property besides. It is generally thought he has." "He does not appear to be friendly toward your son." "No," answered Mrs. Larkin, with a trace of indignation, "though I am sure he has no cause to dislike him. He seemed convinced that Luke had come by your tin box dishonestly." "It seemed to me that he was prejudiced against Luke. How do you account for it?" "Perhaps his son, Randolph, has influenced him." "So he has a son--how old?" "Almost Luke's age. He thinks Luke beneath him, though why he should do so, except that Luke is poor, I can't understand. Not long since there was a skating match for a prize of a Waterbury watch, offered by the grammar-school teacher, which Luke would have won had not Randolph arranged with another boy to get in his way and leave the victory to him." "So Randolph won the watch?" "Yes." "I suppose he had a watch of his own already." "Yes, a silver one, while Luke had none. This makes it meaner in him." "I don't mind it now, mother," said Luke, who had overheard the last part of the conversation. "He is welcome to his watches--I can wait." "Has Squire Duncan shown his hostility to Luke in any other way?" inquired the stranger. "Yes; Luke has for over a year been janitor at the school-house. It didn't bring much--only a dollar a week--but it was considerable to us. Lately Squire Duncan was appointed on the school committee to fill a vacancy, and his first act was to remove Luke from his position." "Not in favor of his son, I conclude." Luke laughed. "Randolph would be shocked at the mere supposition," he said. "He is a young man who wears kid gloves, and the duties of a school janitor he would look upon as degrading." "I really think, Luke, you have been badly treated," said Roland Reed, with a friendly smile. "I have thought so, too, sir, but I suppose I have no better claim to the office than any other boy." "You needed the income, however." "Yes, sir." By this time they were at the door of the cottage. "Won't you come in, sir?" asked Mrs. Larkin, cordially. "Thank you. I will not only do so, but as I don't care to stay at the hotel, I will even crave leave to pass the night under your roof." "If you don't mind our poor accommodations, you will be very welcome." "I am not likely to complain, Mrs. Larkin. I have not been nursed in the lap of luxury. For two years I was a California miner, and camped out. For that long period I did not know what it was to sleep in a bed. I used to stretch myself in a blanket, and lie down on the ground." "You won't have to do that here, Mr. Reed," said Luke, smiling. "But it must have been great fun." "How can you say so, Luke?" expostulated his mother. "It must have been very uncomfortable, and dangerous to the health." "I wouldn't mind it a bit, mother," said Luke, stoutly. Roland Reed smiled. "I am not surprised that you and your mother regard the matter from different points of view," he said. "It is only natural. Women are not adapted to roughing it. Boys like nothing better, and so with young men. But there comes a time--when a man passes forty--when he sets a higher value on the comforts of life. I don't mind confessing that I wouldn't care to repeat my old mining experiences." "I hope you were repaid for your trouble and privations, sir." "Yes, I was handsomely repaid. I may soon be as rich as your local magnate, Prince Duncan, but I have had to work harder for it, probably." "So you know the squire's name?" said Mrs. Larkin, in some surprise. "I must have heard it somewhere," remarked Roland Reed. "Have I got it right?" "Yes; it's a peculiar name." When they reached the cottage Mrs. Larkin set about getting supper. In honor of her guest she sent out for some steak, and baked some biscuit, so that the table presented an inviting appearance when the three sat down to it. After supper was over, Roland Reed said: "I told you that I wished to speak to you on business, Mrs. Larkin. It is briefly this: Are you willing to receive a boarder?" "I am afraid, sir, that you would hardly be satisfied with our humble accommodations." "Oh, I am not speaking of myself, but of a child. I am a widower, Mrs. Larkin, and have a little daughter eight years of age. She is now boarding in New York, but I do not like the people with whom I have placed her. She is rather delicate, also, and I think a country town would suit her better than the city air. I should like to have her under just such nice motherly care as I am sure you would give her." "I shall be very glad to receive her," said Mrs. Larkin, with a flush of pleasure. "And for the terms?" "I would rather you would name them, sir." "Then I will say ten dollars a week." "Ten dollars!" exclaimed the widow, in amazement. "It won't be worth half that." "I don't pay for board merely, but for care and attendance as well. She may be sick, and that would increase your trouble." "She would in that case receive as much care as if she were my own daughter; but I don't ask such an exorbitant rate of board." "It isn't exorbitant if I choose to pay it, Mrs. Larkin," said Mr. Reed, smiling. "I am entirely able to pay that price, and prefer to do so." "It will make me feel quite rich, sir," said the widow, gratefully. "I shall find it useful, especially as Luke has lost his situation." "Luke may find another position." "When do you wish your daughter to come?" asked Mrs. Larkin. "Luke will accompany me to the city to-morrow, and bring her back with him. By the way, I will pay you four weeks in advance." He drew four ten-dollar bills from his pocket and put them into the widow's hand. "I am almost afraid this is a dream," said Mrs. Larkin. "You have made me very happy." "You mustn't become purse-proud, mother," said Luke, "because you have become suddenly rich." "Can you be ready to take the first train to New York with me in the morning, Luke?" asked Roland Reed. "Yes, sir; it starts at half-past seven." "Your breakfast will be ready on time," said the widow, "and Luke will call you." CHAPTER XVI LUKE'S VISIT TO NEW YORK The morning train to New York carried among its passengers Luke and his new friend. The distance was thirty-five miles, and the time occupied was a trifle over an hour. The two sat together, and Luke had an opportunity of observing his companion more closely. He was a man of middle age, dark complexion, with keen black eyes, and the expression of one who understood the world and was well fitted to make his way in it. He had already given the Larkins to understand that he had been successful in accumulating money. As for Luke, he felt happy and contented. The tide of fortune seemed to have turned in his favor, or rather in favor of his family. The handsome weekly sum which would be received for the board of Mr. Reed's little daughter would be sufficient of itself to defray the modest expenses of their household. If he, too, could obtain work, they would actually feel rich. "Luke," said his companion, "does your mother own the cottage where you live?" "Yes, sir." "Free of incumbrance?" "Not quite. There is a mortgage of three hundred dollars held by Squire Duncan. It was held by Deacon Tibbetts, but about three months since Squire Duncan bought it." "What could be his object in buying it?" "I don't know, sir. Perhaps the deacon owed him money." "I am surprised, then, that he deprived you of your position as janitor, since it would naturally make it more difficult for you to meet the interest." "That is true, sir. I wondered at it myself." "Your house is a small one, but the location is fine. It would make a building lot suitable for a gentleman's summer residence." "Yes, sir; there was a gentleman in the village last summer who called upon mother and tried to induce her to sell." "Did he offer her a fair price?" "No, sir; he said he should have to take down the cottage, and he only offered eight hundred dollars. Mother would have sold for a thousand." "Tell her not to accept even that offer, but to hold on to the property. Some day she can obtain considerably more." "She won't sell unless she is obliged to," replied Luke. "A few days since I thought we might have to do it. Now, with the generous sum which you allow for your little girl's board there will be no necessity." "Has Squire Duncan broached the subject to your mother?" "He mentioned it one day, but he wanted her to sell for seven hundred dollars." "He is evidently sharp at a bargain." "Yes, sir; he is not considered liberal." There was one thing that troubled Luke in spite of the pleasure he anticipated from his visit to New York. He knew very well that his clothes were shabby, and he shrank from the idea of appearing on Broadway in a patched suit too small for him. But he had never breathed a word of complaint to his mother, knowing that she could not afford to buy him another suit, and he did not wish to add to her troubles. It might have happened that occasionally he fixed a troubled look on his clothes, but if Roland Reed noticed it he did not make any comment. But when they reached New York, and found themselves on Broadway, his companion paused in front of a large clothing store with large plate-glass windows, and said, quietly: "Come in, Luke. I think you need some new clothes." Luke's face flushed with pleasure, but he said, "I have no money, Mr. Reed." "I have," said Roland Reed, significantly. "You are very kind, sir," said Luke, gratefully. "It costs little to be kind when you have more money than you know what to do with," said Reed. "I don't mean that I am a Vanderbilt or an Astor, but my income is much greater than I need to spend on myself." A suit was readily found which fitted Luke as well as if it had been made for him. It was of gray mixed cloth, made in fashionable style. "You may as well keep it on, Luke." Then to the shopman: "Have you a nice suit of black cloth, and of the same size?" "Yes, sir," answered the salesman, readily. "He may as well have two while we are about it. As to the old suit, it is too small, and we will leave it here to be given away to some smaller boy." Luke was quite overwhelmed by his new friend's munificence. "I don't think mother will know me," he said, as he surveyed himself in a long mirror. "Then I will introduce you or give you a letter of introduction. Have you a watch, Luke?" "No, sir; you know I did not get the prize at the skating match." "True; then I must remedy the deficiency." They took the roadway stage down below the Astor House--it was before the days of Jacob Sharp's horse railway--and got out at Benedict's. There Mr. Reed made choice of a neat silver watch, manufactured at Waltham, and bought a plated chain to go with it. "Put that in your vest pocket," he said. "It may console you for the loss of the Waterbury." "How can I ever repay you for your kindness, Mr. Reed?" said Luke, overjoyed. "I have taken a fancy to you, Luke," said his companion. "I hope to do more for you soon. Now we will go uptown, and I will put my little girl under your charge." Luke had dreaded making a call at a nice city house in his old suit. Now he looked forward to it with pleasure, especially after his new friend completed his benefactions by buying him a new pair of shoes and a hat. "Luke," asked his companion, as they were on their way uptown in a Sixth Avenue car, "do you know who owned the box of bonds taken from the Groveton Bank?" "I have heard that it was a Mr. Armstrong, now traveling in Europe." "How did he come to leave the box in a village bank?" "He is some acquaintance of Squire Duncan, and spent some weeks last summer at the village hotel." "Then probably he left the box there at the suggestion of Duncan, the president." "I don't know, sir, but I think it very likely." "Humph! This is getting interesting. The contents of the box were government bonds, I have heard." "I heard Squire Duncan say so." "Were they coupon or registered?" "What difference would that make, sir?" "The first could be sold without trouble by the thief, while the last could not be disposed of without a formal transfer from the owner." "Then it would not pay to steal them?" "Just so. Luke, do you know, a strange idea has come into my head." "What is it, sir?" "I think Prince Duncan knows more about how those bonds were spirited away than is suspected." Luke was greatly surprised. "You don't think he took them himself, do you?" he asked. "That remains to be seen. It is a curious affair altogether. I may have occasion to speak of it another time. Are you a good writer?" "Fair, I believe, sir." "I have recently come into possession of a business in a city in Ohio, which I carry on through a paid agent. Among other things, I have bought out the old accounts. I shall need to have a large number of bills made out, covering a series of years, which I shall then put into the hands of a collector and realize so far as I can. This work, with a little instruction, I think you can do." "I shall be very glad to do it, sir." "You will be paid fairly for the labor." "I don't need any pay, Mr. Reed. You have already paid me handsomely." "You refer to the clothing and the watch? Those are gifts. I will pay you thirty cents an hour for the time employed, leaving you to keep the account. The books of the firm I have at the house where my daughter is boarding. You will take them back to Groveton with you." "This is a fortunate day for me," said Luke. "It will pay me much better than the janitorship." "Do your duty, Luke, and your good fortune will continue. But here is our street." They left the car at the corner of Fourteenth Street and Sixth Avenue, and turning westward, paused in front of a four-story house of good appearance. CHAPTER XVII RANDOLPH IS MYSTIFIED In an hour, Luke, with the little girl under his charge, was on his way to the depot, accompanied by Mr. Reed, who paid for their tickets, and bade them good-bye, promising to communicate with Luke. Rosa Reed was a bright little girl of about eight years of age. She made no opposition to going with Luke, but put her hand confidently in his, and expressed much pleasure at the prospect of living in the country. She had been under the care of two maiden ladies, the Misses Graham, who had no love for children, and had merely accepted the charge on account of the liberal terms paid them by the father. They seemed displeased at the withdrawal of Rosa, and clearly signified this by their cold, stiff reception of Mr. Reed and Luke. "The old girls don't like to part with Rosa," he said, with a smile, as they emerged into the street. "Are you sorry to leave them, Rosa?" he inquired. "No; they ain't a bit pleasant," answered the little girl, decidedly. "Were they strict with you?" asked Luke. "Yes; they were always saying, 'Little girls should be seen and not heard!' They didn't want me to make a bit of noise, and wouldn't let me have any little girls in to play with me. Are there any little girls at your home?" "No, but there are some living near by, and they will come to see you." "That will be nice," said Rosa, with satisfaction. Directions were left to have the little girl's trunk go to Groveton by express, and, therefore, Luke was encumbered only by a small satchel belonging to his new charge. Of the details of the journey it is unnecessary to speak. The two young travelers arrived at Groveton, and, as it chanced, reached Luke's cottage without attracting much observation. The door was opened by the widow, whose kind manner at once won the favor of the child. "I like you much better than Miss Graham," she said, with childish frankness. "I am glad of that, my child," said Mrs. Larkin. "I will try to make this a pleasant home for you." "I like Luke, too," said Rosa. "Really, Rosa, you make me blush," said Luke. "I am not used to hearing young ladies say they like me." "I think he is a good boy," said Rosa, reflectively. "Isn't he, Mrs. Larkin?" "I think so, my dear," said the widow, smiling. "Then I suppose I shall have to behave like one," said Luke. "Do you think I have improved in appearance, mother?" "I noticed your new suit at once, Luke." "I have another in this bundle, mother; and that isn't all. Do you see this watch? I sha'n't mourn the loss of the Waterbury any longer." "Mr. Reed is certainly proving a kind friend, Luke. We have much reason to be grateful." "He has also provided me with employment for a time, mother." And then Luke told his mother about the copying he had engaged to do. It is hardy necessary to say that the heart of the widow was unfeignedly thankful for the favorable change in their fortunes, and she did not omit to give thanks to Providence for raising up so kind and serviceable a friend. About the middle of the afternoon Luke made his appearance in the village street. Though I hope my readers will not suspect him of being a dude, he certainly did enjoy the consciousness of being well dressed. He hoped he should meet Randolph, anticipating the surprise and disappointment of the latter at the evidence of his prosperity. When Luke was arrested, Randolph rejoiced as only a mean and spiteful boy would be capable of doing at the humiliation and anticipated disgrace of a boy whom he disliked. He had indulged in more than one expression of triumph, and sought every opportunity of discussing the subject, to the disgust of all fair-minded persons. Even Sam Noble protested, though a toady of Randolph. "Look here, Randolph," he said, "I don't like Luke overmuch, and I know he doesn't like me, but I don't believe he's a thief, and I am sorry he is in trouble." "Then you are no friend of mine," said Randolph, looking black. "Oh, I say, Randolph, you know better than that. Haven't I always stood up for you, and done whatever you wanted me to?" "If you were my friend you wouldn't stand up for Luke." "I am not a friend of his, and I am a friend of yours, but I don't want him to go to prison." "I do, if he deserves it." "I don't believe he does deserve it." "That is what I complain of in you." "The fact is, Randolph, you expect too much. If you want to break friendship, all right." Randolph was amazed at this unexpected independence on the part of one whom he regarded as his bond slave; but, being hardly prepared to part with him, especially as his other follower, Tom Harper, had partially thrown off his allegiance, thought it prudent to be satisfied with Sam's expressions of loyalty, even if they did not go as far as he wished. Randolph missed Luke at school on the day after the trial. Of course, he had no idea that our hero was out of school, and hastily concluded that on account of his trial he was ashamed to show himself. "I don't wonder he doesn't want to show himself," he remarked to Tom Harper. "Why not? He has been acquitted." "Never mind. He has been under arrest, and may yet be guilty in spite of his acquittal. Have you seen him to-day?" "No." "Probably he is hiding at home. Well, it shows some sort of shame." On his way home from school Randolph was destined to be surprised. Not far from his own house he met Luke, arrayed in his new suit, with a chain that looked like gold crossing his waistcoat. Instead of looking confused and ashamed, Luke looked uncommonly bright and cheerful. Randolph was amazed. What could it all mean? He had intended not to notice Luke, but to pass him with a scornful smile, but his curiosity got the better of him. "Why were you not at school to-day?" he asked, abruptly. Luke smiled. "I didn't think you would miss me, Randolph." "I didn't, but wondered at your absence." "I was detained by business. I expect to have the pleasure of seeing you there to-morrow." "Humph! You seem to have invested in a new suit." "Yes; my old suit was getting decidedly shabby, as you kindly remarked at Florence Grant's party." "Where did you get them?" "In New York." "In New York!" repeated Randolph, in surprise. "When did you go there?" "This morning. It was that which detained me from school." "I see you've got a new watch-chain, too." Randolph emphasized the word "chain" satirically, being under the impression that no watch was attached. "Yes; you may like to see my new watch." And Luke, with pardonable triumph, produced his new watch, which was a stem-winder, whereas Randolph's was only a key-winder. Randolph condescended to take the watch in his hands and examine it. "Where was this bought?" he asked. "At Benedict's." "You seem to have plenty of money," he said, with unpleasant significance. "I should like more." "Only you are rather imprudent in making such extensive purchases so soon after your trial." "What do you mean?" demanded Luke quickly. "What should I mean? It is evident that you robbed the bank, after all. I shall tell my father, and you may find your trouble is not over." "Look here, Randolph Duncan!" said Luke sternly, "I look upon that as an insult, and I don't mean to be insulted. I am no more a thief than you are, and that you know." "Do you mean to charge me with being a thief?" fumed Randolph. "No; I only say you are as much a thief as I am. If you repeat your insult, I shall be obliged to knock you down." "You impudent loafer!" screamed Randolph. "You'll be sorry for this. I'll have you arrested over again." "I have no doubt you would if you had the power. I sha'n't lie awake nights thinking of it. If you have nothing more to say I will leave you." Randolph did not reply, probably because he was at a loss what to say, but went home angry and mystified. Where could Luke have got his watch and new suit? He asked himself this many times, but no possible explanation suggested itself. Scarcely had Luke parted with Randolph when he met his friend Linton, who surveyed Luke's improved appearance with pleasure and surprise. "I say, Luke, are you setting up for a dude?" "I thought a little of it," answered Luke, with a smile--and then he explained the cause of his good fortune. "I have only one regret," he added, "Randolph seems to be grieved over it. He liked me better in my old suit. Besides, I have a new watch, and it turns out to be better than his." Here he displayed his new silver watch. Linton felt a generous pleasure in Luke's luck, and it may truly be said rejoiced more at it than he would at any piece of good fortune to himself. "By the way, Luke," he said, "I am going to give a party next Thursday evening, and I give you the very first invitation. It is my birthday, you know." "I accept with pleasure, sir. I look upon you as my warmest friend, and as long as I retain your friendship I shall not care for Randolph's malice." CHAPTER XVIII MR. DUNCAN'S SECRET About two weeks later, Prince Duncan sat at his desk with a troubled look. Open before him were letters. One was post-marked London, and ran as follows: "MY DEAR SIR: I have decided to shorten my visit, and shall leave Liverpool next Saturday en route for New York. You will see, therefore, that I shall arrive nearly as soon as the letter I am now writing. I have decided to withdraw the box of securities I deposited in your bank, and shall place it in a