"I think we shall prove too many for Mr. Jones," he murmured softly, as he went up to bed.



CHAPTER XIII.

PERCY GETS RID OF THE BILL.

When Percy Marlowe left the grocery store with the stolen bill in his hand, he was tremulous with excitement and agitation. He felt that he had committed a crime, and he was almost tempted to go back and replace the money. But it was possible that its loss had already been discovered, and he might be connected with it. He felt that it would be safe to get as far away as possible from the store.

"Nobody will suspect me," he said to himself, plucking up courage.

Then there was the pleasant thought that he could pay up his debt to Reginald Ward, and have ten dollars left over. It would be very comfortable to have ten dollars to spend, and Percy, whose conscience was not sensitive, began to consider what would be the pleasantest way of disposing of it. He soon came to a decision on this point, having, like most boys, rather a talent for spending money.

"I'll go round by the hotel," he said to himself, "and if I find Reg there I'll pay him what I owe him and get it off my mind."

Percy walked around to the Lake House, and found Reginald Ward in the billiard room. Ward treated him rather coldly.

"Good-morning, Percy," he said.

"Good-morning, Reg."

"I hope you have come prepared to pay me what you owe me. I may have to go back to New York to-morrow."

"I wish he would," thought Percy. "Then, if there's any trouble about this money, he will be well out of the way, and nobody can find out about it."

"I can pay you to-night," said Percy.

"You can? You're a trump!" said Reginald, in gratified surprise.

"Suppose we go up to your room," went on Percy nervously, "and don't talk about it here. I don't want anybody to know that I am owing you any money."

"I understand. The governor wouldn't like it, hey?"

"No, he'd be awful mad."

"Follow me, then, Percy," and Ward led the way up to his room.

"Lock the door," said Percy.

"Seems to me we are mighty mysterious," commented Ward, laughing. "Oh, well; anything to accommodate. Now, where are the spondulicks?"

"Can you change a twenty-dollar bill?" asked Percy.

"Whew! you are wealthy," said Ward, in surprise. "Let me see!" and he opened his pocket book. "Much as ever," he replied, after investigating the contents. "Here is a five, a two, a silver dollar, and I think I can make up two dollars in small change. It'll take up about all I've got."

"Then perhaps you'd rather wait till I have a chance to get the bill changed," suggested Percy.

"Not much," returned Reginald, with a crafty smile. "'A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush,' as somebody says. I am willing to be inconvenienced for the sake of getting the debt paid."

"Oh, well; just as you say," rejoined Percy, secretly glad to get the tell-tale bill out of his possession, and to replace it in his pocket with the smaller bills and silver which Ward proposed to give him.

When the transfer was made, Ward asked, "Where did you raise the twenty, Percy?"

Now it was that Percy looked embarrassed.

"It is some money I had given to me a long while ago," he answered with hesitation.

"Oh!" exclaimed Ward, evidently incredulous.

"I promised not to use it, but to keep it saved up," continued Percy, "and I meant to; but you wanted me to pay what I owed you, and so——"

"You acted like an honest young man," said Ward, finishing his sentence for him.

"Yes."

There was a peculiar smile on Reginald Ward's face, but he did not think it best to question Percy's statement. His money had been paid him, and that was all he cared for.

"Percy's found it in his father's desk, I reckon," he said to himself, "but that doesn't concern me. I've got my money and that's more than I expected."

"By the way, Reg," said Percy hurriedly, "don't mention to any one my paying you this money."

"Why not?"

"It would be found out that I had been playing cards for money, and there'd be no end of a row. Besides, then it would come out that I had parted with this bill."

"All right, Percy. I'll keep mum. Won't you go down and have a game of billiards?"

"Not to-night. I'm rather tired."

"That boy's got something on his mind," thought Reginald Ward.



CHAPTER XIV.

BERT STANDS TRIAL.

Percy went to bed early, and heard nothing of Bert's arrest for the theft which he had himself committed till at the breakfast table the next morning his father said: "Well, young Barton has got into a bad scrape."

"What is it, father?" asked Percy, pricking up his ears.

"He is charged with stealing a twenty-dollar bill from Mr. Jones, the store-keeper."

This was certainly amazing, and Percy, in his agitation, nearly choked with some coffee that went the wrong way.

"Be more careful, Percy!" said his mother sharply.

"I was so surprised, mother, at what father told me," apologized Percy.

"I don't know why you need be surprised," said Mrs. Marlowe. "I never had a very good opinion of the boy."

"How did it happen?" asked Percy, curious to know how suspicion could have fallen upon Bert.

"It appears that Mr. Jones laid a twenty-dollar bill on his desk—a very careless proceeding, by the way—while he was waiting upon a customer in another part of the store. About five minutes afterward the Barton boy called upon him to fill a small can with kerosene, and actually had the hardihood to offer his own twenty-dollar bill in payment."

"Bert Barton offered Mr. Jones a twenty-dollar bill?" asked Percy, in great surprise.

"Yes; no wonder you are surprised at his boldness."

"Perhaps it wasn't the same bill," Percy was constrained to suggest.

"You must be a fool, Percy. Where else could he have got so large a bill as that? We all know how poor the Bartons are. Besides, the bill on the desk had disappeared."

Percy was silent for a moment. He felt bewildered, and could not understand it at all. He knew very well that it was not the same bill. But where did the other bill come from? How happened a poor boy like Bert Barton to have such a large bill in his possession? That was certainly mysterious.

"Was—was Bert arrested?" he asked, in a hesitating tone.

"He would have been but for the interference of a meddlesome young lawyer, who, it appears, is staying at the hotel."

"Mr. Conway?"

"I believe that is his name. He offered to defend the Barton boy, and would not permit him to be arrested."

Percy was glad to hear this. He was mean and selfish, but he was not mean enough to wish Bert to suffer for a crime of which he knew him to be innocent.