safe-deposit vault in New York. You may expect to see me shortly. "Yours in haste, "JOHN ARMSTRONG." Drops of perspiration gathered on the brow of Prince Duncan as he read this letter. What would Mr. Armstrong say when he learned that the box had mysteriously disappeared? That he would be thoroughly indignant, and make it very unpleasant for the president of Groveton Bank, was certain. He would ask, among other things, why Mr. Duncan had not informed him of the loss by cable, and no satisfactory explanation could be given. He would ask, furthermore, why detectives had not been employed to ferret out the mystery, and here again no satisfactory explanation could be given. Prince Duncan knew very well that he had a reason, but it was not one that could be disclosed. He next read the second letter, and his trouble was not diminished. It was from a Wall Street broker, informing him that the Erie shares bought for him on a margin had gone down two points, and it would be necessary for him to deposit additional margin, or be sold out. "Why did I ever invest in Erie?" thought Duncan ruefully. "I was confidently assured that it would go up--that it must go up--and here it is falling, and Heaven knows how much lower it will go." At this point the door opened, and Randolph entered. He had a special favor to ask. He had already given his father several hints that he would like a gold watch, being quite dissatisfied with his silver watch now that Luke Larkin possessed one superior to his. He had chosen a very unfavorable moment for his request, as he soon found out. "Father," he said, "I have a favor to ask." "What is it?" asked Prince Duncan, with a frown. "I wish you would buy me a gold watch." "Oh, you do!" sneered his father. "I was under the impression that you had two watches already." "So I have, but one is a Waterbury, and the other a cheap silver one." "Well, they keep time, don't they?" "Yes." "Then what more do you want?" "Luke Larkin has a silver watch better than mine--a stem-winder." "Suppose he has?" "I don't want a working boy like him to outshine me." "Where did he get his watch?" "I don't know; he won't tell. Will you buy me a gold one, father? Then I can look down upon him again." "No, I can't. Money is very scarce with me just now." "Then I don't want to wear a watch at all," said Randolph pettishly. "Suit yourself," said his father coldly. "Now you may leave the room. I am busy." Randolph left the room. He would have slammed the door behind him, but he knew his father's temper, and he did not dare to do so. "What am I to do?" Prince Duncan asked himself anxiously. "I must send money to the brokers, or they will sell me out, and I shall meet with a heavy loss." After a little thought he wrote a letter enclosing a check, but dated it two days ahead. "They will think it a mistake," he thought, "and it will give me time to turn around. Now for money to meet the check when it arrives." Prince Duncan went up-stairs, and, locking the door of his chamber, opened a large trunk in one corner of the room. From under a pile of clothing he took out a tin box, and with hands that trembled with excitement he extracted therefrom a dozen government bonds. One was for ten thousand dollars, one for five, and the remainder were for one thousand dollars each. "If they were only sold, and the money deposited in the bank to my credit," he thought. "I am almost sorry I started in this thing. The risk is very great, but--but I must have money." At this moment some one tried the door. Prince Duncan turned pale, and the bonds nearly fell from his hands. "Who's there?" he asked. "It is I, papa," answered Randolph. "Then you may go down-stairs again," answered his father angrily. "I don't want to be disturbed." "Won't you open the door a minute? I just want to ask a question." "No, I won't. Clear out!" exclaimed the bank president angrily. "What a frightful temper father has!" thought the discomfited Randolph. There was nothing for it but to go down-stairs, and he did so in a very discontented frame of mind. "It seems to me that something is going contrary," said Duncan to himself. "It is clear that it won't do to keep these bonds here any longer. I must take them to New York to-morrow--and raise money on them." On second thought, to-morrow he decided only to take the five-thousand-dollar bond, and five of the one thousand, fearing that too large a sale at one time might excite suspicion. Carefully selecting the bonds referred to, he put them away in a capacious pocket, and, locking the trunk, went down-stairs again. "There is still time to take the eleven-o'clock train," he said, consulting his watch. "I must do it." Seeking his wife, he informed her that he would take the next train for New York. "Isn't this rather sudden?" she asked, in surprise. "A little, perhaps, but I have a small matter of business to attend to. Besides, I think the trip will do me good. I am not feeling quite as well as usual." "I believe I will go, too," said Mrs. Duncan unexpectedly. "I want to make some purchases at Stewart's." This suggestion was very far from agreeable to her husband. "Really--I am"--he said, "I must disappoint you. My time will be wholly taken up by matters of business, and I can't go with you." "You don't need to. I can take care of myself, and we can meet at the depot at four o'clock." "Besides, I can't supply you with any money for shopping." "I have enough. I might have liked a little more, but I can make it do." "Perhaps it will look better if we go in company," thought Prince Duncan. "She needn't be in my way, for we can part at the station." "Very well, Jane," he said quietly. "If you won't expect me to dance attendance upon you, I withdraw my objections." The eleven-o'clock train for New York had among its passengers Mr. and Mrs. Duncan. There was another passenger whom neither of them noticed--a small, insignificant-looking man--who occasionally directed a quick glance at the portly bank president. CHAPTER XIX EFFECTING A LOAN Prince Duncan was unusually taciturn during the railroad journey--so much so that his wife noticed it, and inquired the reason. "Business, my dear," answered the bank president. "I am rather perplexed by a matter of business." "Business connected with the bank, Mr. Duncan?" asked his wife. "No, private business." "Have you heard anything yet of the stolen bonds?" "Not yet." "Have you any suspicion?" "None that I am at liberty to mention," answered Duncan, looking mysterious. "I suppose you no longer suspect that boy Luke?" "I don't know. The man who owns to having given him the tin box for safe-keeping is, in my opinion, a suspicious character. I shouldn't be at all surprised if he were a jailbird." The small man already referred to, who occupied a seat just across the aisle, here smiled slightly, but whether at the president's remark, is not clear. "What did he call himself?" "Roland Reed--no doubt an alias." "It seems to me you ought to follow him up, and see if you can't convict him of the theft." "You may be sure, Jane, that the president and directors of the Groveton Bank will do their duty in this matter," said Mr. Duncan rather grandiloquently. "By the way, I have received this morning a letter from Mr. Armstrong, the owner of the stolen bonds, saying that he will be at home in a few days." "Does he know of the loss?" "Not yet." "How will he take it?" "Really, Jane, you are very inquisitive this morning. I presume he will be very much annoyed." The car had become quite warm, and Mr. Duncan, who had hitherto kept on his overcoat, rose to take it off. Unfortunately for him he quite forgot the bonds he had in the inside pocket, and in his careless handling of the coat the package fell upon the floor of the car, one slipping out of the envelope a bond for one thousand dollars. Prince Duncan turned pale, and stooped to pick up the package. But the small man opposite was too quick for him. He raised the package from the floor, and handing it to the bank president with a polite bow, said, with a smile: "You wouldn't like to lose this, sir." "No," answered Duncan gruffly, angry with the other for anticipating him, "it was awkward of me." Mrs. Duncan also saw the bond, and inquired with natural curiosity. "Do they belong to the bank, Mr. Duncan?" "No; they are my own." "I am glad of that. What are you going to do with them?" "Hush! It is dangerous to speak of them here. Some one might hear, and I might be followed. I am very much annoyed that they have been seen at all." This closed Mrs. Duncan's mouth, but she resolved to make further inquiries when they were by themselves. Prince Duncan looked askance at his opposite neighbor. He was a man who had come to Groveton recently, and had opened a billiard saloon and bar not far from the bank. He was not regarded as a very desirable citizen, and had already excited the anxiety of parents by luring into the saloon some of the boys and young men of the village. Among them, though Squire Duncan did not know it, was his own son Randolph, who had already developed quite a fondness for playing pool, and even occasionally patronized the bar. This, had he known it, would have explained Randolph's increased applications for money. Whether Tony Denton--his full name was Anthony Denton--had any special object in visiting New York, I am unable to state. At all events it appeared that his business lay in the same direction as that of Prince Duncan, for on the arrival of the train at the New York depot, he followed the bank president at a safe distance, and was clearly bent upon keeping him in view. Mr. Duncan walked slowly, and appeared to be plunged in anxious thought. His difficulties were by no means over. He had the bonds to dispose of, and he feared the large amount might occasion suspicion. They were coupon bonds, and bore no name or other evidence of ownership. Yet the mere fact of having such a large amount might occasion awkward inquiries. "Here's yer mornin' papers!" called a negro newsboy, thrusting his bundle in front of the country banker. "Give me a Herald," said Mr. Duncan. Opening the paper, his eye ran hastily over the columns. It lighted up as he saw a particular advertisement. "The very thing," he said to himself. This was the advertisement: "LOAN OFFICE--We are prepared to loan sums to suit, on first-class security, at a fair rate of interest. Call or address Sharp & Ketchum, No. -- Wall Street. Third floor." "I will go there," Prince Duncan suddenly decided. "I will borrow what I can on these bonds, and being merely held on collateral, they will be kept out of the market. At the end of six months, say, I will redeem them, or order them sold, and collect the balance, minus the interest." Having arrived at this conclusion, he quickened his pace, his expression became more cheerful, and he turned his steps toward Wall Street. "What did the old fellow see in the paper?" thought Tony. Denton, who, still undiscovered, followed Mr. Duncan closely. "It is something that pleased him, evidently." He beckoned the same newsboy, bought a Herald also, and turning to that part of the paper on which the banker's eyes had been resting, discovered Sharp & Ketchum's advertisement. "That's it, I'll bet a hat," he decided. "He is going to raise money on the bonds. I'll follow him." When Duncan turned into Wall Street, Tony Denton felt that he had guessed correctly. He was convinced when the bank president paused before the number indicated in the advertisement. "It won't do for me to follow him in," he said to himself, "nor will it be necessary--I can remember the place and turn it to my own account by and by." Prince Duncan went up-stairs, and paused before a door on which was inscribed: SHARP & KETCHUM BANKERS LOANS NEGOTIATED He opened the door, and found the room furnished in the style of a private banking-office. "Is Mr. Sharp or Mr. Ketchum in?" he inquired of a sharp-faced young clerk, the son, as it turned out, of the senior partner. "Yes, sir, Mr. Sharp is in." "Is he at leisure? I wish to see him on business." "Go in there, sir," said the clerk, pointing to a small private room in the corner of the office. Following the directions, Mr. Duncan found himself in the presence of a man of about fifty, with a hatchet face, much puckered with wrinkles, and a very foxy expression. "I am Mr. Sharp," he said, in answer to an inquiry. Prince Duncan unfolded his business. He wished to borrow eight or nine thousand dollars on ten thousand dollars' worth of United States Government bonds. "Why don't you sell at once?" asked Sharp keenly. "Because I wish, for special reasons, to redeem these identical bonds, say six months hence." "They are your own?" asked Mr. Sharp. "They are a part of my wife's estate, of which I have control. I do not, however, wish her to know that I have raised money on them," answered Duncan, with a smooth falsehood. "Of course, that makes a difference. However, I will loan you seven thousand dollars, and you will give me your note for seven thousand five hundred, at the usual interest, with permission to sell the bonds at the end of six months if the note remains unpaid then, I to hand you the balance." Prince Duncan protested against these terms as exorbitant, but was finally obliged to accede to them. On the whole, he was fairly satisfied. The check would relieve him from all his embarrassments and give him a large surplus. "So far so good!" said Tony Denton, as he saw Mr. Duncan emerge into the street. "If I am not greatly mistaken this will prove a lucky morning for me." CHAPTER XX LUKE TALKS WITH A CAPITALIST Luke worked steadily on the task given him by his new patron. During the first week he averaged three hours a day, with an additional two hours on Saturday, making, in all, twenty hours, making, at thirty cents per hour, six dollars. This Luke considered fair pay, considering that he was attending school and maintaining good rank in his classes. "Why don't we see more of you, Luke?" asked his friend Linton one day. "You seem to stay in the house all the time." "Because I am at work, Linny. Last week I made six dollars." "How?" asked Linton, surprised. "By copying and making out bills for Mr. Reed." "That is better than being janitor at a dollar a week." "Yes, but I have to work a good deal harder." "I am afraid you are working too hard." "I shouldn't like to keep it up, but it is only for a short time. If I gave up school I should find it easy enough, but I don't want to do that." "No, I hope you won't; I should miss you, and so would all the boys." "Including Randolph Duncan?" "I don't know about that. By the way, I hear that Randolph is spending a good deal of his time at Tony Denton's billiard saloon." "I am sorry to hear it. It hasn't a very good reputation." * * * * * * * * * One day Luke happened to be at the depot at the time of the arrival of the train from New York. A small, elderly man stepped upon the platform whom Luke immediately recognized as John Armstrong, the owner of the missing box of bonds. He was surprised to see him, having supposed that he was still in Europe. Mr. Armstrong, as already stated, had boarded for several weeks during the preceding summer at Groveton. He looked at Luke with a half-glance of recognition. "Haven't I seen you before?" he said. "What is your name?" "My name is Luke Larkin. I saw you several times last summer." "Then you know me?" "Yes, sir, you are Mr. Armstrong. But I thought you were in Europe." "So I was till recently. I came home sooner than I expected." Luke was not surprised. He supposed that intelligence of the robbery had hastened Mr. Armstrong's return. "I suppose it was the news of your box that hurried you home," Luke ventured to say. "No, I hadn't heard of it till my arrival in New York can you tell me anything about the matter? Has the box been found?" "Not that I have heard, sir." "Was, or is, anybody suspected?" "I was suspected," answered Luke, smiling, "but I don't think any one suspects me now." "You!" exclaimed the capitalist, in evident astonishment. "What could induce any one to suspect a boy like you of robbing a bank?" "There was some ground for it," said Luke candidly. "A tin box, of the same appearance as the one lost, was seen in our house. I was arrested on suspicion, and tried." "You don't say so! How did you prove your innocence?" "The gentleman who gave me the box in charge appeared and testified in my favor. But for that I am afraid I should have fared badly." "That is curious. Who was the gentleman?" Luke gave a rapid history of the circumstances already known to the reader. "I am glad to hear this, being principally interested in the matter. However, I never should have suspected you. I claim to be something of a judge of character and physiognomy, and your appearance is in your favor. Your mother is a widow, I believe?" "Yes, sir." "And you are the janitor of the schoolhouse?" Mr. Armstrong was a close observer, and though having large interests of his own, made himself familiar with the affairs of those whom others in his position would wholly have ignored. "I was janitor," Luke replied, "but when Mr. Duncan became a member of the school committee he removed me." "For what reason?" asked Mr. Armstrong quickly. "I don't think he ever liked me, and his son Randolph and I have never been good friends." "You mean Mr. Duncan, the president of the bank?" "Yes, sir?" "Why are not you and his son friends?" "I don't know, sir. He has always been in the habit of sneering at me as a poor boy--a working boy--and unworthy to associate with him." "You don't look like a poor boy. You are better dressed than I was at your age. Besides, you have a watch, I judge from the chain." "Yes, sir; but all that is only lately. I have found a good friend who has been very kind to me." "Who is he?" "Roland Reed, the owner of the tin box I referred to." "Roland Reed! I never heard the name. Where is he from?" "From the West, I believe, though at present he is staying in New York." "How much were you paid as janitor?" "A dollar a week." "That is very little. Is the amount important to you?" "No, sir, not now." And then Luke gave particulars of the good fortune of the family in having secured a profitable boarder, and, furthermore, in obtaining for himself profitable employment. "This Mr. Reed seems to be a kind-hearted and liberal man. I am glad for your sake. I sympathize with poor boys. Can you guess the reason?" "Were you a poor boy yourself, sir?" "I was, and a very poor boy. When I was a boy of thirteen and fourteen I ran around in overalls and bare-footed. But I don't think it did me any harm," the old man added, musingly. "It kept me from squandering money on foolish pleasures, for I had none to spend; it made me industrious and self-reliant, and when I obtained employment it made me anxious to please my employer." "I hope it will have the same effect on me, sir." "I hope so, and I think so. What sort of a boy is this son of Mr. Duncan?" "If his father were not a rich man, I think he would be more agreeable. As it is, he seems to have a high idea of his own importance." "So his father has the reputation of being a rich man, eh?" "Yes, sir. We have always considered him so." "Without knowing much about it?" "Yes, sir; we judged from his style of living, and from his being president of a bank." "That amounts to nothing. His salary as president is only moderate." "I am sorry you should have met with such a loss, Mr. Armstrong." "So am I, but it won't cripple me. Still, a man doesn't like to lose twenty-five thousand dollars and over." "Was there as much as that in the box, sir?" asked Luke, in surprise. "Yes, I don't know why I need make any secret of it. There were twenty-five thousand dollars in government bonds, and these, at present rates, are worth in the neighborhood of thirty thousand dollars." "That seems to me a great deal of money," said Luke. "It is, but I can spare it without any diminution of comfort. I don't feel, however, like pocketing the loss without making a strong effort to recover the money. I didn't expect to meet immediately upon arrival the only person hitherto suspected of accomplishing the robbery." He smiled as he spoke, and Luke saw that, so far as Mr. Armstrong was concerned, he had no occasion to feel himself under suspicion. "Are you intending to remain long in Groveton, Mr. Armstrong?" he asked. "I can't say. I have to see Mr. Duncan about the tin box, and concoct some schemes looking to the discovery of the person or persons concerned in its theft. Have there been any suspicious persons in the village during the last few weeks?" "Not that I know of, sir." "What is the character of the men employed in the bank, the cashier and teller?" "They seem to be very steady young men, sir. I don't think they have been suspected." "The most dangerous enemies are those who are inside, for they have exceptional opportunities for wrongdoing. Moreover, they have the best chance to cover up their tracks." "I don't think there is anything to charge against Mr. Roper and Mr. Barclay. They are both young married men, and live in a quiet way." "Never speculate in Wall Street, eh? One of the soberest, steadiest bank cashiers I ever knew, who lived plainly and frugally, and was considered by all to be a model man, wrecked the man he was connected with--a small country banker--and is now serving a term in State's prison. The cause was Wall Street speculation. This is more dangerous even than extravagant habits of living." A part of this conversation took place on the platform of the railroad-station, and a part while they were walking in the direction of the hotel. They had now reached the village inn, and, bidding our hero good morning, Mr. Armstrong entered, and registered his name. Ten minutes later he set out for the house of Prince Duncan. CHAPTER XXI THE DREADED INTERVIEW Mr. Duncan had been dreading the inevitable interview with Mr. Armstrong. He knew him to be a sharp man of business, clear-sighted and keen, and he felt that this part of the conference would be an awkward and embarrassing one. He had tried to nerve himself for the interview, and thought he had succeeded, but when the servant brought Mr. Armstrong's card he felt a sinking at his heart, and it was in a tone that betrayed nervousness that he said: "Bring the gentleman in." "My dear sir," he said, extending his hand and vigorously shaking the hand of his new arrival, "this is an unexpected pleasure." "Unexpected? Didn't you get my letter from London?" said Mr. Armstrong, suffering his hand to be shaken, but not returning the arm pressure. "Certainly--" "In which I mentioned my approaching departure?" "Yes, certainly; but I didn't know on what day to expect you. Pray sit down. It seems pleasant to see you home safe and well." "Humph!" returned Armstrong, in a tone by no means as cordial. "Have you found my box of bonds?" "Not yet, but--" "Permit me to ask you why you allowed me to remain ignorant of so important a matter? I was indebted to the public prints, to which my attention was directed by an acquaintance, for a piece of news which should have been communicated to me at once." "My dear sir, I intended to write you as soon as I heard of your arrival. I did not know till this moment that you were in America." "You might have inferred it from the intimation in my last letter. Why did you not cable me the news?" "Because," replied Duncan awkwardly, "I did not wish to spoil your pleasure, and thought from day to day that the box would turn up." "You were very sparing of my feelings," said Armstrong, dryly-- "too much so. I am not a child or an old woman, and it was your imperative duty, in a matter so nearly affecting my interests, to apprise me at once." "I may have erred in judgment," said Duncan meekly, "but I beg you to believe that I acted as I supposed for the best." "Leaving that out of consideration at present, let me know what steps you have taken to find out how the box was spirited away, or who was concerned in the robbery." "I think that you will admit that I acted promptly," said the bank president complacently, "when I say that within twenty-four hours I arrested a party on suspicion of being implicated in the robbery, and tried him myself." "Who was the party?" asked the capitalist, not betraying the knowledge he had already assessed on the subject. "A boy in the village named Luke Larkin." "Humph! What led you to think a boy had broken into the bank? That does not strike me as very sharp on your part." "I had positive evidence that the boy in question had a tin box concealed in his house--in his mother's trunk. His poverty made it impossible that the box could be his, and I accordingly had him arrested." "Well, what was the result of the trial?" "I was obliged to let him go, though by no means satisfied of his innocence." "Why?" "A man--a stranger--a very suspicious-looking person, presented himself, and swore that the box was his, and that he had committed it to the charge of this boy." "Well, that seems tolerably satisfactory, doesn't it?