"What was done, then?" he asked, after a pause.

"The boy was allowed to go home, but his trial is to take place before me this morning at ten o'clock. You can be present, if you desire."

"I—don't—know as I do," said Percy.

His father looked surprised.

"I thought you would be eager to be there," he said.

"I may come in," said Percy; "but I am sorry for Bert, and I should not like to see him under arrest."

"You are too good-hearted, Percy," said his mother. "I am sure I hope the boy did not do what is charged, though I don't think there is the slightest doubt of it; but if he is guilty I want him punished. That is the only way to protect the community from further thefts."

"What would mother say if she knew I did it?" thought Percy, shivering. "I wish I hadn't done it."

But it was too late to wish that. He had appropriated the money, and it had been paid away. Suppose Reginald Ward should betray him? Percy earnestly hoped that he would leave town before he had a chance to hear of the stolen money, for he felt certain that sharp young man would suspect him of having had something to do with it.

As the time drew near, Percy decided that he had better not attend the trial. He was afraid that some one would call to mind that he too had been standing near the desk just before the bill disappeared. He felt nervous and excited. He wished it was all over, and Bert was acquitted. Suppose he were found guilty and sentenced to imprisonment? It would be terrible, Percy admitted to himself; but what could he do? He couldn't confess, and incur the same punishment himself. The very thought made him shudder. He walked about the streets in a very uncomfortable frame of mind till about a quarter of ten. Then he suddenly encountered Bert, who, in company with his lawyer, was on his way to a room in the town hall where the trial was to take place. Bert held his head erect, but his face was flushed with shame at the unpleasant predicament in which he found himself. When he saw Percy approaching he said to himself bitterly: "There is one who will rejoice at my misfortune."

What was his surprise, then, when Percy came up with a pleasant smile, and said, "Good-morning, Bert."

Bert looked at him sharply, to see if there was anything triumphant in his smile, but Percy's manner was cordial and friendly.

"Have you heard of my trouble, Percy?" asked Bert abruptly.

"Yes, Bert, and I am very sorry for it."

"Do you believe me guilty?"

"No, I don't," returned Percy, and he offered his hand.

"Thank you, Percy," said Bert, moved in spite of himself. "I misjudged you. If you don't believe me guilty, I hope others won't. Are you going to the trial?"

"I wasn't thinking of doing so, but I will walk with you as far as the town hall."

There was quite a crowd gathered near the entrance to the building, for it was generally known that Bert was to be tried for the theft that morning. Some of those composing it—in fact most—were Bert's friends; but there were a few who delighted in scandal and looked forward with eagerness to hearing the details, and did not care much how Bert might be affected by it.

The surprise was general when Bert approached, apparently in friendly converse with Percy Marlowe, a boy whose want of cordial feeling toward him was generally known. The occasion was a trial for Bert, but Percy's unexpected friendliness sustained him, though he had not got over his surprise at it.

All parties entered the court-room, and presently Squire Marlowe himself appeared. He walked with dignity to the platform, and took his seat behind the desk over which justice was dispensed.

"Who is the complainant in this case?" he asked.

"I am, squire," said Mr. Jones, advancing eagerly.

"State your case."

"I charge this boy—Bert Barton—with stealing a twenty-dollar bill from my desk last evening."

"Have you counsel?"

"No, squire. The case is plain, and I can manage it myself."

"I represent the defendant," said the young lawyer Conway.

"You are a lawyer, are you?" asked Squire Marlowe, frowning.

"Yes, sir."

"Have you any evidence or certificate to show this?"

"I can prove it, if necessary; but I will venture to suggest that your doubts on the subject are very singular, and that, lawyer or no lawyer, I am at liberty to appear for the defendant if he desires it."

Squire Marlowe coughed and looked displeased at this remark.

"State your case, Mr. Jones," he said, after the latter had been sworn.

The grocer told the story as it happened, making it bear as heavily against Bert as possible.

"Do you wish to ask the witness any questions, Mr. Conway," inquired the judge.

"Yes, sir. Mr. Jones, what makes you think my client took your twenty-dollar bill?"

"It stands to reason—" commenced the grocer.

"Never mind about that! Please stick to facts."

"Well, the bill disappeared."

"Admitted. Go on."

"The Barton boy was standing near the desk."

"Did you see him take it?"

"No; how could I? My back was turned."

"This is important. Then, so far as your knowledge goes, any other person may have taken the bill."

"Didn't I tell you that the boy was brazen enough to offer me the same bill in payment for some kerosene which I got for him?"

"You are very sure it was the same bill, are you, Mr. Jones?" asked Conway carelessly.

"Why, of course it was."

"That won't do! How can you prove it was?"

"Because," said the grocer triumphantly, "the bill I lost was a twenty-dollar bill, and the bill the boy offered me was a twenty-dollar bill," and Mr. Jones looked around the court-room with a complacent and triumphant smile. Squire Marlowe, judge though he was, gave a little nod, as if to show that he, too, thought the argument was unanswerable. Even Bert's friends in the court-room glanced at each other gravely. It certainly looked bad for our hero.



CHAPTER XV.

BERT'S TRIUMPHANT VINDICATION.

"You have not answered my question, Mr. Jones," persisted the young lawyer.

"I rather think I have," said the grocer, looking around him triumphantly.

"But not satisfactorily. I ask you again, how do you know that the twenty-dollar bill tendered you by my client was the same bill which you left on the desk?"

"It stands to reason——"

"Stop there! That is no answer."

"It seems to me you're mighty particular," retorted the grocer sharply.

"My young client's interests require it. Now for your answer."

"Well, there wasn't any other twenty-dollar bill around."

"How do you know! Young Barton says he brought the bill from home."

"He says so!" repeated Mr. Jones, with a suggestive sneer.

"Upon that point I propose to call a witness who will corroborate his statement. Mrs. Barton!"

The widow Barton came forward, pale and anxious, and was sworn. She was regarded with sympathy by all present except the grocer and the acting judge. After one or two unimportant questions, Mr. Conway asked: "When your son went to the grocery store, did he take any money with him?"

"Yes, sir."

"How much?"

"Twenty dollars."

"Was it in the form of one bill, or several?"

"It was a single twenty-dollar bill."

Mr. Jones, who had now taken his seat, looked insultingly incredulous.

"Can I ask a question?" he said, turning to Squire Marlowe.

"You can."

"I should like to ask Mrs. Barton where the prisoner obtained the twenty-dollar bill?" And the grocer looked around the court-room again, triumphantly.

"It came from my uncle, Jacob Marlowe," answered Mrs. Barton.

"Ah, that's it! Is Mr. Jacob Marlowe in town?"

"No, sir."

"When was he in town?"

"Three or four weeks since."

"When did he give you the money?"

"He left a sealed envelope containing it, which we were not to open unless in case of need."

"When did you first open it?"

"Last evening."

"Can you produce the envelope?" asked Jones, with an ironical smile.

"Here it is."

The envelope was taken and examined by the grocer.

"There is nothing to show that this could not have been prepared by the defendant, without the knowledge of this convenient uncle," he said.

"There was a note accompanying it," Mrs. Barton added.

"Let me see it."

"I will read it," said Mr. Conway, taking it in his hand.

This note has already been quoted in Chapter XI.

Mr. Jones looked somewhat nonplussed.

"I am free to confess," he said, after a pause, "that I doubt the genuineness of this note. Nothing could be easier than to prepare it."

"I appeal to the court to protect the witness from insult," interposed Mr. Conway.

"I do not consider that she has been insulted," said Squire Marlowe coldly. "The credibility of testimony is always a matter to be considered."

Mr. Jones eyed the young lawyer with a triumphant smile.

"Have you any further questions to put, Mr. Jones?" added Conway.

"No, sir, I am satisfied."

"Then the witness may step down. I call upon Mr. Jones to take the witness stand again."

"I have no objection, I am sure!" said the grocer jauntily. He saw that the judge was with him, and he confidently anticipated Bert's conviction.

"From whom did you obtain the twenty-dollar bill which you charge my client with taking?" asked Mr. Conway.

"From Mr. Holbrook, the landlord of the hotel."

"You are sure of this?" demanded Conway sternly.

"Of course I am."

"And you will swear that this is the case?"

"Certainly!" answered Mr. Jones aggressively, thinking it very important that he should substantiate this fact.

"That will do, Mr. Jones."

The grocer took his seat, feeling that he had scored a victory and foiled the lawyer. It was not long before he had occasion to change his opinion.

"Mr. Holbrook," called Conway.

The landlord of the Lakeville Hotel took the stand. He was a pleasant-looking, good-hearted man, and he glanced sympathetically at Bert and his mother.

"Mr. Holbrook," said Conway, "do you remember paying Mr. Jones, the complainant, a twenty-dollar bill?"

"Yes, sir."

The grocer smiled again. Everything seemed to favor his side of the case.

"For what was the payment made?"

"For groceries furnished by Mr. Jones."

"Would you recognize the bill you paid if you should see it again?"

"Yes, sir."

"Is this the bill?" asked the lawyer, exhibiting the note taken from the grocer, and now in the custody of the court.

Mr. Holbrook took the bill in his hand, and, turning it over, looked at the reverse side. All eyes were upon him, and there was a hush of expectation, for it was felt that the whole case hinged upon the answer to this question.

"This is not the same bill," answered the landlord composedly.

Bert's friends looked joyful, and Mr. Jones looked dismayed.

"He is mistaken!" ejaculated the grocer, much perturbed.

"Of course," continued the young lawyer, "you have some means of identification. Please state to the court how you know that this is not the same bill."

"The bill which I paid to Mr. Jones," answered the landlord, "had the letters I. W. written in red ink on the back. This note has no such mark."

Conway looked triumphant. It was his turn now. He took the bank-note, and holding it up in sight of all, called the attention of the court and those present to the fact attested by the witness.

"It is clear," he said, "that nothing was ever written on the back of this note in red ink."

"It might have been effaced," suggested the grocer querulously.

"The bill, since it was taken from the complainant, has been in charge of the court," said Conway. "I hardly think the complainant will dare to assert that it has been tampered with. And now, your honor," turning to the presiding judge, "I submit that the charge has been completely answered. We have shown that the bill tendered by my client was not the bill lost by Mr. Jones. I claim his discharge."

Squire Marlowe hesitated, but he could think of no pretext for holding Bert, since the case against him had so signally failed.

"The prisoner is discharged!" he said briefly, and rose from his seat.

Bert's friends surrounded him, and he began to fear that in their enthusiasm they would shake his hand off. It was almost as serious as being a Presidential candidate. It is needless to say, however, that Mr. Jones was not one of the friends who congratulated him. He, on the other hand, looked decidedly grumpy, and as if he had lost his best friend. He pushed his way through the crowd up to the young lawyer.

"This is all very fine, Mr. Lawyer," he said, "but will you tell me how I am to get my money back?"

"What money, Mr. Jones?"

"The twenty-dollar bill taken from my desk, of course."

"I wish I could, Mr. Jones, but I know no more than the man in the moon."

"Is that all the satisfaction I am going to get?" demanded Jones angrily.

"From me—yes. You will have to find the person who actually took the money."

"I don't see how I am to do it. I would have sworn that it was Bert Barton, and I am not sure now——"

"Stop there, Mr. Jones! If after my client's full vindication you insinuate any charge of dishonesty, I shall advise him to sue you for defamation of character."