--that is, if he furnished evidence confirming his statement. Did he open the box in court?" "Yes." "And the bonds were not there?" "The bonds were not there only some papers, and what appeared to be certificates of stock." "Yet you say you are still suspicious of this man and boy." "Yes." "Explain your grounds." "I thought," replied the president, rather meekly, "he might have taken the bonds from the box and put in other papers." "That was not very probable. Moreover, he would hardly be likely to leave the box in the village in the charge of a boy." "The boy might have been his confederate." "What is the boy's reputation in the village? Has he ever been detected in any act of dishonesty?" "Not that I know of, but there is one suspicious circumstance to which I would like to call your attention." "Well?" "Since this happened Luke has come out in new clothes, and wears a silver watch. The family is very poor, and he could not have had money to buy them unless he obtained some outside aid." "What, then, do you infer?" "That he has been handsomely paid for his complicity in the robbery." "What explanation does he personally give of this unusual expenditure?" "He admits that they were paid for by this suspicious stranger." "Has the stranger--what is his name, by the way?" "Roland Reed, he calls himself, but this, probably, is not his real name." "Well, has this Reed made his appearance in the village since?" "If so, he has come during the night, and has not been seen by any of us." "I can't say I share your suspicion against Mr. Reed. Your theory that he took out the bonds and substituted other papers is far-fetched and improbable. As to the boy, I consider him honest and reliable." "Do you know Luke Larkin?" asked Mr. Duncan quickly. "Last summer I observed him somewhat, and never saw anything wrong in him." "Appearances are deceitful," said the bank president sententiously. "So I have heard," returned Mr. Armstrong dryly. "But let us go on. What other steps have you taken to discover the lost box?" "I have had the bank vaults thoroughly searched," answered Duncan, trying to make the best of a weak situation. "Of course. It is hardly to be supposed that it has been mislaid. Even if it had been it would have turned up before this. Did you discover any traces of the bank being forcibly entered?" "No; but the burglar may have covered his tracks." "There would have been something to show an entrance. What is the character of the cashier and teller." "I know nothing to their disadvantage." "Then neither have fallen under suspicion?" "Not as yet," answered the president pointedly. "It is evident," thought John Armstrong, "that Mr. Duncan is interested in diverting suspicion from some quarter. He is willing that these men should incur suspicion, though it is clear he has none in his own mind." "Well, what else have you done? Have you employed detectives?" asked Armstrong, impatiently. "I was about to do so," answered Mr. Duncan, in some embarrassment, "when I heard that you were coming home, and I thought I would defer that matter for your consideration." "Giving time in the meanwhile for the thief or thieves to dispose of their booty? This is very strange conduct, Mr. Duncan." "I acted for the best," said Prince Duncan. "You have singular ideas of what is best, then," observed Mr. Armstrong coldly. "It may be too late to remedy your singular neglect, but I will now take the matter out of your hands, and see what I can do." "Will you employ detectives?" asked Duncan, with evident uneasiness. Armstrong eyed him sharply, and with growing suspicion. "I can't say what I will do." "Have you the numbers of the missing bonds?" asked Duncan anxiously. "I am not sure. I am afraid I have not." Was it imagination, or did the bank president look relieved at this statement? John Armstrong made a mental note of this. After eliciting the particulars of the disappearance of the bonds, John Armstrong rose to go. He intended to return to the city, but he made up his mind to see Luke first. He wanted to inquire the address of Roland Reed. CHAPTER XXII LUKE SECURES A NEW FRIEND Luke was engaged in copying when Mr. Armstrong called. Though he felt surprised to see his visitor, Luke did not exhibit it in his manner, but welcomed him politely, and invited him into the sitting-room. "I have called to inquire the address of your friend, Mr. Roland Reed," said Mr. Armstrong. Then, seeing a little uneasiness in Luke's face, he added quickly: "Don't think I have the slightest suspicion of him as regards the loss of the bonds. I wish only to consult him, being myself at a loss what steps to take. He may be able to help me." Of course, Luke cheerfully complied with his request. "Has anything been heard yet at the bank?" he asked. "Nothing whatever. In fact, it does not appear to me that any very serious efforts have been made to trace the robber or robbers. I am left to undertake the task myself." "If there is anything I can do to help you, Mr. Armstrong, I shall be very glad to do so," said Luke. "I will bear that in mind, and may call upon you. As yet, my plans are not arranged. Perhaps Mr. Reed, whom I take to be an experienced man of the world, may be able to offer a suggestion. You seem to be at work," he added, with a look at the table at which Luke had been sitting. "Yes, sir, I am making out some bills for Mr. Reed." "Is the work likely to occupy you long?" "No, sir; I shall probably finish the work this week." "And then your time will be at your disposal?" "Yes, sir." "Pardon me the question, but I take it your means are limited?" "Yes, sir; till recently they have been very limited--now, thanks to Mr. Reed, who pays a liberal salary for his little girl's board, we are very comfortable, and can get along very well, even if I do not immediately find work." "I am glad to hear that. If I should hear of any employment likely to please you I will send you word." "Thank you, sir." "Would you object to leave home?" "No, sir; there is little or no prospect in Groveton, and though my mother would miss me, she now has company, and I should feel easier about leaving her." "If you can spare the time, won't you walk with me to the depot?" "With great pleasure, sir," and Luke went into the adjoining room to fetch his hat, at the same time apprising his mother that he was going out. On the way to the depot Mr. Armstrong managed to draw out Luke with a view to getting better acquainted with him, and forming an idea of his traits of character. Luke was quite aware of this, but talked frankly and easily, having nothing to conceal. "A thoroughly good boy, and a smart boy, too!" said Armstrong to himself. "I must see if I can't give him a chance to rise. He seems absolutely reliable." On the way to the depot they met Randolph Duncan, who eyed them curiously. He recognized Mr. Armstrong as the owner of the stolen bonds--and was a good deal surprised to see him in such friendly conversation with Luke. Knowing Mr. Armstrong to be a rich man, he determined to claim acquaintance. "How do you do, Mr. Armstrong?" he said, advancing with an ingratiating smile. "This is Randolph Duncan," said Luke--whom, by the way, Randolph had not thought it necessary to notice. "I believe I have met the young gentleman before," said Mr. Armstrong politely, but not cordially. "Yes, sir, I have seen you at our house," continued Randolph--"my father is president of the Groveton Bank. He will be very glad to see you. Won't you come home with me?" "I have already called upon your father," said Mr. Armstrong. "I am very sorry your bonds were stolen, Mr. Armstrong." "Not more than I am, I assure you," returned Mr. Armstrong, with a quizzical smile. "Could I speak with you a moment in private, sir?" asked Randolph, with a significant glance at Luke. "Certainly; Luke, will you cross the road a minute? Now, young man!" "Probably you don't know that the boy you are walking with was suspected of taking the box from the bank." "I have heard so; but he was acquitted of the charge, wasn't he?" "My father still believes that he had something to do with it, and so do I," added Randolph, with an emphatic nod of his head. "Isn't he a friend of yours?" asked Mr. Armstrong quietly. "No, indeed; we go to the same school, though father thinks of sending me to an academy out of town soon, but there is no friendship between us. He is only a working boy." "Humph! That is very much against him," observed Mr. Armstrong, but it was hard to tell from his tone whether he spoke in earnest or ironically. "Oh, well, he has to work, for the family is very poor. He's come out in new clothes and a silver watch since the robbery. He says the strange man from whom he received a tin box just like yours gave them to him." "And you think he didn't get them in that way?" "Yes, I think they were leagued together. I feel sure that man robbed the bank." "Dear me, it does look suspicious!" remarked Armstrong. "If Luke was guiding you to the train, I will take his place, sir." "Thank you, but perhaps I had better keep him with me, and cross-examine him a little. I suppose I can depend upon your keeping your eyes upon him, and letting me know of any suspicious conduct on his part?" "Yes, sir, I will do it with pleasure," Randolph announced promptly. He felt sure that he had excited Mr. Armstrong's suspicions, and defeated any plans Luke might have cherished of getting in with the capitalist. "Have you anything more to communicate?" asked Mr. Armstrong, politely. "No, sir; I thought it best to put you on your guard." "I quite appreciate your motives, Master Randolph. I shall keep my eyes open henceforth, and hope in time to discover the real perpetrator of the robbery. Now, Luke." "I have dished you, young fellow!" thought Randolph, with a triumphant glance at the unconscious Luke. He walked away in high self-satisfaction. "Luke," said Mr. Armstrong, as they resumed their walk, "Randolph seems a very warm friend of yours." "I never thought so," said Luke, with an answering smile. "I am glad if he has changed." "What arrangements do you think I have made with him?" "I don't know, sir." "I have asked him to keep his eye on you, and, if he sees anything suspicious, to let me know." Luke would have been disturbed by this remark, had not the smile on Mr. Armstrong's face belied his words. "Does he think you are in earnest, sir?" "Oh, yes, he has no doubt of it. He warned me of your character, and said he was quite sure that you and your friend Mr. Reed were implicated in the bank robbery. I told him I would cross-examine you, and see what I could find out. Randolph told me that you were only a working boy, which I pronounced to be very much against you." Luke laughed outright. "I think you are fond of a practical joke, Mr. Armstrong," he said. "You have fooled Randolph very neatly." "I had an object in it," said Mr. Armstrong quietly. "I may have occasion to employ you in the matter, and if so, it will be well that no arrangement is suspected between us. Randolph will undoubtedly inform his father of what happened this morning." "As I said before, sir, I am ready to do anything that lies in my power." Luke could not help feeling curious as to the character of the service he would be called upon to perform. He found it difficult to hazard a conjecture, but one thing at least seemed clear, and this was that Mr. Armstrong was disposed to be his friend, and as he was a rich man his friendship was likely to amount to some thing. They had now reached the depot, and in ten minutes the train was due. "Don't wait if you wish to get to work, Luke," said Mr. Armstrong kindly. "My work can wait; it is nearly finished," said Luke. The ten minutes passed rapidly, and with a cordial good-bye, the capitalist entered the train, leaving Luke to return to his modest home in good spirits. "I have two influential friends, now," he said to himself--"Mr. Reed and Mr. Armstrong. On the whole, Luke Larkin, you are in luck, your prospects look decidedly bright, even if you have lost the janitorship." CHAPTER XXIII RANDOLPH AND HIS CREDITOR Though Randolph was pleased at having, as he thought, put a spoke in Luke's wheel, and filled Mr. Armstrong's mind with suspicion, he was not altogether happy. He had a little private trouble of his own. He had now for some time been a frequenter of Tony Denton's billiard saloon, patronizing both the table and the bar. He had fallen in with a few young men of no social standing, who flattered him, and, therefore, stood in his good graces. With them he played billiards and drank. After a time he found that he was exceeding his allowance, but in the most obliging way Tony Denton had offered him credit. "Of course, Mr. Duncan"--Randolph felt flattered at being addressed in this way--"of course, Mr. Duncan, your credit is good with me. If you haven't the ready money, and I know most young gentlemen are liable to be short, I will just keep an account, and you can settle at your convenience." This seemed very obliging, but I am disposed to think that a boy's worst enemy is the one who makes it easy for him to run into debt. Randolph was not wholly without caution, for he said: "But suppose, Tony, I am not able to pay when you want the money?" "Oh, don't trouble yourself about that, Mr. Duncan," said Tony cordially. "Of course, I know the standing of your family, and I am perfectly safe. Some time you will be a rich man." "Yes, I suppose I shall," said Randolph, in a consequential tone. "And it is worth something to me to have my saloon patronized by a young gentleman of your social standing." Evidently, Tony Denton understood Randolph's weak point, and played on it skillfully. He assumed an air of extra consequence, as he remarked condescendingly: "You are very obliging, Tony, and I shall not forget it." Tony Denton laughed in his sleeve at the boy's vanity, but his manner was very respectful, and Randolph looked upon him as an humble friend and admirer. "He is a sensible man, Tony; he understands what is due to my position," he said to himself. After Denton's visit to New York with Prince Duncan, and the knowledge which he then acquired about the president of the Groveton Bank, he decided that the time had come to cut short Randolph's credit with him. The day of reckoning always comes in such cases, as I hope my young friends will fully understand. Debt is much more easily contracted than liquidated, and this Randolph found to his cost. One morning he was about to start on a game of billiards, when Tony Denton called him aside. "I would like to speak a word to you, Mr. Duncan," he said smoothly. "All right, Tony," said Randolph, in a patronizing tone. "What can I do for you?" "My rent comes due to-morrow, Mr. Duncan, and I should be glad if you would pay me a part of your account. It has been running some time--" Randolph's jaw fell, and he looked blank. "How much do I owe you?" he asked. Tony referred to a long ledgerlike account-book, turned to a certain page, and running his fingers down a long series of items, answered, "Twenty-seven dollars and sixty cents." "It can't be so much!" ejaculated Randolph, in dismay. "Surely you have made a mistake!" "You can look for yourself," said Tony suavely. "Just reckon it up; I may have made a little mistake in the sum total." Randolph looked over the items, but he was nervous, and the page swam before his eyes. He was quite incapable of performing the addition, simple as it was, in his then frame of mind. "I dare say you have added it up all right," he said, after an abortive attempt to reckon it up, "but I can hardly believe that I owe you so much." "'Many a little makes a mickle,' as we Scotch say," answered Tony cheerfully. "However, twenty-seven dollars is a mere trifle to a young man like you. Come, if you'll pay me to-night, I'll knock off the sixty cents." "It's quite impossible for me to do it," said Randolph, ill at ease. "Pay me something on account--say ten dollars." "I haven't got but a dollar and a quarter in my pocket." "Oh, well, you know where to go for more money," said Tony, with a wink. "The old gentleman's got plenty." "I am not so sure about that--I mean that he is willing to pay out. Of course, he's got plenty of money invested," added Randolph, who liked to have it thought that his father was a great financial magnate. "Well, he can spare some for his son, I am sure." "Can't you let it go for a little while longer, Tony?" asked Randolph, awkwardly. "Really, Mr. Duncan, I couldn't. I am a poor man, as you know, and have my bills to pay." "I take it as very disobliging, Tony; I sha'n't care to patronize your place any longer," said Randolph, trying a new tack. Tony Denton shrugged his shoulders. "I only care for patrons who are willing to pay their bills," he answered significantly. "It doesn't pay me to keep my place open free." "Of course not; but I hope you are not afraid of me?" "Certainly not. I am sure you will act honorably and pay your bills. If I thought you wouldn't, I would go and see your father about it." "No, you mustn't do that," said Randolph, alarmed. "He doesn't know I come here." "And he won't know from me, if you pay what you owe." Matters were becoming decidedly unpleasant for Randolph. The perspiration gathered on his brow. He didn't know what to do. That his father would not give him money for any such purpose, he very well knew, and he dreaded his finding out where he spent so many of his evenings. "Oh, don't trouble yourself about a trifle," said Tony smoothly. "Just go up to your father, frankly, and tell him you want the money." "He wouldn't give me twenty-seven dollars," said Randolph gloomily. "Then ask for ten, and I'll wait for the balance till next week." "Can't you put it all off till next week?" "No; I really couldn't, Mr. Duncan. What does it matter to you this week, or next?" Randolph wished to put off as long as possible the inevitable moment, though he knew it would do him no good in the end. But Tony Denton was inflexible--and he finally said: "Well, I'll make the attempt, but I know I shall fail." "That's all right; I knew you would look at it in the right light. Now, go ahead and play your game." "No, I don't want to increase my debt." "Oh, I won't charge you for what you play this evening. Tony Denton can be liberal as well as the next man. Only I have to collect money to pay my bills." Randolph didn't know that all this had been prearranged by the obliging saloon-keeper, and that, in now pressing him, he had his own object in view. The next morning, Randolph took an opportunity to see his father alone. "Father," he said, "will you do me a favor?" "What is it, Randolph?" "Let me have ten dollars." His father frowned. "What do you want with ten dollars?" he asked. "I don't like to go round without money in my pocket. It doesn't look well for the son of a rich man." "Who told you I was a rich man?" said his father testily. "Why, you are, aren't you? Everybody in the village says so." "I may, or may not, be rich, but I don't care to encourage my son in extravagant habits. You say you have no money. Don't you have your regular allowance?" "It is only two dollars a week." "Only two dollars a week!" repeated the father angrily. "Let me tell you, young man, that when I was of your age I didn't have twenty-five cents a week." "That was long ago. People lived differently from what they do now." "How did they?" "They didn't live in any style." "They didn't spend money foolishly, as they do now. I don't see for my part what you can do with even two dollars a week." "Oh, it melts away, one way or another. I am your only son, and people expect me to spend money. It is expected of one in my position." "So you can. I consider two dollars a week very liberal." "You'd understand better if you were a young fellow like me how hard it is to get along on that." "I don't want to understand," returned his father stoutly. "One thing I understand, and that is, that the boys of the present day are foolishly extravagant. Think of Luke Larkin! Do you think he spends two dollars even in a month?" "I hope you don't mean to compare me with a working boy like Luke?" Randolph said scornfully. "I am not sure but Luke would suit me better than you in some respects." "You are speaking of Luke," said Randolph, with a lucky thought. "Well, even he, working boy as he is, has a better watch than I, who am the son of the president of the Groveton Bank." "Do you want the ten dollars to buy a better watch?" asked Prince Duncan. "Yes," answered Randolph, ready to seize on any pretext for the sake of getting the money. "Then wait till I go to New York again, and I will look at some watches. I won't make any promise, but I may buy you one. I don't care about Luke outshining you." This by no means answered Randolph's purpose. "Won't you let me go up