The grocer looked startled, and Conway continued:

"But I will volunteer the suggestion that as you can now identify the bill, you can advertise that a note so marked has been stolen from you, and call upon any one into whose hands it may come to help you trace it back to the thief. There is a chance that you may recover it."



CHAPTER XVI.

WHAT BECAME OF THE STOLEN NOTE.

Among the attentive listeners at Bert's trial was a tall young man with light hair and pallid complexion, upon whose thin face there played a shrewd smile. He seemed unusually interested, as was indeed the case, for he strongly suspected that he knew who was the actual purloiner of the stolen twenty-dollar bill. It is hardly necessary to say that the young man was Percy's friend, Reginald Ward.

When the landlord gave his testimony, he was no longer in doubt, for he had himself noticed the letters I. W. on the back of the bank-bill.

As he left the court-room, he saw Percy lingering near the door.

"Come with me, Percy," he said, linking his arm with that of the boy. "I have something to say to you."

"I have an engagement," pleaded Percy, trying to release himself. "I will call round this afternoon."

"I can't wait till afternoon," said Reginald decidedly. "I must speak to you now on a matter of importance."

"How did the trial come out?"

"The boy was acquitted."

"I thought he would be."

"Why?" asked Reginald Ward, eyeing Percy curiously.

"Because I don't think he would steal."

"Is he a friend of yours?"

"No; he is only a working boy."

"Still you think he is honest?"

"Oh, yes."

"How then do you account for the bill's being stolen?"

Percy shrugged his shoulders.

"I don't feel sure that any bill was stolen," he said. "I don't think much of old Jones. I dare say he made up the story."

"That is hardly likely. What object could he have?"

"He wanted to get hold of Bert Barton's bill. Where did Bert get it from? Did he say?"

"He said it was left in an envelope by some old uncle of his."

"Uncle Jacob?"

"Yes; I think that was the name."

"I didn't think the old man had so much money to spare."

"You seem to know him then?"

"I have heard of him."

By this time they had reached the hotel, and Reginald asked Percy to come up to his room.

"What was it you wanted to speak to me about?" asked Percy, as he took a seat at the window.

"I wanted to tell you that the stolen bill came from Mr. Holbrook. Mr. Jones testified to this effect, and Mr. Holbrook also."

"Well, what of that?"

"Mr. Holbrook described the bill and stated that the letters I. W. were written in red ink on the reverse side."

Percy began to see the point, and waited anxiously for Reginald to continue.

Ward drew from his pocket the twenty-dollar bill, and held it up to open view.

"This is the bill you paid me last evening," he said. "You will observe the letters I. W. as described by the landlord. Now, where did you get this bill?" he asked searchingly.

Drops of perspiration stood on Percy's forehead, and he hesitated to reply. Finally an inspiration came to him, and he said, "I picked it up in the street, near the grocery store. The thief must have dropped it."

"You didn't tell me that when you paid it to me."

"No, I didn't think it necessary. I was anxious to get out of debt to you."

"Percy Marlowe, that statement of yours won't pass muster. Weren't you in the grocery store last evening?"

"No—yes," stammered Percy.

"And you saw this bill on Mr. Jones's desk—yes or no?"

"I don't see what right you have to question me," said Percy sullenly.

"Because you have paid me stolen money, and if I keep it I am likely to get into trouble. Indeed, I came very near it this morning. I was on the point of paying it to Mr. Holbrook for my board. You can imagine that he would have recognized it at once."

"I don't see as you are to blame."

"No, I am not; but if the bill were known to be in my possession, the only thing I could do would be to state from whom I received it."

"You wouldn't do that!" said Percy, in alarm.

"I should have to. But I don't mean to run the risk. I will give you back the bill, and you must return me the ten dollars I gave you in change."

"But what can I do with the bill?"

"That is your lookout. Of course you will still owe me ten dollars."

Reluctantly Percy drew out the ten dollars he had received in change, not having yet spent any of it, and Reginald Ward gave him back the unlucky bill. Percy thrust it quickly into his vest pocket.

"Now, Percy," said Reginald, "let me advise you as a friend to get that bill out of your possession as soon as possible. If it is traced to you, you will get into hot water."

"I can't pass it here."

"You have no right to pass it anywhere."

"You could pass it in New York."

Reginald Ward considered a moment, but shook his head. "No, it would be too dangerous," he said. "It might be traced to me, and it would be known that I have been in Lakeville. I should have to expose you to screen myself."

"Then what would you advise me to do?"

"Get it back to Mr. Jones in some way. Here, take an envelope, inclose the bill, and mark the grocer's name on it. Then drop it somewhere, and the thing will be done; Jones will be happy and you will be safe."

"All right!"

Percy followed Reginald's advice, and then put the letter in his pocket.

"When are you going back to New York?" he asked.

"To-morrow. I will leave you my address, and hope you will have the honesty to pay me what you owe me as soon as possible."

"Yes, I will, but I am afraid that won't be soon."

"You ought to make an effort to pay me."

"It isn't as if I really owed it to you. It is money I have lost at cards."

"If you are a boy of honor," said Reginald impressively, "you will feel that such debts ought to be paid above all others."

"Why should they?" asked Percy, and there will be many others who will be disposed to echo the question. "Why should gambling debts take precedence of honest obligations?" It is not necessary to repeat Reginald's explanation, as it was shallow and sophistical.

Two hours later Sam Doyle, a young Irish boy, espied, under a bush by the roadside, what seemed to be a letter. He picked it up, and, though his education was by no means extensive, he made out the name of Mr. Jones.

"Shure Mr. Jones must have dropped it out of his pocket," he said. "I'll carry it to him."

He entered the store, and attracted the attention of the grocer, who was behind the counter, and in a bad humor, smarting still from his loss of twenty dollars.

"Clear out, you Sam Doyle!" he said, "unless you want to buy something. I don't want any boys loafing round my store."

"Is this your envelope, Mr. Jones?" asked Sam, producing the envelope.

"Give it to me."

Mr. Jones read his name on the envelope in some wonder and tore it open. What was his amazement and delight when he saw the lost bill!

"Where did you get this, Sam?" he asked.

"I found it under a bush by the side of the road, near the blacksmith's shop."

"When?"

"Shure it wasn't more'n five minutes."

"Do you know what was in the envelope?"

"No."

"You are sure no one gave you the letter to hand to me?" said the grocer, with a searching glance.

"Shure, I found it."

"Well, I'm glad to get it. You are a good boy to bring it to me. Here's ten cents."

Sam took the money, as much surprised as pleased, for the grocer was considered, and justly, a very mean man.

"Thank you, Mr. Jones," he said.

"You are sure that Bert Barton didn't give you the letter?"

"Yes, sir. I haven't seen Bert since mornin'."

"Did you see any other boy near?"

"Yes, sir, I saw Percy Marlowe."

"Did he speak to you?"

"Yes, sir; he asked me what I'd got in my hand."

"What did you say?"

"I showed him the letter."

"Did he say anything to you then?"

"He told me it was for you, and he said I'd better take it right over to your store."

"He gave you good advice. Wait a minute, and I'll do up a pound of sugar and send it to your mother as a present."

"What's come to the old man?" thought Sam. "Shure he's gettin' generous in his old age!"

"I wish I knew who took that bill," thought the grocer meditatively. "However I've got it back, and that's the main thing."

When Percy dropped the envelope, he remained near at hand, and seeing Sam pick it up, instructed him to carry it to the grocer. He then breathed a sigh of relief, and felt that he was lucky to get out of a bad scrape so safely.



CHAPTER XVII.

AFTER THE TRIAL.

"Mr. Conway," said Bert, as they walked home together from the trial, "I am very grateful to you for getting me out of my trouble. If you will let me know your fee, I will pay it."

"My dear boy," rejoined the young lawyer, "this is my vacation, and I only took up your case to keep my hand in."

"You are very kind, and I shall always remember it."

"Lawyers are not always mercenary, though they have that reputation with some. I should like, by the way, to find out who did steal the bill."

"So should I. I have no idea for my part."

"If you ever find out, let me know. I go back to New York to-morrow, and am glad to leave the memory of a professional triumph behind me."

"What is your address, Mr. Conway?"

"No. 111 Nassau Street, Room 15. Here is my card. When you come to New York, call and see me."

"I shall do so, though it may be some time in the future. Do you think I could get anything to do in New York?"

"Yes; but perhaps not enough to pay your expenses."

"I find the same trouble here."

"You have been at work in the shoe factory, I believe."

"Yes; but I have been discharged. My place has been taken by a machine."

"That is unfortunate. Is there no other opening in Lakeville?"

"I have not found any yet."

"I will keep your case in mind, and if I hear of anything I will let you know."

When Squire Marlowe returned home from the trial, his wife inquired with interest, "How did the case come out?"

"The boy was acquitted," answered her husband shortly.

"Acquitted! Why, you thought it was a close case."

"So I did, but it came out on the trial that there were two twenty-dollar bills, and the one which the Barton boy presented was left for him by Uncle Jacob."

"By that old man? Why, I thought he was poor."

"So he is—worth only five hundred dollars, and he is making ducks and drakes of that as fast as he can."

"And then he will fall back on you?"

"I suppose so."

"Then I hope you will let him go to the poor house," said Mrs. Marlowe with energy.

"I shall. I have no pity for a man who throws away his money."

Percy came home to dinner in lively spirits. He was free from anxiety, and felt that he had been remarkably fortunate.

"Were you at the trial, Percy?" asked his mother.

"No, ma."

"I thought you would be interested in seeing that boy on trial."

"I was sorry for him, and didn't want to be present."

"Sorry for him?"

"Yes; I felt sure he had not taken the money."

"Seems to me this is a new streak, Percy," said the squire. "I thought you didn't like Bert Barton."

"I am not intimate with him, for he is only a working boy; but all the same I don't want him convicted when he is innocent."

"It is a mystery to me who could have taken the other twenty-dollar bill," said the squire. "Can you think of anybody?"

"No; how should I?" returned Percy, nearly swallowing a spoonful of soup the wrong way.

"There are so few people in the village, that it must be some one we know."

"Perhaps old Jones didn't lose any money, after all."

"There is no doubt on that point. The stolen bill has been returned to him in an envelope by Sam Doyle."

"Is that so?" exclaimed Percy, counterfeiting surprise. "Why, it must be the same envelope Sam showed me."

"He showed you the envelope?"

"Yes; he picked it up by the roadside. It was directed in pencil to Mr. Jones. So that contained the stolen bill?"

"Yes."

"Then perhaps it was taken in joke."

"A poor joke! No; the thief got alarmed, and took that way of returning it. I suggested to Jones that the handwriting on the envelope might furnish a clew to the thief."

"What did he say?" asked Percy, alarmed.

"He said he should do nothing about it, now that he had the money back."

"I guess he's right," said Percy, relieved.

In the afternoon Bert met Percy in the street. He advanced cordially.

"Well, Percy, I got free, after all."

"Yes, I am glad of it."

"I feel grateful to you for believing in my innocence."

"It's all right," said Percy, in a patronizing tone. "Even if you are a working boy, I was sure you wouldn't steal."

Bert's feelings cooled a little. Somehow Percy's manner kept him aloof.

"Yes, I am a working boy," he replied, "or at any rate I would like to be, but I don't find it easy to get work."

"Just so! If I hear of anything I will let you know. Good-morning!"

"I don't know what to make of Percy," thought Bert, perplexed. "He was as kind as he could be this morning, and now he is offish. At any rate, he didn't believe me guilty, and I won't forget that in a hurry."