to the city myself, father?" he asked. "No, I prefer to rely upon my own judgment in a purchase of that kind." It had occurred to Randolph that he would go to the city, and pretend on his return that he had bought a watch but had his pocket picked. Of course, his father would give him more than ten dollars for the purpose, and he could privately pay it over to Tony Denton. But this scheme did not work, and he made up his mind at last that he would have to tell Tony he must wait. He did so. Tony Denton, who fully expected this, and, for reasons of his own, did not regret it, said very little to Randolph, but decided to go round and see Prince Duncan himself. It would give him a chance to introduce the other and more important matter. It was about this time that Linton's birthday-party took place. Randolph knew, of course, that he would meet Luke, but he no longer had the satisfaction of deriding his shabby dress. Our hero wore his best suit, and showed as much ease and self-possession as Randolph himself. "What airs that boy Luke puts on!" ejaculated Randolph, in disgust. "I believe he thinks he is my equal." In this Randolph was correct. Luke certainly did consider himself the social equal of the haughty Randolph, and the consciousness of being well dressed made him feel at greater ease than at Florence Grant's party. He had taken additional lessons in dancing from his friend Linton, and, being quick to learn, showed no awkwardness on the floor. Linton's parents, by their kind cordiality, contributed largely to the pleasure of their son's guests, who at the end of the evening unanimously voted the party a success. CHAPTER XXIV A COMMISSION FOR LUKE Upon his return to the city, John Armstrong lost no time in sending for Roland Reed. The latter, though rather surprised at the summons, answered it promptly. When he entered the office of the old merchant he found him sitting at his desk. "Mr. Armstrong?" he said inquiringly. "That's my name. You, I take it, are Roland Reed." "Yes." "No doubt you wonder why I sent for you," said Mr. Armstrong. "Is it about the robbery of the Groveton Bank?" "You have guessed it. You know, I suppose, that I am the owner of the missing box of bonds?" "So I was told. Have you obtained any clue?" "I have not had time. I have only just returned from Europe. I have done nothing except visit Groveton." "What led you to send for me? Pardon my curiosity, but I can't help asking." "An interview with a protege of yours, Luke Larkin." "You know that Luke was arrested on suspicion of being connected with the robbery, though there are those who pay me the compliment of thinking that I may have had something to do with it." "I think you had as much to do with it as Luke Larkin," said Armstrong, deliberately. "I had--just as much," said Reed, with a smile. "Luke is a good boy, Mr. Armstrong." "I quite agree with you. If I had a son I should like him to resemble Luke." "Give me your hand on that, Mr. Armstrong," said Roland Reed, impulsively. "Excuse my impetuosity, but I've taken a fancy to that boy." "There, then, we are agreed. Now, Mr. Reed, I will tell you why I have taken the liberty of sending for you. From what Luke said, I judged that you were a sharp, shrewd man of the world, and might help me in this matter, which I confess puzzles me. You know the particulars, and therefore, without preamble, I am going to ask you whether you have any theory as regards this robbery. The box hasn't walked off without help. Now, who took it from the bank?" "If I should tell you my suspicion you might laugh at me." "I will promise not to do that." "Then I believe that Prince Duncan, president of the Groveton Bank, could tell you, if he chose, what has become of the box." "Extraordinary!" ejaculated John Armstrong. "I supposed you would be surprised--probably indignant, if you are a friend of Duncan--but, nevertheless, I adhere to my statement." "You mistake the meaning of my exclamation. I spoke of it as extraordinary, because the same suspicion has entered my mind, though, I admit, without a special reason." "I have a reason." "May I inquire what it is?" "I knew Prince Duncan when he was a young man, though he does not know me now. In fact, I may as well admit that I was then known by another name. He wronged me deeply at that time, being guilty of a crime which he successfully laid upon my shoulders. No one in Groveton--no one of his recent associates--knows the real nature of the man as well as I do." "You prefer not to go into particulars?" "Not at present." "At all events you can give me your advice. To suspect amounts to little. We must bring home the crime to him. It is here that I need your advice." "I understand that the box contained government bonds." "Yes." "What were the denominations?" "One ten thousand dollar bond, one five, and ten of one thousand each." "It seems to me they ought to be traced. I suppose, of course, they were coupon, not registered." "You are right. Had they been registered, I should have been at no trouble, nor would the thief have reaped any advantage." "If coupon, they are, of course, numbered. Won't that serve as a clue, supposing an attempt is made to dispose of them?" "You touch the weak point of my position. They are numbered, and I had a list of the numbers, but that list has disappeared. It is either lost or mislaid. Of course, I can't identify them." "That is awkward. Wouldn't the banker of whom you bought them be able to give you the numbers?" "Yes, but I don't know where they were bought. I had at the time in my employ a clerk and book-keeper, a steady-going and methodical man of fifty-odd, who made the purchase, and no doubt has a list of the numbers of the bonds." "Then where is your difficulty?" asked Roland Reed, in surprise. "Go to the clerk and put the question. What can be simpler?" "But I don't know where he is." "Don't know where he is?" echoed Reed, in genuine surprise. "No; James Harding--this is his name--left my employ a year since, having, through a life of economy, secured a competence, and went out West to join a widowed sister who had for many years made her residence there. Now, the West is a large place, and I don't know where this sister lives, or where James Harding is to be found." "Yet he must be found. You must send a messenger to look for him." "But whom shall I send? In a matter of this delicacy I don't want to employ a professional detective. Those men sometimes betray secrets committed to their keeping, and work up a false clue rather than have it supposed they are not earning their money. If, now, some gentleman in whom I had confidence--someone like yourself--would undertake the commission, I should esteem myself fortunate." "Thank you for the compliment, Mr. Armstrong, more especially as you are putting confidence in a stranger, but I have important work to do that would not permit me to leave New York at present. But I know of someone whom I would employ, if the business were mine." "Well?" "Luke Larkin." "But he is only a boy. He can't be over sixteen." "He is a sharp boy, however, and would follow instructions." John Armstrong thought rapidly. He was a man who decided quickly. "I will take your advice," he said. "As I don't want to have it supposed that he is in my employ, will you oblige me by writing to him and preparing him for a journey? Let it be supposed that he is occupied with a commission for you." "I will attend to the matter at once." The next morning Luke received the following letter: "MY DEAR LUKE: I have some work for you which will occupy some time and require a journey. You will be well paid. Bring a supply of underclothing, and assure your mother that she need feel under no apprehensions about you. Unless I am greatly mistaken, you will be able to take care of yourself. "Your friend, "ROLAND REED." Luke read the letter with excitement and pleasure. He was to go on a journey, and to a boy of his age a journey of any sort is delightful. He had no idea of the extent of the trip in store for him, but thought he might possibly be sent to Boston, or Philadelphia, and either trip he felt would yield him much pleasure. He quieted the natural apprehensions of his mother, and, satchel in hand, waited upon his patron in the course of a day. By him he was taken over to the office of Mr. Armstrong, from whom he received instructions and a supply of money. CHAPTER XXV MR. J. MADISON COLEMAN Luke didn't shrink from the long trip before him. He enjoyed the prospect of it, having always longed to travel and see distant places. He felt flattered by Mr. Armstrong's confidence in him, and stoutly resolved to deserve it. He would have been glad if he could have had the company of his friend Linton, but he knew that this was impossible. He must travel alone. "You have a difficult and perplexing task, Luke," said the capitalist. "You may not succeed." "I will do my best, Mr. Armstrong." "That is all I have a right to expect. If you succeed, you will do me a great service, of which I shall show proper appreciation." He gave Luke some instructions, and it was arranged that our hero should write twice a week, and, if occasion required, oftener, so that his employer might be kept apprised of his movements. Luke was not to stop short of Chicago. There his search was to begin; and there, if possible, he was to obtain information that might guide his subsequent steps. It is a long ride to Chicago, as Luke found. He spent a part of the time in reading, and a part in looking out of the window at the scenery, but still, at times, he felt lonely. "I wish Linton Tomkins were with me," he reflected. "What a jolly time we would have!" But Linton didn't even know what had become of his friend. Luke's absence was an occasion for wonder at Groveton, and many questions were asked of his mother. "He was sent for by Mr. Reed," answered the widow. "He is at work for him." "Mr. Reed is in New York, isn't he?" "Yes." It was concluded, therefore, that Luke was in New York, and one or two persons proposed to call upon him there, but his mother professed ignorance of his exact residence. She knew that he was traveling, but even she was kept in the dark as to where he was, nor did she know that Mr. Armstrong, and not Mr. Reed, was his employer. Some half dozen hours before reaching Chicago, a young man of twenty-five, or thereabouts, sauntered along the aisle, and sat down in the vacant seat beside Luke. "Nice day," he said, affably. "Very nice," responded Luke. "I suppose you are bound to Chicago?" "Yes, I expect to stay there awhile." "Going farther?" "I can't tell yet." "Going to school out there?" "No." "Perhaps you are traveling for some business firm, though you look pretty young for that." "No, I'm not a drummer, if that's what you mean. Still, I have a commisison from a New York business man." "A commission--of what kind?" drawled the newcomer. "It is of a confidential character," said Luke. "Ha! close-mouthed," thought the young man. "Well, I'll get it out of him after awhile." He didn't press the question, not wishing to arouse suspicion or mistrust. "Just so," he replied. "You are right to keep it to yourself, though you wouldn't mind trusting me if you knew me better. Is this your first visit to Chicago?" "Yes, sir." "Suppose we exchange cards. This is mine." He handed Luke a card, bearing this name. J. MADISON COLEMAN At the bottom of the card he wrote in pencil, "representing H. B. Claflin & Co." "Of course you've heard of our firm," he said. "Certainly." "I don't have the firm name printed on my card, for Claflin won't allow it. You will notice that I am called for old President Madison. He was an old friend of my grandfather. In fact, grandfather held a prominent office under his administration-- collector of the port of New York." "I have no card with me," responded Luke. "But my name is Luke Larkin." "Good name. Do you live in New York?" "No; a few miles in the country." "And whom do you represent?" "Myself for the most part," answered Luke, with a smile. "Good! No one has a better right to. I see there's something in you, Luke." "You've found it out pretty quick," thought Luke. "And I hope we will get better acquainted. If you're not permanently employed by this party, whose name you don't give, I will get you into the employ of Claflin & Co., if you would like it." "Thank you," answered Luke, who thought it quite possible that he might like to obtain a position with so eminent a firm. "How long have you been with them?" "Ten years--ever since I was of your age," promptly answered Mr. Coleman. "Is promotion rapid?" Luke asked, with interest. "Well, that depends on a man's capacity. I have been pushed right along. I went there as a boy, on four dollars a week; now I'm a traveling salesman--drummer as it is called--and I make about four thousand a year." "That's a fine salary," said Luke, feeling that his new acquaintance must be possessed of extra ability to occupy so desirable a position. "Yes, but I expect next year to get five thousand--Claflin knows I am worth it, and as he is a liberal man, I guess he will give it sooner than let me go." "I suppose many do not get on so well, Mr. Coleman." "I should say so! Now, there is a young fellow went there the same time that I did--his name is Frank Bolton. We were schoolfellows together, and just the same age, that is, nearly--he was born in April, and I in May. Well, we began at the same time on the same salary. Now I get sixty dollars a week and he only twelve--and he is glad to get that, too." "I suppose he hasn't much business capacity." "That's where you've struck it, Luke. He knows about enough to be clerk in a country store--and I suppose he'll fetch up there some day. You know what that means--selling sugar, and tea, and dried apples to old ladies, and occasionally measuring off a yard of calico, or selling a spool of cotton. If I couldn't do better than that I'd hire out as a farm laborer." Luke smiled at the enumeration of the duties of a country salesman. It was clear that Mr. Coleman, though he looked city-bred, must at some time in the past have lived in the country. "Perhaps that is the way I should turn out," he said. "I might not rise any higher than your friend Mr. Bolton." "Oh, yes, you would. You're smart enough, I'll guarantee. You might not get on so fast as I have, for it isn't every young man of twenty-six that can command four thousand dollars a year, but you would rise to a handsome income, I am sure." "I should be satisfied with two thousand a year at your age." "I would be willing to guarantee you that," asserted Mr. Coleman, confidently. "By the way, where do you propose to put up in Chicago?" "I have not decided yet." "You'd better go with me to the Ottawa House." "Is it a good house?" "They'll feed you well there, and only charge two dollars a day" "Is it centrally located?" "It isn't as central as the Palmer, or Sherman, or Tremont, but it is convenient to everything." I ought to say here that I have chosen to give a fictitious name to the hotel designated by Mr. Coleman. "Come, what do you say?" "I have no objection," answered Luke, after a slight pause for reflection. Indeed, it was rather pleasant to him to think that he would have a companion on his first visit to Chicago who was well acquainted with the city, and could serve as his guide. Though he should not feel justified in imparting to Mr. Coleman his special business, he meant to see something of the city, and would find his new friend a pleasant companion. "That's good," said Coleman, well pleased. "I shall be glad to have your company. I expected to meet a friend on the train, but something must have delayed him, and so I should have been left alone." "I suppose a part of your time will be given to business?" suggested Luke. "Yes, but I take things easy; when I work, I work. I can accomplish as much in a couple of hours as many would do in a whole day. You see, I understand my customers. When soft sawder is wanted, I am soft sawder. When I am dealing with a plain, businesslike man, I talk in a plain, businesslike way. I study my man, and generally I succeed in striking him for an order, even if times are hard and he is already well stocked." "He certainly knows how to talk," thought Luke. In fact, he was rather disposed to accept Mr. Coleman at his own valuation, though that was a very high one. "Do you smoke?" "Not at all." "Not even a cigarette?" "Not even a cigarette." "I was intending to ask you to go with me into the smoking-car for a short time. I smoke a good deal; it is my only vice. You know we must all have some vices." Luke didn't see the necessity, but he assented, because it seemed to be expected. "I won't be gone long. You'd better come along, too, and smoke a cigarette. It is time you began to smoke. Most boys begin much earlier." Luke shook his head. "I don't care to learn," he said. "Oh, you're a good boy--one of the Sunday-school kind," said Coleman, with a slight sneer. "You'll get over that after a while. You'll be here when I come back?" Luke promised that he would, and for the next half hour he was left alone. As his friend Mr. Coleman left the car, he followed him with his glance, and surveyed him more attentively than he had hitherto done. The commercial traveler was attired in a suit of fashionable plaid, wore a showy necktie, from the center of which blazed a diamond scarfpin. A showy chain crossed his vest, and to it was appended a large and showy watch, which looked valuable, though appearances are sometimes deceitful. "He must spend a good deal of money," thought Luke. "I wonder that he should be willing to go to a two-dollar-a-day hotel." Luke, for his own part, was quite willing to go to the Ottawa House. He had never fared luxuriously, and he had no doubt that even at the Ottawa House he should live better than at home. It was nearer an hour than half an hour before Coleman came back. "I stayed away longer than I intended," he said. "I smoked three cigars, instead of one, seeing you wasn't with me to keep me company. I found some social fellows, and we had a chat." Mr. Coleman absented himself once or twice more. Finally, the train ran into the depot, and the conductor called out, "Chicago!" "Come along, Luke!" said Coleman. The two left the car in company. Coleman hailed a cab--gave the order, Ottawa House--and in less than five minutes they were rattling over the pavements toward their hotel. CHAPTER XXVI THE OTTAWA HOUSE There was one little circumstance that led Luke to think favorably of his new companion. As the hackman closed the door of the carriage, Luke asked: "How much is the fare?" "Fifty cents apiece, gentlemen," answered cabby. Luke was about to put his hand into his pocket for the money, when Coleman touching him on the arm, said: "Never mind, Luke, I have the money," and before our hero could expostulate he had thrust a dollar into the cab-driver's hand. "All right, thanks," said the driver, and slammed to the door. "You must let me repay you my part of the fare, Mr. Coleman," said Luke, again feeling for his pocketbook. "Oh, it's a mere trifle!" said Coleman. "I'll let you pay next time, but don't be so ceremonious with a friend." "But I would rather pay for myself," objected Luke. "Oh, say no more about it, I beg. Claflin provides liberally for my expenses. It's all right." "But I don't want Claflin to pay for me." "Then I assure you I'll get it out of you before we part. Will that content you?" Luke let the matter drop, but he didn't altogether like to find himself under obligations to a stranger, notwithstanding his assurance, which he took for a joke. He would have been surprised and startled if he had known how thoroughly Coleman meant what he said about getting even. The fifty cents he had with such apparent generosity paid out for Luke he meant to get back a hundred-fold. His object was to gain Luke's entire confidence, and remove any suspicion he might possibly entertain. In this respect he was successful. Luke had read about designing strangers, but he certainly could not suspect a man who insisted on paying his hack fare. "I hope you will not be disappointed in the Ottawa House," observed Mr. Coleman, as they rattled through the paved streets. "It isn't a stylish hotel." "I am not used to stylish living," said Luke, frankly. "I have always been used to living in a very plain way." "When I first went on the road I used to stop at the tip-top houses, such as the Palmer at Chicago, the Russell House in Detroit, etc., but it's useless extravagance. Claflin allows me a generous sum for hotels, and if I go to a cheap one, I put the difference into my own pocket." "Is that expected?" asked Luke, doubtfully. "It's allowed, at any rate. No one can complain if I choose to live a little plainer. When it pays in the way of business to stop at a big hotel, I do so. Of course, your boss pays your expenses?" "Yes." "Then you'd better do as I do--put the difference in your own pocket." "I shouldn't like to do that." "Why not? It is evident you are a new traveler, or you would know that it is a regular thing." Luke did not answer, but he adhered to his own view. He meant to keep a careful account of his disbursements and report to Mr. Armstrong, without the addition of a single penny. He had no doubt that he should be paid liberally for his time, and he didn't care to make anything by extra means. The Ottawa House was nearly a mile and a half distant. It was on one of the lower streets, near the lake. It was a plain building with accommodations for perhaps a hundred and fifty guests. This would be large for a country town or small city, but it indicated a hotel of the third class in Chicago. I may as well say here, however, that it was a perfectly respectable and honestly conducted hotel, notwithstanding it was selected by Mr. Coleman, who could not with truth be complimented so highly. I will also add that Mr. Coleman's selection of the Ottawa, in place of a more pretentious hotel, arose from the fear that in the latter he might meet someone who knew him, and who would warn Luke of his undesirable reputation. Jumping out of the hack, J. Madison Coleman led the way into the hotel, and, taking pen in hand, recorded his name in large, flourishing letters--as from New York. Then he handed the pen to Luke, who registered himself also from New York. "Give us a room together," he said to the clerk. Luke did not altogether like this arrangement, but hardly felt like objecting. He did not wish to hurt the feelings of J. Madison Coleman, yet he considered that, having known him only six hours, it was somewhat imprudent to allow such intimacy. But he who hesitates is lost, and before Luke had made up his mind whether to object or not, he was already part way upstairs--there was no elevator--following the bellboy, who carried his luggage. The room, which was on the fourth floor, was of good size, and contained two beds. So far so good. After