Two more weeks passed, and Bert still found himself unable to find employment. Berries had become so plenty that he was unable to sell any, and only picked some for consumption at home. The sum of money which had been received from Uncle Jacob gradually dwindled, and Bert became alarmed. What would they do when it was all gone? He had no doubt that Uncle Jacob would give them further assistance, if appealed to, but both he and his mother felt that it would be an imposition on the old man, with his limited fund of money, to ask anything more of him.

"I don't want any more of Uncle Jacob's money, mother," said Bert; "but I should like to ask him if he could find me a place in New York."

"I couldn't bear to have you leave me, Bert."

"But I must take work wherever I can find it."

So Bert with his mother's permission, wrote to Uncle Jacob, informing him of his discharge from the factory, and his desire to obtain work elsewhere. This letter reached Jacob Marlowe, and led to his writing as follows to the squire:

NEPHEW ALBERT:

I hear by a letter from Lakeville that you have discharged Bert Barton from your employment, and that he cannot secure any other kind of work. I am surprised that you should treat Mary's boy in this manner, considering the relationship that exists between you. I appeal to your better nature to reinstate him in his old place. I can assure you that you will have no cause to regret it. I have steady work here, and am quite well satisfied with my position and prospects.

JACOB MARLOWE.

"The stupid old meddler!" ejaculated the squire, throwing the letter from him in impatience. "I suppose the Barton boy has been writing to him. He evidently considers it my duty to support all my poor relations, himself included. I will undeceive him on that point." He drew writing materials toward him and wrote as follows:

UNCLE JACOB:

I have received your letter asking me to reinstate the Barton boy in his old place. This is a business matter, and I don't permit any interference with my business. I may add that, even if he is a poor relation, I do not feel called upon to support all my needy relations. I am glad you have obtained a situation in which you can make an honest living. I hope you will keep it, and won't squander the small sum of money you have in reserve.

Yours, etc., ALBERT MARLOWE.

When Uncle Jacob read this letter, he smiled.

"It is what I expected," he said to himself. "Albert Marlowe is thoroughly selfish, and so, I think, are his wife and son. I must find some other way of helping Bert."

The day succeeding the receipt of Uncle Jacob's letter, the squire met Bert in the post-office.

"Have you been writing to Jacob Marlowe?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

"I suppose you asked him to urge me to take you back into the factory?"

"No, sir."

"At any rate, he has done so; but I allow no one to interfere in my business affairs. You hear, do you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then remember it!" and Squire Marlowe turned his back rudely upon Bert.

"Here is a letter for you, Bert!" said the postmaster.

Bert opened the letter in some surprise, and read it with interest and excitement.



CHAPTER XVIII.

BERT OBTAINS WORK.

To begin with, the letter, which Bert so unexpectedly received, contained a ten-dollar bill.

"It must be from Uncle Jacob!" he thought. He turned to the next page, and looked for the signature. It was, as he anticipated, Jacob Marlowe. It was brief, as will be seen from the copy given below:

MY DEAR NEPHEW:

I am sorry to hear that you have lost your place in the factory. I think Albert Marlowe might at any rate have retained you, knowing how much you and your mother needed your weekly wages. I have written to him, asking him to take you back into the shop, but I do not suppose he will. It is more to test him than anything else that I have made the request. But, at any rate, we will give him a chance to deal considerately. Next week, Thursday, if you should not have found work, come up to the city and seek me at the office where I am employed, No. 111 Nassau Street, Room 19, and I may have it in my power to employ you in an important matter. Bring all your clothes with you, but take only money enough to get to the city, leaving the balance with your mother. Give my love to her, and tell her to keep up good courage.

Your affectionate uncle, JACOB MARLOWE.

"I am to go to New York!" thought Bert joyfully. "Perhaps Uncle Jacob will find me a place there. I shall enjoy that ever so much. Let me see, I am to go next week, Thursday, and it is now Saturday. I wish the time had come!"

Of course, Bert carried the letter home and showed it to his mother.

"How kind Uncle Jacob is!" she murmured. "But I am afraid he is too generous. He is a poor man. He cannot afford to be giving us money all the time."

"He is earning a good salary, you know, mother."

"Only twelve dollars a week, Bert."

"But that is a good deal. If I were earning twelve dollars a week I should feel rich."

"It doesn't go very far in a large and expensive city like New York."

"I could save half of it, if I had it. Would you mind much, mother, if I should take a place in New York?"

"It would be terribly lonely for me, Bert," sighed Mrs. Barton.

"But you would not oppose it?"

"Not if your Uncle Jacob thought it best. He seems to be our only friend just now."

"Yes; I don't know what we should have done without him."

On Monday morning, considerably to his surprise, Bert received an offer of employment.

About a mile from his mother's cottage lived Silas Wilson, an old farmer about sixty years of age, who had the reputation of being one of the meanest men in Lakeville. Even his horses and cows had a hungry look, and it was easy to see that they were not pampered or injured by over-feeding. This was the man who stopped his farm wagon in front of Mrs. Barton's dwelling, and spoke to Bert, who was just coming out of the front door.

"Here, you, Bert Barton!"

"Good-morning, Mr. Wilson," replied Bert.

"Squire Marlowe tells me you are out of a job."

"Yes, sir."

"And I've been thinkin' I could give you work on my farm."

Bert was not overjoyed at this announcement, but he felt that he ought to take into consideration any offer that might be made to him.

"Would you expect me to board at your house?" he asked.

"Sartin! All my boys board with me."

"How much wages would you be willing to pay?"

"Fifty cents a week and board. I calculate that would be about right."

"Fifty cents a week and board?" repeated Bert, by no means dazzled by the tempting offer.

"Yes. What do you say?"

"I shouldn't be willing to work for that."

"You wouldn't, hey? What did you get in the shoe shop?"