the ride he wished to wash and put on clean clothes. Mr. Coleman did not think this necessary, and saying to Luke that he would find him downstairs, he left our hero alone. "I wish I had a room alone," thought Luke. "I should like it much better, but I don't want to offend Coleman. I've got eighty dollars in my pocketbook, and though, of course, he is all right, I don't want to take any risks." On the door he read the regulations of the hotel. One item attracted his attention. It was this: "The proprietors wish distinctly to state that they will not be responsible for money or valuables unless left with the clerk to be deposited in the safe." Luke had not been accustomed to stopping at hotels, and did not know that this was the usual custom. It struck him, however, as an excellent arrangement, and he resolved to avail himself of it. When he went downstairs he didn't see Mr. Coleman. "Your friend has gone out," said the clerk. "He wished me to say that he would be back in half an hour." "All right," answered Luke. "Can I leave my pocketbook with you?" "Certainly." The clerk wrapped it up in a piece of brown paper and put it away in the safe at the rear of the office, marking it with Luke's name and the number of his room. "There, that's safe!" thought Luke, with a feeling of relief. He had reserved about three dollars, as he might have occasion to spend a little money in the course of the evening. If he were robbed of this small amount it would not much matter. A newsboy came in with an evening paper. Luke bought a copy and sat down on a bench in the office, near a window. He was reading busily, when someone tapped him on the shoulder. Looking up, he saw that it was his roommate, J. Madison Coleman. "I've just been taking a little walk," he said, "and now I am ready for dinner. If you are, too, let us go into the dining-room." Luke was glad to accept this proposal, his long journey having given him a good appetite. CHAPTER XXVII COLEMAN ACTS SUSPICIOUSLY After dinner, Coleman suggested a game of billiards, but as this was a game with which Luke was not familiar, he declined the invitation, but went into the billiard-room and watched a game between his new acquaintance and a stranger. Coleman proved to be a very good player, and won the game. After the first game Coleman called for drinks, and invited Luke to join them. "Thank you," answered Luke, "but I never drink." "Oh, I forgot; you're a good boy," said Coleman. "Well, I'm no Puritan. Whisky straight for me." Luke was not in the least troubled by the sneer conveyed in Coleman's words. He was not altogether entitled to credit for refusing to drink, having not the slightest taste for strong drink of any kind. About half-past seven Coleman put up his cue, saying: "That'll do for me. Now, Luke, suppose we take a walk." Luke was quite ready, not having seen anything of Chicago as yet. They strolled out, and walked for an hour. Coleman, to do him justice, proved an excellent guide, and pointed out whatever they passed which was likely to interest his young companion. But at last he seemed to be tired. "It's only half-past eight," he said, referring to his watch. "I'll drop into some theater. It is the best way to finish up the evening." "Then I'll go back to the hotel," said Luke. "I feel tired, and mean to go to bed early." "You'd better spend an hour or two in the theater with me." "No, I believe not. I prefer a good night's rest." "Do you mind my leaving you?" "Not at all." "Can you find your way back to the hotel alone?" "If you'll direct me, I think I can find it." The direction was given, and Coleman was turning off, when, as if it had just occurred to him, he said: "By the way, can you lend me a five? I've nothing less than a fifty-dollar bill with me, and I don't want to break that." Luke congratulated himself now that he had left the greater part of his money at the hotel. "I can let you have a dollar," he said. Coleman shrugged his shoulders, but answered: "All right; let me have the one." Luke did so, and felt now that he had more than repaid the fifty cents his companion had paid for hack fare. Though Coleman had professed to have nothing less than fifty, Luke knew that he had changed a five-dollar bill at the hotel in paying for the drinks, and must have over four dollars with him in small bills and change. "Why, then," thought he, "did Coleman want to borrow five dollars of me?" If Luke had known more of the world he would have understood that it was only one of the tricks to which men like Coleman resort to obtain a loan, or rather a gift, from an unsuspecting acquaintance. "I suppose I shall not see my money back," thought Luke. "Well, it will be the last that he will get out of me." He was already becoming tired of his companion, and doubted whether he would not find the acquaintance an expensive one. He was sorry that they were to share the same room. However, it was for one night only, and to-morrow he was quite resolved to part company. Shortly after nine o'clock Luke went to bed, and being fatigued with his long journey, was soon asleep. He was still sleeping at twelve o'clock, when Coleman came home. Coleman came up to his bed and watched him attentively. "The kid's asleep," he soliloquized. "He's one of the good Sunday-school boys. I can imagine how shocked he would be if he knew that, instead of being a traveler for H. B. Claflin, I have been living by my wits for the last half-dozen years. He seems to be half asleep. I think I can venture to explore a little." He took Luke's trousers from the chair on which he had laid them, and thrust his fingers into the pockets, but brought forth only a penknife and a few pennies. "He keeps his money somewhere else, it seems," said Coleman. Next he turned to the vest, and from the inside vest pocket drew out Luke's modest pocketbook. "Oh, here we have it," thought Coleman, with a smile. "Cunning boy; he thought nobody would think of looking in his vest pocket. Well, let us see how much he has got." He opened the pocketbook, and frowned with disappointment when he discovered only a two-dollar bill. "What does it mean? Surely he hasn't come to Chicago with only this paltry sum!" exclaimed Coleman. "He must be more cunning than I thought." He looked in the coat pockets, the shoes, and even the socks of his young companion, but found nothing, except the silver watch, which Luke had left in one of his vest pockets. "Confound the boy! He's foiled me this time!" muttered Coleman. "Shall I take the watch? No; it might expose me, and I could not raise much on it at the pawnbroker's. He must have left his money with the clerk downstairs. He wouldn't think of it himself, but probably he was advised to do so before he left home. I'll get up early, and see if I can't get in ahead of my young friend." Coleman did not venture to take the two-dollar bill, as that would have induced suspicion on the part of Luke, and would have interfered with his intention of securing the much larger sum of money, which, as he concluded rightly, was in the safe in the office. He undressed and got into bed, but not without observation. As he was bending over Luke's clothes, examining them, our hero's eyes suddenly opened, and he saw what was going on. It flashed upon him at once what kind of a companion he had fallen in with, but he had the wisdom and self-control to close his eyes again immediately. He reflected that there was not much that Coleman could take, and if he took the watch he resolved to charge him openly with it. To make a disturbance there and then might be dangerous, as Coleman, who was much stronger than he, might ill-treat and abuse him, without his being able to offer any effectual resistance. CHAPTER XXVIII COLEMAN'S LITTLE PLAN Though Coleman went to bed late, he awoke early. He had the power of awaking at almost any hour that he might fix. He was still quite fatigued, but having an object in view, overcame his tendency to lie longer, and swiftly dressing himself, went downstairs. Luke was still sleeping, and did not awaken while his companion was dressing. Coleman went downstairs and strolled up to the clerk's desk, "You're up early," said that official. "Yes, it's a great nuisance, but I have a little business to attend to with a man who leaves Chicago by an early train. I tried to find him last night, but he had probably gone to some theater. That is what has forced me to get up so early this morning." "I am always up early," said the clerk. "Then you are used to it, and don't mind it. It is different with me." Coleman bought a cigar, and while he was lighting it, remarked, as if incidentally: "By the way, did my young friend leave my money with you last evening?" "He left a package of money with me, but he didn't mention it was yours." "Forgot to, I suppose. I told him to leave it here, as I was going out to the theater, and was afraid I might have my pocket picked. Smart fellows, those pickpockets. I claim to be rather smart myself, but there are some of them smart enough to get ahead of me. "I was relieved of my pocketbook containing over two hundred dollars in money once. By Jove! I was mad enough to knock the fellow's head off, if I had caught him." "It is rather provoking." "I think I'll trouble you to hand me the money the boy left with you, as I have to use some this morning." Mr. Coleman spoke in an easy, off-hand way, that might have taken in some persons, but hotel clerks are made smart by their positions. "I am sorry, Mr. Coleman," said the clerk, "but I can only give it back to the boy." "I commend your caution, my friend," said Coleman, "but I can assure you that it's all right. I sent it back by Luke when I was going to the theater, and I meant, of course, to have him give my name with it. However, he is not used to business, and so forgot it." "When did you hand it to him?" asked the clerk, with newborn suspicion. "About eight o'clock. No doubt he handed it in as soon as he came back to the hotel." "How much was there?" This question posed Mr. Coleman, as he had no idea how much money Luke had with him. "I can't say exactly," he answered. "I didn't count it. There might have been seventy-five dollars, though perhaps the sum fell a little short of that." "I can't give you the money, Mr. Coleman," said the clerk, briefly. "I have no evidence that it is yours." "Really, that's ludicrous," said Coleman, with a forced laugh. "You don't mean to doubt me, I hope," and Madison Coleman drew himself up haughtily. "That has nothing to do with it. The rule of this office is to return money only to the person who deposited it with us. If we adopted any other rule, we should get into no end of trouble." "But, my friend," said Coleman, frowning, "you are putting me to great inconvenience. I must meet my friend in twenty minutes and pay him a part of this money." "I have nothing to do with that," said the clerk. "You absolutely refuse, then?" "I do," answered the clerk, firmly. "However, you can easily overcome the difficulty by bringing the boy down here to authorize me to hand you the money." "It seems to me that you have plenty of red tape here," said Coleman, shrugging his shoulders. "However, I must do as you require." Coleman had a bright thought, which he proceeded to carry into execution. He left the office and went upstairs. He was absent long enough to visit the chamber which he and Luke had occupied together. Then he reported to the office again. "The boy is not dressed," he said, cheerfully. "However, he has given me an order for the money, which, of course, will do as well." He handed a paper, the loose leaf of a memorandum book, on which were written in pencil these words: "Give my guardian, Mr. Coleman, the money I left on deposit at the office. LUKE LARKIN." "That makes it all right, doesn't it?" asked Coleman, jauntily. "Now, if you'll be kind enough to hand me my money at once, I'll be off." "It won't do, Mr. Coleman," said the clerk. "How am I to know that the boy wrote this?" "Don't you see his signature?" The clerk turned to the hotel register, where Luke had enrolled his name. "The handwriting is not the same," he said, coldly. "Oh, confound it!" exclaimed Coleman, testily. "Can't you understand that writing with a pencil makes a difference?" "I understand," said the clerk, "that you are trying to get money that does not belong to you. The money was deposited a couple of hours sooner than the time you claim to have handed it to the boy--just after you and the boy arrived." "You're right," said Coleman, unabashed. "I made a mistake." "You cannot have the money." "You have no right to keep it from me," said Coleman, wrathfully. "Bring the boy to the office and it shall be delivered to him; then, if he chooses to give it to you, I have nothing to say." "But I tell you he is not dressed." "He seems to be," said the clerk, quietly, with a glance at the door, through which Luke was just entering. Coleman's countenance changed. He was now puzzled for a moment. Then a bold plan suggested itself. He would charge Luke with having stolen the money from him. CHAPTER XXIX MR. COLEMAN IS FOILED IN HIS ATTEMPT Luke looked from Coleman to the clerk in some surprise. He saw from their looks that they were discussing some matter which concerned him. "You left some money in my charge yesterday, Mr. Larkin," said the clerk. "Yes." "Your friend here claims it. Am I to give it to him?" Luke's eyes lighted up indignantly. "What does this mean, Mr. Coleman?" he demanded, sternly. "It means," answered Coleman, throwing off the mask, "that the money is mine, and that you have no right to it." If Luke had not witnessed Coleman's search of his pockets during the night, he would have been very much astonished at this brazen statement. As it was, he had already come to the conclusion that his railroad acquaintance was a sharper. "I will trouble you to prove your claim to it," said Luke, not at all disturbed by Coleman's impudent assertion. "I gave it to you yesterday to place in the safe. I did not expect you would put it in in your own name," continued Coleman, with brazen hardihood. "When did you hand it to me?" asked Luke, calmly. "When we first went up into the room." This change in his original charge Coleman made in consequence of learning the time of the deposit. "This is an utter falsehood!" exclaimed Luke, indignantly. "Take care, young fellow!" blustered Coleman. "Your reputation for honesty isn't of the best. I don't like to expose you, but a boy who has served a three months' term in the penitentiary had better be careful how he acts." Luke's breath was quite taken away by this unexpected attack. The clerk began to eye him with suspicion, so confident was Coleman's tone. "Mr. Lawrence," said Luke, for he had learned the clerk's name, "will you allow me a word in private?" "I object to this," said Coleman, in a blustering tone. "Whatever you have to say you can say before me." "Yes," answered the clerk, who did not like Coleman's bullying tone, "I will hear what you have to say." He led the way into an adjoining room, and assumed an air of attention. "This man is a stranger to me," Luke commenced. "I saw him yesterday afternoon for the first time in my life." "But he says he is your guardian." "He is no more my guardian than you are. Indeed, I would much sooner select you." "How did you get acquainted?" "He introduced himself to me as a traveler for H. B. Claflin, of New York. I did not doubt his statement at the time, but now I do, especially after what happened in the night." "What was that?" asked the clerk, pricking up his ears. Luke went on to describe Coleman's search of his pockets. "Did you say anything?" "No. I wished to see what he was after. As I had left nearly all my money with you, I was not afraid of being robbed." "I presume your story is correct. In fact, I detected him in a misstatement as to the time of giving you the money. But I don't want to get into trouble." "Ask him how much money I deposited with you," suggested Luke. "He has no idea, and will have to guess." "I have asked him the question once, but will do so again." The clerk returned to the office with Luke. Coleman eyed them uneasily, as if he suspected them of having been engaged in a conspiracy against him. "Well," he said, "are you going to give me my money?" "State the amount," said the clerk, in a businesslike manner. "I have already told you that I can't state exactly. I handed the money to Luke without counting it." "You must have some idea, at any rate," said the clerk. "Of course I have. There was somewhere around seventy-five dollars." This he said with a confidence which he did not feel, for it was, of course, a mere guess. "You are quite out in your estimate, Mr. Coleman. It is evident to me that you have made a false claim. You will oblige me by settling your bill and leaving the hotel." "Do you think I will submit to such treatment?" demanded Coleman, furiously. "I think you'll have to," returned the clerk, quietly. "You can go in to breakfast, if you like, but you must afterward leave the hotel. John," this to a bellboy, "go up to number forty-seven and bring down this gentleman's luggage." "You and the boy are in a conspiracy against me!" exclaimed Coleman, angrily. "I have a great mind to have you both arrested!" "I advise you not to attempt it. You may get into trouble." Coleman apparently did think better of it. Half an hour later he left the hotel, and Luke found himself alone. He decided that he must be more circumspect hereafter. CHAPTER XXX A DISCOVERY Luke was in Chicago, but what to do next he did not know. He might have advertised in one or more of the Chicago papers for James Harding, formerly in the employ of John Armstrong, of New York, but if this should come to the knowledge of the party who had appropriated the bonds, it might be a revelation of the weakness of the case against them. Again, he might apply to a private detective, but if he did so, the case would pass out of his hands. Luke had this piece of information to start upon. He had been informed that Harding left Mr. Armstrong's employment June 17, 1879, and, as was supposed, at once proceeded West. If he could get hold of a file of some Chicago daily paper for the week succeeding, he might look over the last arrivals, and ascertain at what hotel Harding had stopped. This would be something. "Where can I examine a file of some Chicago daily paper for 1879, Mr. Lawrence?" he asked of the clerk. "Right here," answered the clerk. "Mr. Goth, the landlord, has a file of the Times for the last ten years." "Would he let me examine the volume for 1879?" asked Luke, eagerly. "Certainly. I am busy just now, but this afternoon I will have the papers brought down to the reading-room." He was as good as his word, and at three o'clock in the afternoon Luke sat down before a formidable pile of papers, and began his task of examination. He began with the paper bearing date June 19, and examined that and the succeeding papers with great care. At length his search was rewarded. In the paper for June 23 Luke discovered the name of James Harding, and, what was a little singular, he was registered at the Ottawa House. Luke felt quite exultant at this discovery. It might not lead to anything, to be sure, but still it was an encouragement, and seemed to augur well for his ultimate success. He went with his discovery to his friend the clerk. "Were you here in June, 1879, Mr. Lawrence?" he asked. "Yes. I came here in April of that year." "Of course, you could hardly be expected to remember a casual guest?" "I am afraid not. What is his name?" "James Harding." "James Harding! Yes, I do remember him, and for a very good reason. He took a very severe cold on the way from New York, and he lay here in the hotel sick for two weeks. He was an elderly man, about fifty-five, I should suppose." "That answers to the description given me. Do you know where he went to from here?" "There you have me. I can't give you any information on that point." Luke began to think that his discovery would lead to nothing. "Stay, though," said the clerk, after a moment's thought. "I remember picking up a small diary in Mr. Harding's room after he left us. I didn't think it of sufficient value to forward to him, nor indeed did I know exactly where to send." "Can you show me the diary?" asked Luke, hopefully. "Yes. I have it upstairs in my chamber. Wait five minutes and I will get it for you." A little later a small, black-covered diary was put in Luke's hand. He opened it eagerly, and began to examine the items jotted down. It appeared partly to note down daily expenses, but on alternate pages there were occasional memorandums. About the fifteenth of May appeared this sentence: "I have reason to think that my sister, Mrs. Ellen Ransom, is now living in Franklin, Minnesota. She is probably in poor circumstances, her husband having died in poverty a year since. We two are all that is left of a once large family, and now that I am shortly to retire from business with a modest competence, I feel it will be alike my duty and my pleasure to join her, and do what I can to make her comfortable. She has a boy who must now be about twelve years old." "Come," said Luke, triumphantly, "I am making progress decidedly. My first step will be to go to Franklin, Minnesota, and look up Mr. Harding and his sister. After all, I ought to be grateful to Mr. Coleman, notwithstanding his attempt to rob me. But for him I should never have come to the Ottawa House, and thus I should have lost an important clue." Luke sat down immediately and wrote to Mr. Armstrong, detailing the discovery he had made--a letter which pleased his employer, and led him to conclude that he had made a good choice in selecting Luke for this confidential mission. The next day Luke left Chicago and journeyed by the most direct route to Franklin, Minnesota. He ascertained that it was forty miles distant from St. Paul, a few miles off the railroad. The last part of the journey was performed in a stage, and was somewhat wearisome. He breathed a sigh of relief when the stage stopped before the door of a two-story inn with a swinging sign, bearing the name Franklin House. Luke entered his name on the register and secured a room. He decided to postpone questions till he had enjoyed a good supper and felt refreshed. Then he went out to the desk and opened a conversation with the landlord, or rather submitted first to answering a series of questions propounded by that gentleman. "You're rather young to be travelin' alone, my young friend," said the innkeeper. "Yes, sir." "Where might you be from?" "From New York." "Then you're a long way from home. Travelin' for your health?" "No," answered Luke, with a smile. "I have no trouble with my health." "You do look pretty rugged, that's a fact. Goin' to settle down in our State?" "I think not." "I reckon you're not travelin' on business? You're too young for a drummer." "The fact is, I am in search of a family that I have been told lives, or used to live, in Franklin." "What's the name?" "The lady is a Mrs. Ransom. I wish to see her brother-in-law, Mr. James Harding." "Sho! You'll have to go farther to find them." "Don't they live here now?" asked Luke, disappointed. "No; they moved away six months ago." "Do you know where they went?" asked Luke, eagerly. "Not exactly. You see, there was a great stir about gold being plenty in the Black Hills, and Mr. Harding, though he seemed to be pretty well fixed, thought he wouldn't mind pickin' up a little. He induced his sister to go with him--that is, her boy wanted to go, and so she, not wantin' to be left alone, concluded to go, too." "So they went to the Black Hills. Do you think it would be hard to find them?" "No; James Harding is a man that's likely to be known wherever he is. Just go to where the miners are thickest, and I allow you'll find him." Luke made inquiries, and ascertaining the best way of reaching the Black Hills, started the next day. "If I don't find James Harding, it's because I can't," he said to himself resolutely. CHAPTER XXXI TONY DENTON'S CALL Leaving Luke on his way to the Black Hills, we will go back to Groveton, to see how matters are moving on there. Tony Denton had now the excuse he sought for calling upon Prince Duncan. Ostensibly, his errand related to the debt which Randolph had incurred at his saloon, but really he had something more important to speak of. It may be remarked that Squire Duncan, who had a high idea of his own personal importance, looked upon Denton as a low and insignificant person, and never noticed him when they met casually in the street. It is difficult to play the part of an aristocrat in a country village, but that is the role which Prince Duncan assumed. Had he been a prince in reality, as he was by name, he could not have borne himself more loftily when he came face to face with those whom he considered his inferiors. When, in answer to the bell, the servant at Squire Duncan's found Tony Denton standing on the doorstep, she looked at him in surprise. "Is the squire at home?" asked the saloon keeper. "I believe so," said the girl, doubtfully. "I would like to see him. Say Mr. Denton wishes to see him on important business." The message was delivered. "Mr. Denton!" repeated the squire, in surprise. "Is it Tony Denton?" "Yes, sir." "What can he wish to see me about?" "He says it's business of importance, sir." "Well, bring him in." Prince Duncan assumed his most important attitude and bearing when his visitor entered his presence. "Mr.--ahem!--Denton, I believe?" he said, as if he found difficulty in recognizing Tony. "The same." "I am--ahem!--surprised to hear that you have any business with me." "Yet so it is, Squire Duncan," said Tony, not perceptibly overawed by the squire's grand manner. "Elucidate it!" said Prince Duncan, stiffly. "You may not be aware, Squire Duncan, that your son Randolph has for some time frequented my billiard saloon and has run up a sum of twenty-seven dollars." "I was certainly not aware of it. Had I been, I should have forbidden his going there. It is no proper place for my son to frequent." "Well, I don't know about that. It's respectable enough, I guess. At any rate, he seemed to like it, and at his request, for he was not always provided with money, I trusted him till his bill comes to twenty-seven dollars--" "You surely don't expect me to pay it!" said the squire, coldly. "He is a minor, as you very well know, and when you trusted him you knew you couldn't legally collect your claim." "Well, squire, I thought I'd take my chances," said Tony, carelessly. "I didn't think you'd be willing to have him owing bills around the village. You're a gentleman, and I was sure you'd settle the debt." "Then, sir, you made a very great mistake. Such bills as that I do not feel called upon to pay. Was it all incurred for billiards?" "No; a part of it was for drinks." "Worse and worse! How can you have the face to come here, Mr. Denton, and tell me that?" "I don't think it needs any face, squire. It's an honest debt." "You deliberately entrapped my son, and lured him into your saloon, where he met low companions, and squandered his money and time in drinking and low amusements." "Come, squire, you're a little too fast. Billiards ain't low. Did you ever see Schaefer and Vignaux play?" "No, sir; I take no interest in the game. In coming here you have simply wasted your time. You will get no money from me." "Then you won't pay your son's debt?" asked Tony Denton. "No." Instead of rising to go, Tony Denton kept his seat. He regarded Squire Duncan attentively. "I am sorry, sir," said Prince Duncan, impatiently. "I shall have to cut short this interview." "I will detain you only five minutes, sir. Have you ascertained who robbed the bank?" "I have no time for gossip. No, sir." "I suppose you would welcome any information on the subject?" Duncan looked at his visitor now with sharp attention. "Do you know anything about it?" he asked. "Well, perhaps I do." "Were you implicated in it?" was the next question. Tony Denton smiled a peculiar smile. "No, I wasn't," he answered. "If I had been, I don't think I should have called upon you about the matter. But--I think I know who robbed the bank." "Who, then?" demanded the squire, with an uneasy look. Tony Denton rose from his chair, advanced to the door, which was a little ajar, and closed it. Then he resumed. "One night late--it was after midnight--I was taking a walk, having just closed my saloon, when it happened that my steps led by the bank. It was dark--not a soul probably in the village was awake save myself, when I saw the door of the bank open and a muffled figure came out with a tin box under his arm. I came closer, yet unobserved, and peered at the person. I recognized him." "You recognized him?" repeated the squire, mechanically, his face pale and drawn. "Yes; do you want to know who it was?" Prince Duncan stared at him, but did not utter a word. "It was you, the president of the bank!" continued Denton. "Nonsense, man!" said Duncan, trying to regain his self-control. "It is not nonsense. I can swear to it." "I mean that it is nonsense about the robbery. I visited the bank to withdraw a box of my own." "Of course you can make that statement before the court?" said Tony Denton, coolly. "But--but--you won't think of mentioning this circumstance?" muttered the squire. "Will you pay Randolph's bill?" "Yes--yes; I'll draw a check at once." "So far, so good; but it isn't far enough. I want more." "You want more?" ejaculated the squire. "Yes; I want a thousand-dollar government bond. It's cheap enough for such a secret." "But I haven't any bonds." "You can find me one," said Tony, emphatically, "or I'll tell what I know to the directors. You see, I know more than that." "What do you know?" asked Duncan, terrified. "I know that you disposed of a part of the bonds on Wall Street, to Sharp & Ketchum. I stood outside when you were up in their office." Great beads of perspiration gathered upon the banker's brow. This blow was wholly unexpected, and he was wholly unprepared for it. He made a feeble resistance, but in the end, when Tony Denton left the house he had a thousand-dollar bond carefully stowed away in an inside pocket, and Squire Duncan was in such a state of mental collapse that he left his supper untasted. Randolph was very much surprised when he learned that his father had paid his bill at the billiard saloon, and still more surprised that the squire made very little fuss about it. CHAPTER XXXII ON THE WAY TO THE BLACK HILLS Just before Luke started for the Black Hills, he received the following letter from his faithful friend Linton. It was sent to New York to the care of Mr. Reed, and forwarded, it not being considered prudent to have it known at Groveton where he was. "Dear Luke," the letter commenced, "it seems a long time since I have seen you, and I can truly say that I miss you more than I would any other boy in Groveton. I wonder where you are--your mother does not seem to know. She only knows you are traveling for Mr. Reed. "There is not much news. Groveton, you know, is a quiet place. I see Randolph every day. He seems very curious to know where you are. I think he is disturbed because you have found employment elsewhere. He professes to think that you are selling newspapers in New York, or tending a peanut stand, adding kindly that it is all you are fit for. I have heard a rumor that he was often to be seen playing billiards at Tony Denton's, but I don't know whether it is true. I sometimes think it would do him good to become a poor boy and have to work for a living. "We are going to Orchard Beach next summer, as usual, and in the fall mamma may take me to Europe to stay a year to learn the French language. Won't that be fine? I wish you could go with me, but I am afraid you can't sell papers or peanuts enough--which is it?--to pay expenses. How long are you going to be away? I shall be glad to see you back, and so will Florence Grant, and all your other friends, of whom you have many in Groveton. Write soon to your affectionate friend, "LINTON." This letter quite cheered up Luke, who, in his first absence from home, naturally felt a little lonely at times. "Linny is a true friend," he said. "He is just as well off as Randolph, but never puts on airs. He is as popular as Randolph is unpopular. I wish I could go to Europe with him." Upon the earlier portions of Luke's journey to the Black Hills we need not dwell. The last hundred or hundred and fifty miles had to be traversed in a stage, and this form of traveling Luke found wearisome, yet not without interest. There was a spice of danger, too, which added excitement, if not pleasure, to the trip. The Black Hills stage had on more than one occasion been stopped by highwaymen and the passengers robbed. The thought that this might happen proved a source of nervous alarm to some, of excitement to others. Luke's fellow passengers included a large, portly man, a merchant from some Western city; a clergyman with a white necktie, who was sent out by some missionary society to start a church at the Black Hills; two or three laboring men, of farmerlike appearance, who were probably intending to work in the mines; one or two others, who could not be classified, and a genuine dude, as far as appearance went, a slender-waisted, soft-voiced young man, dressed in the latest style, who spoke with a slight lisp. He hailed from the city of New York, and called himself Mortimer Plantagenet Sprague. As next to himself, Luke was the youngest passenger aboard the stage, and sat beside him, the two became quite intimate. In spite of his affected manners and somewhat feminine deportment, Luke got the idea that Mr. Sprague was not wholly destitute of manly traits, if occasion should call for their display. One day, as they were making three miles an hour over a poor road, the conversation fell upon stage robbers. "What would you do, Colonel Braddon," one passenger asked of the Western merchant, "if the stage were stopped by a gang of ruffians?" "Shoot 'em down like dogs, sir," was the prompt reply. "If passengers were not so cowardly, stages would seldom be robbed." All the passengers regarded the valiant colonel with admiring respect, and congratulated themselves that they had with them so doughty a champion in case of need. "For my part," said the missionary, "I am a man of peace, and I must perforce submit to these men of violence, if they took from me the modest allowance furnished by the society for traveling expenses." "No doubt, sir," said Colonel Braddon. "You are a minister, and men of your profession are not expected to fight. As for my friend Mr. Sprague," and he directed the attention of the company derisively to the New York dude, "he would, no doubt, engage the robbers single-handed." "I don't know," drawled Mortimer Sprague. "I am afraid I couldn't tackle more than two, don't you know." There was a roar of laughter, which did not seem to disturb Mr. Sprague. He did not seem to be at all aware that his companions were laughing at him. "Perhaps, with the help of my friend, Mr. Larkin," he added, "I might be a match for three." There was another burst of laughter, in which Luke could not help joining. "I am afraid I could not help you much, Mr. Sprague," he said. "I think, Mr. Sprague," said Colonel Braddon, "that you and I will have to do the fighting if any attack is made. If our friend the minister had one of his sermons with him, perhaps that would scare away the highwaymen." "It would not be the first time they have had an effect on godless men," answered the missionary, mildly, and there was another laugh, this time at the colonel's expense. "What takes you to the Black Hills, my young friend?" asked Colonel Braddon, addressing Luke. Other passengers awaited Luke's reply with interest. It was unusual to find a boy of sixteen traveling alone in that region. "I hope to make some money," answered Luke, smiling. "I suppose that is what we are all after." He didn't think it wise to explain his errand fully. "Are you going to dig for gold, Mr. Larkin?" asked Mortimer Sprague. "It's awfully dirty, don't you know, and must be dreadfully hard on the back." "Probably I am more used to hard work than you, Mr. Sprague," answered Luke. "I never worked in my life," admitted the dude. "I really don't know a shovel from a hoe." "Then, if I may be permitted to ask," said Colonel Braddon, "what leads you to the Black Hills, Mr. Sprague?" "I thought I'd better see something of the country, you know. Besides, I had a bet with another feller about whether the hills were weally black, or not. I bet him a dozen bottles of champagne that they were not black, after all." This statement was received with a round of laughter, which seemed to surprise Mr. Sprague, who gazed with mild wonder at his companions, saying: "Weally, I can't see what you fellers are laughing at. I thought I'd better come myself, because the other feller might be color-blind, don't you know." Here Mr. Sprague rubbed his hands and looked about him to see if his joke was appreciated. "It seems to me that the expense of your journey will foot up considerably more than a dozen bottles of champagne," said one of the passengers. "Weally, I didn't think of that. You've got a great head, old fellow. After all, a feller's got to be somewhere, and, by Jove!-- What's that?" This ejaculation was produced by the sudden sinking of the two left wheels in the mire in such a manner that the ponderous Colonel Braddon was thrown into Mr. Sprague's lap. "You see, I had to go somewhere," said Braddon, humorously. "Weally, I hope we sha'n't get mixed," gasped Sprague. "If it's all the same to you, I'd rather sit in your lap." "Just a little incident of travel, my dear sir," said Braddon, laughing, as he resumed his proper seat. "I should call it rather a large incident," said Mr. Sprague, recovering his breath. "I suppose," said Braddon, who seemed rather disposed to chaff his slender traveling companion, "if you like the Black Hills; you may buy one of them." "I may," answered Mr. Sprague, letting his glance rest calmly on his big companion. "Suppose we buy one together." Colonel Braddon laughed, but felt that his joke had not been successful. The conversation languished after awhile. It was such hard work riding in a lumbering coach, over the most detestable roads, that the passengers found it hard to be sociable. But a surprise was in store. The coach made a sudden stop. Two horsemen appeared at the window, and a stern voice said: "We'll trouble you to get out, gentlemen. We'll take charge of what money and valuables you have about you." CHAPTER XXXIII TWO UNEXPECTED CHAMPIONS It may well be imagined that there was a commotion among the passengers when this stern summons was heard. The highwaymen were but two in number, but each was armed with a revolver, ready for instant use. One by one the passengers descended from the stage, and stood trembling and panic-stricken in the presence of the masked robbers. There seems to be something in a mask which inspires added terror, though it makes the wearers neither stronger nor more effective. Luke certainly felt startled and uncomfortable, for he felt that he must surrender the money he had with him, and this would be inconvenient, though the loss would not be his, but his employer's. But, singularly enough, the passenger who seemed most nervous and terrified was the stalwart Colonel Braddon, who had boasted most noisily of what he would do in case the stage were attacked. He nervously felt in his pockets for his money, his face pale and ashen, and said, imploringly: "Spare my life, gentlemen; I will give you all I have." "All right, old man," said one of the stage robbers, as he took the proffered pocketbook. "Haven't you any more money?" "No; on my honor, gentlemen. It will leave me penniless." "Hand over your watch." With a groan, Colonel Braddon handed over a gold stem-winder, of Waltham make. "Couldn't you leave me the watch, gentlemen?" he said, imploringly. "It was a present to me last Christmas." "Can't spare it. Make your friends give you another." Next came the turn of Mortimer Sprague, the young dude. "Hand over your spondulics, young feller," said the second gentleman of the road. "Weally, I'm afraid I can't, without a good deal of twouble." "Oh, curse the trouble; do as I bid, or I'll break your silly head." "You see, gentlemen, I keep my money in my boots, don't you know." "Take off your boots, then, and be quick about it." "I can't; that is, without help. They're awfully tight, don't you know." "Which boot is your money in?" asked the road agent, impatiently. "The right boot." "Hold it up, then, and I'll help you." The road agent stooped over, not suspecting any danger, and in doing so laid down his revolver. In a flash Mortimer Sprague electrified not only his assailants, but all the stage passengers, by producing a couple of revolvers, which he pointed at the two road agents, and in a stern voice, wholly unlike the affected tones in which he had hitherto spoken, said: "Get out of here, you ruffians, or I'll fire!" The startled road agent tried to pick up his revolver, but Sprague instantly put his foot on it, and repeated the command. The other road agent, who was occupied with the minister, turned to assist his comrade, when he, too, received a check from an unexpected source. The minister, who was an old man, had a stout staff, which he used to guide him in his steps. He raised it and brought it down with emphasis on the arm which held the revolver, exclaiming. "The sword of the Lord and of Gideon! I smite thee, thou bold, bad man, not in anger, but as an instrument of retribution." "Well done, reverend doctor!" exclaimed Mortimer Sprague. "Between us we will lay the rascals out!" Luke, who was close at hand, secured the fallen revolver be fore the road agent's arm had got over tingling with the paralyzing blow dealt by the minister, who, in spite of his advanced age, possessed a muscular arm. "Now git, you two!" exclaimed Mortimer Sprague. "Git, if you want to escape with whole bones!" Never, perhaps, did two road agents look more foolish than these who had suffered such a sudden and humiliating discomfiture from those among the passengers whom they had feared least. The young dude and the old missionary had done battle for the entire stage-load of passengers, and vanquished the masked robbers, before whom the rest trembled. "Stop!" said Colonel Braddon, with a sudden thought. "One of the rascals has got my pocketbook!" "Which one?" asked Mortimer. The colonel pointed him out. Instantly the dude fired, and a bullet whistled within a few inches of the road agent's head. "Drop that pocketbook!" he exclaimed, "or I'll send another messenger for it; that was only a warning!" With an execration the thoroughly terrified robber threw down the pocketbook, and the relieved owner hastened forward to pick it up. "I thought I'd fetch him, don't you know," said the dude, relapsing into his soft drawl. By this time both the road agents were at a safe distance, and the rescued passengers breathed more freely. "Really, Mr. Sprague," said Colonel Braddon, pompously, "you are entitled to a great deal of credit for your gallant behavior; you did what I proposed to do. Of course, I had to submit to losing my pocketbook, but I was just preparing to draw my revolver when you got the start of me." "If I'd only known it, colonel," drawled Mr. Sprague, "I'd have left the job for you. Weally, it would have saved me a good deal of trouble. But I think the reverend doctor here is entitled to the thanks of the company. I never knew exactly what the sword of the Lord and of Gideon was before, but I see it means a good, stout stick." "I was speaking figuratively, my young friend," said the missionary "I am not sure but I have acted unprofessionally, but when I saw those men of violence despoiling us, I felt the natural man rise within me, and I smote him hip and thigh." "I thought you hit him on the arm, doctor," said Mr. Sprague. "Again I spoke figuratively, my young friend. I cannot say I regret yielding to the impulse that moved me. I feel that I have helped to foil the plans of the wicked." "Doctor," said one of the miners, "you've true grit. When you preach at the Black Hills, count me and my friends among the listeners. We're all willing to help along your new church, for you're one of the right sort." "My friends, I will gladly accept your kind proposal, but I trust it will not be solely because I have used this arm of flesh in your defense. Mr. Sprague and I have but acted as humble instruments in the hands of a Higher Power." "Well, gentlemen," said Colonel Braddon, "I think we may as well get into the stage again and resume our journey." "What shall I do with this revolver?" asked Luke, indicating the one he had picked up. "Keep it," said the colonel. "You'll make better use of it than the rascal who lost it." "I've got an extra one here," said Mortimer Sprague, raising the one on which he had put his foot. "I don't need it myself, so I will offer it to the reverend doctor." The missionary shook his head. "I should not know how to use it," he said, "nor indeed am I sure that I should feel justified in doing so." "May I have it, sir?" asked one of the miners. "Certainly, if you want it," said Mr. Sprague. "I couldn't afford to buy one; but I see that I shall need one out here." In five minutes the stage was again on its way, and no further adventures were met with. About the middle of the next day the party arrived at Deadwood. CHAPTER XXXIV FENTON'S GULCH Deadwood, at the time of Luke's arrival, looked more like a mining camp than a town. The first settlers had neither the time nor the money to build elaborate dwellings. Anything, however rough, that