"Four dollars a week."

"Board's worth that, so I give you what's equal to four dollars and a half."

Bert had heard something of the kind of board supplied by the farmer, and he was hardly prepared to rate it so high.

"It wouldn't be worth that to me," he said. "I would rather work for three dollars and a half in cash, and board at home."

"I've got to have my boy in the house," said Silas Wilson decidedly. "Come, now, what do you say?"

He regarded Bert with some anxiety, for he had been suddenly left in the lurch by a hired man who had received a better offer elsewhere, and hardly knew where to turn for assistance.

"I'll tell you what I'll do," said Bert. "I've got to go to New York on Thursday on business, but I'll come and work for you till Wednesday night for half a dollar and my board."

"I'll give you thirty-five cents," replied the farmer cautiously.

Bert shook his head.

"Forty, then, and that's high pay for a half grown boy."

"I'm more than half grown," returned Bert. "It's no use, Mr. Wilson, I won't take less than fifty cents."

"Then jump on the wagon. It's a big price to pay, but I'm in a hole, and won't stop to dicker."

"I will go and tell my mother first."

"Well, hurry up, for part of the day is gone already."

"I don't believe you'll like it, Bert," said Mrs. Barton.

"Nor I, but I made up my mind to accept the first offer I got, and I shall feel better satisfied if I keep my word. I'll come round this evening, after work, and tell you how I like it as far as I've got."

Bert seated himself in the wagon next to the farmer.

"Be you the boy that Jones charged with stealin'?" asked Silas.

"Yes, sir."

"You didn't do it?" asked Silas, in some apprehension.

"No, of course not!" answered Bert, indignantly. "Didn't you know I was acquitted, and that it was shown that there were two twenty-dollar bills?"

"It's wicked to steal," observed the farmer, apparently a little anxious still.

"Of course it is."

"One of the boys that worked for me stole some money from a chest-of-drawers in my chamber. You see Mis' Wilson and me sleep in a bedroom on the first floor openin' out of the settin' room."

"Did the boy take much?" asked Bert, in some curiosity.

"Yes; he took a twenty-five cent piece," answered Silas Wilson, soberly.

Bert wanted to laugh, but controlled his facial muscles, though he eyed his companion with a queer look.

"That was a good deal of money," he said, soberly.

"Yes, it was."

"How did you find him out—the boy, I mean?"

"He spent the money at Jones's store."

"What did he buy with it?"

"He bought some doughnuts."

"Did he board with you?" asked Bert significantly.

"Yes, he did."

"Then," thought Bert, "I don't wonder much that he was tempted."

"I've got fifty cents in my pocket," he said aloud, producing the coin. "I show it to you, so that if you hear of my spending money you needn't think I took it from you."

Silas Wilson eyed the half-dollar with a covetous look, which the sight of money always brought to his face.

"Hadn't you better give it to me to keep for you?"

"No, thank you; I am very careful. I shall not lose it."

"Boys ginerally are keerless. They are apt to lose money."

"I don't believe you ever lose money, Mr. Wilson."

"Not since I was a boy. I lost two cents once, but it was a lesson to me, and I've never lost a copper since."

By this time they had reached the farm-house. The farmer drove into the barn and put up the horse.

"Now we'll go to work," he said.

The work which awaited Bert was in the cornfield. He was set to hoeing, and kept it up for three hours, along with the farmer in the adjoining row. Noon came, and Silas, pausing in his work, said: "I calculate Mis' Wilson will have dinner ready. We'll go to the house."



CHAPTER XIX.

BERT'S EXPERIENCE AS A FARMER'S BOY.

Bert followed the farmer into the kitchen, in the center of which a table was set. A bony and angular woman was just placing on it a large pitcher of water.

"Mis' Wilson," said the farmer, "this is Bert Barton, who is helping me about the farm work."

Bert was no stranger to Mrs. Wilson, whose pew in church was near the one he occupied.

"How's your ma?" she inquired jerkily.

"Pretty well, thank you, Mrs. Wilson."

"I'm glad to hear it. She looks like a friend of mine, Mrs. Dusenberry, who died of heart disease."

"I don't think her heart is affected," said Bert, not without anxiety.

"Maybe not, but you can't tell. Folks lives along for years with their hearts out of kilter, who never find it out till some day they drop dead."

Mrs. Wilson decidedly was not a cheerful converser. She prided herself on detecting signs of unsuspected diseases.

"Mebbe you've got heart disease yourself, Sophia," remarked the farmer jocosely.

"Just as likely as not," answered Mrs. Wilson calmly. "I'm sure my liver's affected, for I feel it squirm sometimes."

"Mebbe I'd better look out for a second Mis' Wilson," suggested the farmer smiling.

"You ain't over healthy yourself, Silas," responded his better half, surveying her husband in a business-like manner. "It looks to me as if your kidneys was out of order, and you're the very image of Jed Pettibone, who died of apoplexy. He lived next door to my mother. One day he was alive and well, and to-morrow he was as the grass of the field."

The farmer's face wore a very uncomfortable look, and he was evidently by no means pleased with his wife's prognostications.

"Nonsense!" he said testily. "I'm as well as any man of my age in Lakeville."

"'Boast not thyself of to-morrow'!" quoted Mrs. Wilson solemnly.

"Come, Bert, let us set down to dinner," said Silas hastily. "What have you got for us, Sophia?"

"I've warmed over them beans we had yesterday," answered his helpmeet, "and there's two sausages besides. I don't want any. You'd ought to make a dinner off of that."

"Why, to be sure! Beans and sausages is hearty, and will stand by us in the field. The laborer is worthy of his meat."

"Where's the meat," thought Bert.

Silas Wilson put a moderate portion of beans on a large plate, flanking it with a thin, consumptive-looking sausage.

"Help yourself to potatoes," he said, as he handed the plate to Bert.