would provide a shelter, was deemed sufficient. Luxury was not dreamed of, and even ordinary comforts were only partially supplied. Luke put up at a rude hotel, and the next morning began to make inquiries for Mr. Harding. He ascertained that the person of whom he was in search had arrived not many weeks previous, accompanied by his sister. The latter, however, soon concluded that Deadwood was no suitable residence for ladies, and had returned to her former home, or some place near by. Mr. Harding remained, with a view of trying his luck at the mines. The next point to be ascertained was to what mines he had directed his steps. This information was hard to obtain. Finally, a man who had just returned to Deadwood, hearing Luke making inquiries of the hotel clerk, said: "I say, young chap, is the man you are after an old party over fifty, with gray hair and a long nose?" "I think that is the right description," said Luke, eagerly. "Can you tell me anything about him?" "The party I mean, he may be Harding, or may be somebody else, is lying sick at Fenton's Gulch, about a day's journey from here--say twenty miles." "Sick? What is the matter with him?" "He took a bad cold, and being an old man, couldn't stand it as well as if he were twenty years younger. I left him in an old cabin lying on a blanket, looking about as miserable as you would want to see. Are you a friend of his?" "I am not acquainted with him," answered Luke, "but I am sent out by a friend of his in the East. I am quite anxious to find him. Can you give me directions?" "I can do better. I can guide you there. I only came to Deadwood for some supplies, and I go back to-morrow morning." "If you will let me accompany you I will be very much obliged." "You can come with me and welcome. I shall be glad of your company. Are you alone?" "Yes." "Seems to me you're rather a young chap to come out here alone." "I suppose I am," returned Luke, smiling, "but there was no one else to come with me. If I find Mr. Harding, I shall be all right." "I can promise you that. It ain't likely he has got up from his sick-bed and left the mines. I reckon you'll find him flat on his back, as I left him." Luke learned that his mining friend was known as Jack Baxter. He seemed a sociable and agreeable man, though rather rough in his outward appearance and manners. The next morning they started in company, and were compelled to travel all day. Toward sunset they reached the place known as Fenton's Gulch. It was a wild and dreary-looking place, but had a good reputation for its yield of gold dust. "That's where you'll find the man you're after," said Baxter, pointing to a dilapidated cabin, somewhat to the left of the mines. Luke went up to the cabin, the door of which was open, and looked in. On a pallet in the corner lay a tall man, pale and emaciated. He heard the slight noise at the door, and without turning his head, said: "Come in, friend, whoever you are." Upon this, Luke advanced into the cabin. "Is this Mr. James Harding?" he asked. The sick man turned his head, and his glance rested with surprise upon the boy of sixteen who addressed him. "Have I seen you before?" he asked. "No, sir. I have only just arrived at the Gulch. You are Mr. Harding?" "Yes, that is my name; but how did you know it?" "I am here in search of you, Mr. Harding." "How is that?" asked the sick man, quickly. "Is my sister sick?" "Not that I know of. I come from Mr. Armstrong, in New York." "You come from Mr. Armstrong?" repeated the sick man, in evident surprise. "Have you any message for me from him?" "Yes, but that can wait. I am sorry to find you sick. I hope that it is nothing serious." "It would not be serious if I were in a settlement where I could obtain a good doctor and proper medicines. Everything is serious here. I have no care or attention, and no medicines." "Do you feel able to get away from here? It would be better for you to be at Deadwood than here." "If I had anyone to go with me, I might venture to start for Deadwood." "I am at your service, Mr. Harding." The sick man looked at Luke with a puzzled expression. "You are very kind," he said, after a pause. "What is your name?" "Luke Larkin." "And you know Mr. Armstrong?" "Yes. I am his messenger." "But how came he to send a boy so far? It is not like him." Luke laughed. "No doubt you think him unwise," he said. "The fact was, he took me for lack of a better. Besides, the mission was a confidential one, and he thought he could trust me, young as I am." "You say you have a message for me?" queried Harding. "Yes!" "What is it?" "First, can I do something for your comfort? Can't I get you some breakfast?" "The message first." "I will give it at once. Do you remember purchasing some government bonds for Mr. Armstrong a short time before you left his employment?" "Yes. What of them?" "Have you preserved the numbers of the bonds?" Luke inquired, anxiously. "Why do you ask?" "Because Mr. Armstrong has lost his list, and they have been stolen. Till he learns the numbers, he will stand no chance of identifying or recovering them." "I am sure I have the numbers. Feel in the pocket of my coat yonder, and you will find a wallet. Take it out and bring it to me." Luke obeyed directions. The sick man opened the wallet and began to examine the contents. Finally he drew out a paper, which he unfolded. "Here is the list. I was sure I had them." Luke's eyes lighted up with exultation. It was clear that he had succeeded in his mission. He felt that he had justified the confidence which Mr. Armstrong had reposed in him, and that the outlay would prove not to have been wasted. "May I copy them?" he asked. "Certainly, since you are the agent of Mr. Armstrong--or you may have the original paper." "I will copy them, so that if that paper is lost, I may still have the numbers. And now, what can I do for you?" The resources of Fenton's Gulch were limited, but Luke succeeded in getting together materials for a breakfast for the sick man. The latter brightened up when he had eaten a sparing meal. It cheered him, also, to find that there was someone to whom he could look for friendly services. To make my story short, on the second day he felt able to start with Luke for Deadwood, which he reached without any serious effect, except a considerable degree of fatigue. Arrived at Deadwood, where there were postal facilities, Luke lost no time in writing a letter to Mr. Armstrong, enclosing a list of the stolen bonds. He gave a brief account of the circumstances under which he had found Mr. Harding, and promised to return as soon as he could get the sick man back to his farm in Minnesota. When this letter was received, Roland Reed was in the merchant's office. "Look at that, Mr. Reed," said Armstrong, triumphantly. "That boy is as smart as lightning. Some people might have thought me a fool for trusting so young a boy, but the result has justified me. Now my course is clear. With the help of these numbers I shall soon be able to trace the theft and convict the guilty party." CHAPTER XXXV BACK IN GROVETON Meanwhile, some things occurred in Groveton which require to be chronicled. Since the visit of Tony Denton, and the knowledge that his secret was known, Prince Duncan had changed in manner and appearance. There was an anxious look upon his face, and a haggard look, which led some of his friends to think that his health was affected. Indeed, this was true, for any mental disturbance is likely to affect the body. By way of diverting attention from the cause of this altered appearance, Mr. Duncan began to complain of overwork, and to hint that he might have to travel for his health. It occurred to him privately that circumstances might arise which would make it necessary for him to go to Canada for a lengthened period. With his secret in the possession of such a man as Tony Denton, he could not feel safe. Besides, he suspected the keeper of the billiard-room would not feel satisfied with the thousand-dollar bond he had extorted from him, but would, after awhile, call for more. In this he was right. Scarcely a week had elapsed since his first visit, when the servant announced one morning that a man wished to see him. "Do you know who it is, Mary?" asked the squire. "Yes, sir. It's Tony Denton." Prince Duncan's face contracted, and his heart sank within him. He would gladly have refused to see his visitor, but knowing the hold that Tony had upon him, he did not dare offend him. "You may tell him to come in," he said, with a troubled look. "What can the master have to do with a man like that?" thought Mary, wondering. "I wouldn't let him into the house if I was a squire." Tony Denton entered the room with an assumption of ease which was very disagreeable to Mr. Duncan. "I thought I'd call to see you, squire," he said. "Take a seat, Mr. Denton," said the squire coldly. Tony did not seem at all put out by the coldness of his reception. "I s'pose you remember what passed at our last meeting, Mr. Duncan," he said, in a jaunty way. "Well, sir," responded Prince Duncan, in a forbidding tone. "We came to a little friendly arrangement, if you remember," continued Denton. "Well, sir, there is no need to refer to the matter now." "Pardon me, squire, but I am obliged to keep to it." "Why?" "Because I've been unlucky??" "I suppose, Mr. Denton," said the squire haughtily, "you are capable of managing your own business. If you don't manage it well, and meet with losses, I certainly am not responsible, and I cannot understand why you bring the matter to me." "You see, squire," said Tony, with a grin, "I look upon you as a friend, and so it is natural that I should come to you for advice." "I wish I dared kick the fellow out of the house," thought Prince Duncan. "He is a low scamp, and I don't like the reputation of having such visitors." Under ordinary circumstances, and but for the secret which Tony possessed, he would not have been suffered to remain in the squire's study five minutes, but conscience makes cowards of us all, and Mr. Duncan felt that he was no longer his own master. "I'll tell you about the bad luck, squire," Tony resumed. "You know the bond you gave me the last time I called?" Mr. Duncan winced, and he did not reply. "I see you remember it. Well, I thought I might have the luck to double it, so I went up to New York, and went to see one of them Wall Street brokers. I asked his advice, and he told me I'd better buy two hundred shares of some kind of stock, leaving the bond with him as margin. He said I was pretty sure to make a good deal of money, and I thought so myself. But the stock went down, and yesterday I got a letter from him, saying that the margin was all exhausted, and I must give him another, Or he would sell out the stock." "Mr. Denton, you have been a fool!" exclaimed Mr. Duncan irritably. "You might have known that would be the result of your insane folly. You've lost your thousand dollars, and what have you got to show for it?" "You may be right, squire, but I don't want to let the matter end so. I want you to give me another bond." "You do, eh?" said Duncan indignantly. "So you want to throw away another thousand dollars, do you?" "If I make good the margin, the stock'll go up likely, and I won't lose anything." "You can do as you please, of course, but you will have to go elsewhere for your money." "Will I?" asked Tony coolly. "There is no one else who would let me have the money." "I won't let you have another cent, you may rely upon that!" exclaimed Prince Duncan furiously. "I guess you'll think better of that, squire," said Tony, fixing his keen black eyes on the bank president. "Why should I?" retorted Duncan, but his heart sank within him, for he understood very well what the answer would be. "Because you know what the consequences of refusal would be," Denton answered coolly. "I don't understand you," stammered the squire, but it was evident from his startled look that he did. "I thought you would," returned Tony Denton quietly. "You know very well that my evidence would convict you, as the person who robbed the bank." "Hush!" ejaculated Prince Duncan, in nervous alarm. Tony Denton smiled with a consciousness of power. "I have no wish to expose you," he said, "if you will stand my friend." In that moment Prince Duncan bitterly regretted the false step he had taken. To be in the power of such a man was, indeed, a terrible form of retribution. "Explain your meaning," he said reluctantly. "I want another government bond for a thousand dollars." "But when I gave you the first, you promised to preserve silence, and trouble me no more." "I have been unfortunate, as I already explained to you." "I don't see how that alters matters. You took the risk voluntarily. Why should I suffer because you were imprudent and lost your money?" "I can't argue with you, squire," said Tony, with an insolent smile. "You are too smart for me. All I have to say is, that I must have another bond." "Suppose I should give it to you--what assurance have I that you will not make another demand?" "I will give you the promise in writing, if you like." "Knowing that I could not make use of any such paper with out betraying myself." "Well, there is that objection, certainly, but I can't do anything better." "What do you propose to do with the bond?" "Deposit it with my broker, as I have already told you." "I advise you not to do so. Make up your mind to lose the first, and keep the second in your own hands." "I will consider your advice, squire." But it was very clear that Tony Denton would not follow it. All at once Prince Duncan brightened up. He had a happy thought. Should it be discovered that the bonds used by Tony Denton belonged to the contents of the stolen box, might he not succeed in throwing the whole blame on the billiard-saloon keeper, and have him arrested as the thief? The possession and use of the bonds would be very damaging, and Tony's reputation was not such as to protect him. Here seemed to be a rift in the clouds--and it was with comparative cheerfulness that Mr. Duncan placed the second bond in the hands of the visitor. "Of course," he said, "it will be for your interest not to let any one know from whom you obtained this." "All right. I understand. Well, good morning, squire; I'm glad things are satisfactory." "Good morning, Mr. Denton." When Tony had left the room, Prince Duncan threw himself back in his chair and reflected. His thoughts were busy with the man who had just left him, and he tried to arrange some method of throwing the guilt upon Denton. Yet, perhaps, even that would not be necessary. So far as Mr. Duncan knew, there was no record in Mr. Armstrong's possession of the numbers of the bonds, and in that case they would not be identified. "If I only knew positively that the numbers would not turn up, I should feel perfectly secure, and could realize on the bonds at any time," he thought. "I will wait awhile, and I may see my way clear." CHAPTER XXXVI A LETTER FROM LUKE "There's a letter for you, Linton," said Henry Wagner, as he met Linton Tomkins near the hotel. "I just saw your name on the list." In the Groveton post-office, as in many country offices, it was the custom to post a list of those for whom letters had been received. "It must be from Luke," thought Linton, joyfully, and he bent his steps immediately toward the office. No one in the village, outside of Luke's family, missed him more than Linton. Though Luke was two years and a half older, they had always been intimate friends. Linton's family occupied a higher social position, but there was nothing snobbish about Linton, as there was about Randolph, and it made no difference to him that Luke lived in a small and humble cottage, and, till recently, had been obliged to wear old and shabby clothes. In this democratic spirit, Linton was encouraged by his parents, who, while appreciating the refinement which is apt to be connected with liberal means, were too sensible to undervalue sterling merit and good character. Linton was right. His letter was from Luke. It read thus: "DEAR LINNY: I was very glad to receive your letter. It made me homesick for a short time. At any rate, it made me wish that I could be back for an hour in dear old Groveton. I cannot tell you where I am, for that is a secret of my employer. I am a long way from home; I can tell you that much. When I get home, I shall be able to tell you all. You will be glad to know that I have succeeded in the mission on which I was sent, and have revived a telegram of thanks from my employer. "It will not be long now before I am back in Groveton. I wonder if my dear friend Randolph will be glad to see me? You can remember me to him when you see him. It will gratify him to know that I am well and doing well, and that my prospects for the future are excellent. "Give my regards to your father and mother, who have always been kind to me. I shall come and see you the first thing after I return. If you only knew how hard I find it to refrain from telling you all, where I am and what adventures I have met with, how I came near being robbed twice, and many other things, you would appreciate my self-denial. But you shall know all very soon. I have had a good time--the best time in my life. Let mother read this letter, and believe me, dear Lin, "Your affectionate friend, "LUKE LARKIN." Linton's curiosity was naturally excited by the references in Luke's letter. "Where can Luke be?" he asked. "I wish he were at liberty to tell." Linton never dreamed, however, that his friend was two thousand miles away, in the wild West. It would have seemed to him utterly improbable. He was folding up the letter as he was walking homeward, when he met Randolph Duncan. "What's that, Linton?" he asked. "A love-letter?" "Not much; I haven't got so far along. It is a letter from Luke Larkin." "Oh!" sneered Randolph. "I congratulate you on your correspondent. Is he in New York?" "The letter is postmarked in New York, but he is traveling." "Traveling? Where is he traveling?" "He doesn't say. This letter is forwarded by Mr. Reed." "The man who robbed the bank?" "What makes you say that? What proof have you that he robbed the bank?" "I can't prove it, but my father thinks he is the robber. There was something very suspicious about that tin box which he handed to Luke." "It was opened in court, and proved to contain private papers." "Oh, that's easily seen through. He took out the bonds, and put in the papers. I suppose he has experience in that sort of thing." "Does your father think that?" "Yes, he does. What does Luke say?" "Wait a minute, and I will read you a paragraph," said Linton, with a mischievous smile. Thereupon he read the paragraph in which Randolph was mentioned. "What does he mean by calling me his dear friend?" exclaimed Randolph indignantly. "I never was his dear friend, and never want to be." "I believe you, Randolph. Shall I tell you what he means?" "Yes." "He means it for a joke. He knows you don't like him, and he isn't breaking his heart over it." "It's pretty cheeky in him! Just tell him when you write that he needn't call me his dear friend again." "You might hurt his feelings," said Linton, gravely. "That for his feelings!" said Randolph, with a snap of his fingers. "You say he's traveling. Shall I tell you what I think he is doing?" "If you like." "I think he is traveling with a blacking-box in his hand. It's just the business for him." "I don't think you are right. He wouldn't make enough in that way to pay traveling expenses. He says he has twice come near being robbed." Randolph laughed derisively. "A thief wouldn't make much robbing him," he said. "If he got twenty-five cents he'd be lucky." "You forget that he has a nice silver watch?" Randolph frowned. This with him was a sore reflection. Much as he was disposed to look down upon Luke, he was aware that Luke's watch was better than his, and, though he had importuned his father more than once to buy him a gold watch, he saw no immediate prospect of his wish being granted. "Oh, well, I've talked enough of Luke Larkin," he said, snappishly. "He isn't worth so many words. I am very much surprised that a gentleman's son like you, Linton, should demean himself by keeping company with such a boy." "There is no boy in the village whom I would rather associate with," said Linton, with sturdy friendship. "I don't admire your taste, then," said Randolph. "I don't believe your father and mother like you to keep such company." "There you are mistaken," said Linton, with spirit. "They have an excellent opinion of Luke, and if he should ever need a friend, I am sure my father would be willing to help him." "Well, I must be going," said Randolph, by no means pleased with this advocacy of Luke. "Come round and see me soon. You never come to our house." Linton answered politely, but did not mean to become intimate with Randolph, who was by no means to his taste. He knew that it was only his social position that won him the invitation, and that if his father should suddenly lose his property, Randolph's cordiality would be sensibly diminished. Such friendship, he felt, was not to be valued. "What are you thinking about? You seem in a brown study," said a pleasant voice. Looking up, Linton recognized his teacher, Mr. Hooper. "I was thinking of Luke Larkin," answered Linton. "By the by, where is Luke? I have not seen him for some time." "He is traveling for Mr. Reed, I believe." "The man who committed the tin box to his care?" "Yes, sir." "Do you know where he is?" "No, sir. I have just received a letter from him, but he says he is not at liberty to mention where he is." "Will he be home soon?" "Yes, I think so." "I shall be glad to see him. He is one of the most promising of my pupils." Linton's expressive face showed the pleasure he felt at this commendation of his friend. He felt more gratified than if Mr. Hooper had directly praised him. "Luke can stand Randolph's depreciation," he reflected, "with such a friend as Mr. Hooper." Linton was destined to meet plenty of acquaintances. Scarcely had he parted from Mr. Hooper, when Tony Denton met him. The keeper of the billiard-room was always on the alert to ingratiate himself with the young people of the village, looking upon them as possible patrons of his rooms. He would have been glad to draw in Linton, on account of his father's prominent position in the village. "Good day, my young friend," he said, with suavity. "Good day, Mr. Denton," responded Linton, who thought it due to himself to be polite, though he did not fancy Mr. Denton. "I should be very glad to have you look in at my billiard-room, Mr. Linton," continued Tony. "Thank you sir, but I don't think my father would like to have me visit a billiard-saloon--at any rate, till I am older." "Oh, I'll see that you come to no harm. If you don't want to play, you can look on." "At any rate, I am obliged to you for your polite invitation." "Oh, I like to have the nice boys of the village around me. Your friend Randolph Duncan often visits me." "So I have heard," replied Linton. "Well, I won't keep you, but remember my invitation." "I am not very likely to accept," thought Linton. "I have heard that Randolph visits the billiard-room too often for his good." CHAPTER XXXVII AN INCIDENT ON THE CARS As soon as possible, Luke started on his return to New York. He had enjoyed his journey, but now he felt a longing to see home and friends once more. His journey to Chicago was uneventful. He stayed there a few hours, and then started on his way home. On his trip from Chicago to Detroit he fell in with an old acquaintance unexpectedly. When about thirty miles from Detroit, having as a seatmate a very large man, who compressed him within uncomfortable limits, he took his satchel, and passing into the car next forward, took a seat a few feet from the door. He had scarcely seated himself when, looking around, he discovered, in the second seat beyond, his old Chicago acquaintance, Mr. J. Madison Coleman. He was as smooth and affable as ever, and was chatting pleasantly with a rough, farmerlike-looking man, who seemed very much taken with his attractive companion. "I wonder what mischief Coleman is up to now?" thought Luke. He was so near that he was able to hear the conversation that passed between them. "Yes, my friend," said Mr. Coleman, "I am well acquainted with Detroit. Business has called me there very often, and it will give me great pleasure to be of service to you in any way." "What business are you in?" inquired the other. "I am traveling for H. B. Claflin & Co., of New York. Of course you have heard of them. They are the largest wholesale dry-goods firm in the United States." "You don't say so!" returned the farmer respectfully. "Do you get pretty good pay?" "I am not at liberty to tell just what pay I get," said Mr. Coleman, "but I am willing to admit that it is over four thousand dollars." "You don't say so!" ejaculated the farmer. "My! I think myself pretty lucky when I make a thousand dollars a year." "Oh, well, my dear sir, your expenses are very light compared to mine. I spend about ten dollars a day on an average." "Jehu!" ejaculated the farmer. "Well, that is a pile. Do all the men that travel for your firm get as much salary as you?" "Oh, no; I am one of the principal salesmen, and am paid extra. I am always successful, if I do say it myself, and the firm know it, and pay me accordingly. They know that several other firms are after me, and would get me away if they didn't pay me my price." "I suppose you know all about investments, being a business man?" "Yes, I know a great deal about them," answered Mr. Coleman, his eyes sparkling with pleasure at this evidence that his companion had money. "If you have any money to invest, I shall be very glad to advise you." "Well, you see, I've just had a note for two hundred and fifty dollars paid in by a neighbor who's been owin' it for two years, and I thought I'd go up to Detroit and put it in the savings-bank." "My good friend, the savings-bank pays but a small rate of interest. I think I know a business man of Detroit who will take your money and pay you ten per cent." "Ten per cent.!" exclaimed the farmer joyfully. "My! I didn't think I could get over four or six." "So you can't, in a general way," answered Coleman. "But business men, who are turning over their money once a month, can afford to pay a good deal more." "But is your friend safe?" he inquired, anxiously. "Safe as the Bank of England," answered Coleman. "I've lent him a thousand dollars at a time, myself, and always got principal and interest regularly. I generally have a few thousand invested," he added, in a matter-of-course manner. "I'd be glad to get ten per cent.," said the farmer. "That would be twenty-five dollars a year on my money." "Exactly. I dare say you didn't get over six per cent. on the note." "I got seven, but I had to wait for the interest sometimes." "You'll never have to wait for interest if you lend to my friend. I am only afraid he won't be willing to take so small a sum. Still, I'll speak a good word for you, and he will make an exception in your favor." "Thank you, sir," said the farmer gratefully. "I guess I'll let him have it." "You couldn't do better. He's a high-minded, responsible man. I would offer to take the money myself, but I really have no use for it. I have at present two thousand dollars in bank waiting for investment." "You don't say so!" said the farmer, eying Coleman with the respect due to so large a capitalist. "Yes, I've got it in the savings-bank for the time being. If my friend can make use of it, I shall let him have it. He's just as safe as a savings-bank." The farmer's confidence in Mr. Coleman was evidently fully established. The young man talked so smoothly and confidently that he would have imposed upon one who had seen far more of the world than Farmer Jones. "I'm in luck to fall in with you, Mr.--" "Coleman," said the drummer, with suavity. "J. Madison Coleman. My grandfather was a cousin of President James Madison, and that accounts for my receiving that name." The farmer's respect was further increased. It was quite an event to fall in with so near a relative of an illustrious ex-President, and he was flattered to find that a young man of such lineage was disposed to treat him with such friendly familiarity. "Are you going to stay long in Detroit?" asked the farmer. "Two or three days. I shall be extremely busy, but I shall find time to attend to your business. In fact, I feel an interest in you, my friend, and shall be glad to do you a service." "You are very kind, and I'm obleeged to you," said the farmer gratefully. "Now, if you will excuse me for a few minutes, I will go into the smoking-car and have a smoke." When he had left the car, Luke immediately left his seat, and went forward to where the farmer was sitting. "Excuse me," he said, "but I saw you talking to a young man just now." "Yes," answered the farmer complacently, "he's a relative of President Madison." "I want to warn you against him. I know him to be a swindler." "What!" exclaimed the farmer, eying Luke suspiciously. "Who be you? You're nothing but a boy." "That is true, but I am traveling on business. This Mr. Coleman tried to rob me about a fortnight since, and nearly succeeded. I heard him talking to you about money." "Yes, he was going to help me invest some money I have with me. He said he could get me ten per cent." "Take my advice, and put it in a savings-bank. Then it will be safe. No man who offers to pay ten per cent. for money can be relied upon." "Perhaps you want to rob me yourself?" said the farmer suspiciously. "Do I look like it?" asked Luke, smiling. "Isn't my advice good, to put the money in a savings-bank? But I will tell you how I fell in with Mr. Coleman, and how he tried to swindle me, and then you can judge for yourself." This Luke did briefly and his tone and manner carried conviction. The farmer became extremely indignant at the intended fraud, and promised to have nothing to do with Coleman. "I will take my old seat, then," said Luke. "I don't want Coleman to know who warned you." Presently, Coleman came back and was about to resume his seat beside the farmer. "You see I have come back," he said. "You needn't have troubled yourself," said the farmer, with a lowering frown. "You nearly took me in with your smooth words, but I've got my money yet, and I mean to keep it. Your friend can't have it." "What does all this mean, my friend?" asked Coleman, in real amazement. "Is it possible you distrust me? Why, I was going to put myself to inconvenience to do you a service." "Then you needn't. I know you. You wanted to swindle me out of my two hundred and fifty dollars." "Sir, you insult me!" exclaimed Coleman, with lofty indignation. "What do I--a rich man--want of your paltry two hundred and fifty dollars?" "I don't believe you are a rich man. Didn't I tell you, I have been warned against you?" "Who dared to talk against me?" asked Coleman indignantly. Then, casting his eyes about, he noticed Luke for the first time. Now it was all clear to him. Striding up to Luke's seat, he said threateningly, "Have you been talking against me, you young jackanapes?" "Yes, Mr. Coleman, I have," answered Luke steadily. "I thought it my duty to inform this man of your character. I have advised him to put his money into a savings-bank." "Curse you for an impertinent meddler!" said Coleman wrathfully. "I'll get even with you for this!" "You can do as you please," said Luke calmly. Coleman went up to the farmer and said, abruptly, "You've been imposed upon by an unprincipled boy. He's been telling you lies about me." "He has given me good advice," said the farmer sturdily, "and I shall follow it." "You are making a fool of yourself!" "That is better than to be made fool of, and lose my money." Coleman saw that the game was lost, and left the car. He would gladly have assaulted Luke, but knew that it would only get him into trouble. CHAPTER XXXVIII LUKE'S RETURN Mr. Armstrong was sitting in his office one morning when the door opened, and Luke entered, his face flushed with health, and his cheeks browned by exposure. "You see I've got back, Mr. Armstrong," he said, advancing with a smile. "Welcome home, Luke!" exclaimed the merchant heartily, grasping our hero's hand cordially. "I hope you are satisfied with me," said Luke. "Satisfied! I ought to be. You have done yourself the greatest credit. It is seldom a boy of your age exhibits such good judgment and discretion." "Thank you, sir," said Luke gratefully. "I was obliged to spend a good deal of money," he added, "and I have arrived in New York with only three dollars and seventy-five cents in my pocket." "I have no fault to find with your expenses," said Mr. Armstrong promptly. "Nor would I have complained if you had spent twice as much. The main thing was to succeed, and you have succeeded." "I am glad to hear you speak so," said Luke, relieved. "To me it seemed a great deal of money. You gave me two hundred dollars, and I have less than five dollars left. Here it is!" and Luke drew the sum from his pocket, and tendered it to the merchant. "I can't take it," said Mr. Armstrong. "You don't owe me any money. It is I who am owing you. Take this on account," and he drew a roll of bills from his pocketbook and handed it to Luke. "Here are a hundred dollars on account," he continued. "This is too much, Mr. Armstrong," said Luke, quite overwhelmed with the magnitude of the gift. "Let me be the judge of that," said Mr. Armstrong kindly. "There is only one thing, Luke, that I should have liked to have you do." "What is that, sir?" "I should like to have had you bring me a list of the numbers certified to by Mr. Harding." Luke's answer was to draw from the inside pocket of his vest a paper signed by the old bookkeeper, containing a list of the numbers, regularly subscribed and certified to. "Is that what you wished, sir?" he asked. "You are a wonderful boy," said the merchant admiringly. "Was this your idea, or Mr. Harding's?" "I believe I suggested it to him," said Luke modestly. "That makes all clear sailing," said Mr. Armstrong. "Here are fifty dollars more. You deserve it for your thoughtfulness." "You have given me enough already," said Luke, drawing back. "My dear boy, it is evident that you still have something to learn in the way of business. When a rich old fellow offers you money, which he can well afford, you had better take it." "That removes all my objections," said Luke. "But I am afraid you will spoil me with your liberality, Mr. Armstrong." "I will take the risk of it. But here is another of your friends." The door had just opened, and Roland Reed entered. There was another cordial greeting, and Luke felt that it was pleasant, indeed, to have two such good friends. "When are you going to Groveton, Luke?" asked Mr. Reed. "I shall go this afternoon, if there is nothing more you wish me to do. I am anxious to see my mother." "That is quite right, Luke. Your mother is your best friend, and deserves all the attention you can give her. I shall probably go to Groveton myself to-morrow." After Luke had left the office, Mr. Reed remained to consult with the merchant as to what was the best thing to do. Both were satisfied that Prince Duncan, the president of the bank, was the real thief who had robbed the bank. There were two courses open--a criminal prosecution, or a private arrangement which should include the return of the stolen property. The latter course was determined upon, but should it prove ineffective, severer measures were to be resorted to. CHAPTER XXXIX HOW LUKE WAS RECEIVED Luke's return to Groveton was received with delight by his mother and his true friend Linton. Naturally Randolph displayed the same feelings toward him as ever. It so chanced that he met Luke only an hour after his arrival. He would have passed him by unnoticed but for the curiosity he felt to know where he had been, and what he was intending to do. "Humph! so you're back again!" he remarked. "Yes," answered Luke, with a smile. "I hope you haven't missed me much, Randolph." "Oh, I've managed to live through it," returned Randolph, with what he thought to be cutting sarcasm. "I am glad of that." "Where were you?" asked Randolph, abruptly. "I was in New York a part of the time," said Luke. "Where were you the rest of the time?" "I was traveling." "That sounds large. Perhaps you were traveling with a hand-organ." "Perhaps I was." "Well, what are you going to do now?" "Thank you for your kind interest in me, Randolph. I will tell you as soon as I know." "Oh, you needn't think I feel interest in you." "Then I won't." "You are impertinent," said Randolph, scowling. It dawned upon him that Luke was chaffing him. "I don't mean to be. If I have been, I apologize. If you know of any situation which will pay me a fair sum, I wish you would mention me." "I'll see about it," said Randolph, in an important tone. He was pleased at Luke's change of tone. "I don't think you can get back as janitor, for my father doesn't like you." "Couldn't you intercede for me, Randolph?" "Why, the fact is, you put on so many airs, for a poor boy, that I shouldn't feel justified in recommending you. It is your own fault." "Well, perhaps it is," said Luke. "I am glad you acknowledge it. I don't know but my father will give you a chance to work round our house, make fires, and run errands." "What would he pay?" asked Luke, in a businesslike tone. "He might pay a dollar and a half a week." "I'm afraid I couldn't support myself on that." "Oh, well, that's your lookout. It's better than loafing round doing nothing." "You're right there, Randolph." "I'll just mention it to father, then." "No, thank you. I shouldn't wonder if Mr. Reed might find something for me to do." "Oh, the man that robbed the bank?" said Randolph, turning up his nose. "It may soon be discovered that some one else robbed the bank." "I don't believe it." Here the two boys parted. "Luke," said Linton, the same day, "have you decided what you are going to do?" "Not yet; but I have friends who, I think, will look out for me." "Because my father says he will find you a place if you fail to get one elsewhere." "Tell your father that I think he is very kind. There is no one to whom I would more willingly be indebted for a favor. If I should find myself unemployed, I will come to him." "All right! I am going to drive over to Coleraine"--the next town--"this afternoon. Will you go with me?" "I should like nothing better." "What a difference there is between Randolph and Linton!" thought Luke. CHAPTER XL THE BANK ROBBER IS FOUND Tony Denton lost no time in going up to the city with the second bond he had extracted from the fears of Prince Duncan. He went directly to the office of his brokers, Gay & Sears, and announced that he was prepared to deposit additional margin. The bond was received, and taken to the partners in the back office. Some four minutes elapsed, and the clerk reappeared. "Mr. Denton, will you step into the back office?" he said. "Certainly," answered Tony cheerfully. He found the two brokers within. "This is Mr. Denton?" said the senior partner. "Yes, sir." "You offer this bond as additional margin on the shares we hold in your name?" "Yes, of course." "Mr. Denton," said Mr. Gay searchingly, "where did you get this bond?" "Where did I get it?" repeated Denton nervously. "Why, I bought it." "How long since?" "About a year." The two partners exchanged glances. "Where do you live, Mr. Denton?" "In Groveton." "Ahem! Mr. Sears, will you be kind enough to draw out the necessary papers?" Tony Denton felt relieved. The trouble seemed to be over. Mr. Gay at the same time stepped into the main office and gave a direction to one of the clerks. Mr. Sears drew out a large sheet of foolscap, and began, in very deliberate fashion, to write. He kept on writing for some minutes. Tony Denton wondered why so much writing should be necessary in a transaction of this kind. Five minutes later a young man looked into the office, and said, addressing Mr. Gay. "All right!" Upon that Mr. Sears suspended writing. "Mr. Denton," said Mr. Gay, "are you aware that this bond which you have brought us was stolen from the Groveton Bank?" "I--don't--believe--it," gasped Denton, turning pale. "The numbers of the stolen bonds have been sent to all the bankers and brokers in the city. This is one, and the one you brought us not long since is another. Do you persist in saying that you bought this bond a year ago?" "No, no!" exclaimed Denton, terrified. "Did you rob the bank?" "No, I didn't!" ejaculated the terrified man, wiping the perspiration from his brow. "Where, then, did you get the bonds?" "I got them both from Prince Duncan, president of the bank." Both partners looked surprised. One of them went to the door of the office, and called in Mr. Armstrong, who, as well as a policeman, had been sent for. Tony Denton's statement was repeated to him. "I am not surprised," he said. "I expected it." Tony Denton now made a clean breast of the whole affair, and his words were taken down. "Are you willing to go to Groveton with me, and repeat this in presence of Mr. Duncan?" asked Mr. Armstrong. "Yes." "Will you not have him arrested?" asked Mr. Gay. "No, he has every reason to keep faith with me." It was rather late in the day when Mr. Armstrong, accompanied by Tony Denton, made their appearance at the house of Prince Duncan. When the banker's eyes rested on the strangely assorted pair, his heart sank within him. He had a suspicion of what it meant. "We have called on you, Mr. Duncan, on a matter of importance," said Mr. Armstrong. "Very well," answered Duncan faintly. "It is useless to mince matters. I have evidence outside of this man's to show that it was you who robbed the bank of which you are president, and appropriated to your own use the bonds which it contained." "This is a strange charge to bring against a man in my position. Where is your proof?" demanded Duncan, attempting to bluster. "I have Mr. Denton's evidence that he obtained two thousand-dollar bonds of you." "Very well, suppose I did sell him two such bonds?" "They were among the bonds stolen." "It is not true. They were bonds I have had for five years." "Your denial is useless. The numbers betray you." "You did not have the numbers of the bonds." "So you think, but I have obtained them from an old book-keeper of mine, now at the West. I sent a special messenger out to obtain the list from him. Would you like to know who the messenger was?" "Who was it?" "Luke Larkin." "That boy!" exclaimed Duncan bitterly. "Yes, that boy supplied me with the necessary proof. And now, I have a word to say; I can send you to prison, but for the sake of your family I would prefer to spare you. But the bonds must be given up." "I haven't them all in my possession." "Then you must pay me the market price of those you have used. The last one given to this man is safe." "It will reduce me to poverty," said Prince Duncan in great agitation. "Nevertheless, it must be done!" said Mr. Armstrong sternly. "Moreover, you must resign your position as president of the bank, and on that condition you will be allowed to go free, and I will not expose you." Of course, Squire Duncan was compelled to accept these terms. He saved a small sum out of the wreck of his fortune, and with his family removed to the West, where they were obliged to adopt a very different style of living. Randolph is now an office boy at a salary of four dollars a week, and is no longer able to swagger and boast as he has done hitherto. Mr. Tomkins, Linton's father, was elected president of the Groveton Bank in place of Mr. Duncan, much to the satisfaction of Luke. Roland Reed, much to the surprise of Luke, revealed himself as a cousin of Mr. Larkin, who for twenty-five years had been lost sight of. He had changed his name, on account of some trouble into which he had been betrayed by Prince Duncan, and thus had not been recognized. "You need be under no anxiety about Luke and his prospects," he said to Mrs. Larkin. "I shall make over to him ten thousand dollars at once, constituting myself his guardian, and will see that he is well started in business. My friend Mr. Armstrong proposes to take him into his office, if you do not object, at a liberal salary." "I shall miss him very much," said Mrs. Larkin, "though I am thankful that he is to be so well provided for." "He can come home every Saturday night, and stay until Monday morning," said Mr. Reed, who, by the way, chose to retain his name in place of his old one. "Will that satisfy you?" "It ought to, surely, and I am grateful to Providence for all the blessings which it has showered upon me and mine." There was another change. Mr. Reed built a neat and commodious house in the pleasantest part of the village and there Mrs. Larkin removed with his little daughter, of whom she still had the charge. No one rejoiced more sincerely at Luke's good fortune than Linton, who throughout had been a true and faithful friend. He is at present visiting Europe with his mother, and has written an earnest letter, asking Luke to join him. But Luke feels that he cannot leave a good business position, and must postpone the pleasure of traveling till he is older. Mr. J. Madison Coleman, the enterprising drummer, has got into trouble, and is at present an inmate of the State penitentiary at Joliet, Illinois. It is fortunate for the traveling public, so many of whom he has swindled, that he is for a time placed where he can do no more mischief. So closes an eventful passage in the life of Luke Larkin. He has struggled upward from a boyhood of privation and self-denial into a youth and manhood of prosperity and honor. There has been some luck about it, I admit, but after all he is indebted for most of his good fortune to his own good qualities.