Bert availed himself of the invitation, and helped himself to a potato in that condition known as soggy. He tried to eat it, but, though fond of potatoes, he left it almost entire on his plate. This, however, was not all. There was a plate of rye-bread on the table, from which Bert helped himself to a slice. It was apparently two or three days old, and needed something to make it palatable.

"Please give me some butter," asked Bert, not having observed that this was a prohibited article on the Wilsons' dinner table.

"There ain't none," answered Mrs. Wilson promptly.

"I beg pardon. I hadn't noticed," said Bert, blushing.

"We never have butter at dinner," explained Silas Wilson. "It's apt to lead to humors, particularly in boys, isn't it, Mis' Wilson?"

"So I've always heard, Silas. Besides, as we have it at breakfast and supper, that's enough. It goes fast enough, even then. Why, we used most a pound last week."

"And butter twenty-seven cents a pound!" chimed in the farmer. "Why, it's extravagant!"

"Do you know, Silas, how much butter is used in Squire Marlowe's family?"

"No," answered the farmer, with interest.

"Hannah—Mrs. Marlowe's girl—told me they used six pounds and a half last week, and there's only four of them, including the girl. What do you think of that?"

"What do I think? I think it's sinful—positively sinful! Six pounds and a half at twenty-seven cents——"

"They pay thirty-two, and get the best in the market," amended his wife.

"Worse and worse! That comes to what—Bert?"

"Two dollars and eight cents," answered Bert promptly.

"Sho! Did you ever?"

"Well, I s'pose the squire can stand it. No doubt they live on the fat of the land. I just wish they'd invite me to tea, so I could judge for myself. I could tell within five cents how much the supper cost."

It must be confessed that Bert did not enjoy his dinner. The sausage was far from rich or juicy, and the beans were almost cold. The potatoes and bread have already been referred to. However, there was to be a second course, and to that Bert looked forward anxiously, for he had by no means satisfied his appetite. It was a plain rice pudding, and partially satisfactory, for it takes very little skill to boil rice, and there is little variety in the quality. By way of sauce Mrs. Wilson provided cheap grade of molasses. Still Bert enjoyed it better than any other article on the table.

"There's nothing like a good dinner to strengthen us for the labors of the field," said Silas Wilson complacently, as he rose from the table. "Come, Bert, now let us get to work to make up for lost time."

"So Mr. Wilson considers the time spent in eating as lost time," thought Bert. "I'd rather have one of mother's dinners than half a dozen like this. Ugh! how nasty those potatoes were."

Bert returned to the field, and resumed his work. He found it hard to keep up with Silas Wilson, whose energies seemed to be quickened by his midday meal.

About four o'clock a man came along who wanted to see Silas on business, and he went back to the house, leaving Bert to continue his work alone.

"This is about the longest day I ever passed," thought Bert, pausing to wipe his moistened forehead. "I am afraid I shall never want to be a farmer. I mustn't forget, though, that I am to receive sixteen cents and a little over per day, besides board—and such board! Yet this is the way Silas Wilson has lived all his life, and he must be sixty-five at least. How much more enjoyment Uncle Jacob has out of life, though he is a poor man compared to the farmer."

At this moment he heard wheels passing on the road hard by, and looking up he recognized Percy Marlowe, neat and trim in his attire, driving a light buggy.

"Hallo!" called out Percy, checking his horse.

"Hallo, Percy!"

"Are you working for Silas Wilson?"

"Yes, for a few days."

"I guess you'll make a fortune in that time?" said Percy laughing.

"It seems like it," responded Bert.

"How much does he pay you?"

"Fifty cents for three days and board."

Percy laughed.

"I should want fifty cents an hour, and then I wouldn't do it."

"I'd work all the year round at that price," said Bert.

"I never expect to work—with my hands," went on Percy.

"Have you decided what to do?" asked Bert curiously.

"My father wants me to be a manufacturer, but I think I shall be a lawyer."

"I am afraid I shan't have much choice. I must take what I can get."

"You might stay with Mr. Wilson and be a farmer."

"I don't think that will suit me at any rate, unless I can work for a different man."

"Perhaps father can take you back into the shop when you are older."

"I wish he would take me back now. I like it a great deal better than working out in the field here."

"You mustn't get too high notions into your head, Bert. You know you are a working boy and mustn't expect to have things all your own way."

"I am not likely to forget that I am a working boy, especially with kind friends to remind me of it. But we live in the best country in the world, and there is many a working boy who grows up to be a distinguished man."

Percy laughed ironically.

"I wouldn't get such silly ideas into your head," he said.

"Why are they silly?"

"You talk as if you expected to be a distinguished man. Ha, ha!"

"I hope to be a successful man," answered Bert stoutly.

Percy laughed again and drove on. Five minutes later Bert saw the farmer running from the house in a state of great apparent excitement.

"Have you seen anything of my wallet?" he gasped, as he came within hearing distance.



CHAPTER XX.

BERT IS PLACED IN AN EMBARRASSING POSITION.

Bert regarded his employer with surprise.

"Your wallet?" he repeated.

"Yes," answered Silas Wilson impatiently. "I had it in my pocket when I was at work here. I didn't think about it till just now, after Mr. Dexter had left me. Then I found that my pocket was empty."

"I haven't seen it, but you may have dropped it somewhere."

"Just help me look for it. Has anybody been here?"

"No; at least not in the field. Percy Marlowe passed in his buggy, and——"

"Never mind about that. Help me look for the wallet."

The rows of corn were of considerable length, and there were a good many of them. At least ten minutes elapsed before anything was seen of the missing article, and dark suspicions of his young assistant entered the mind of Mr. Wilson. But at last Bert's sharp eyes espied a faded leather wallet between two hills in one of the rows which the farmer had hoed.

"Is this it?" he asked, holding it up in his hand.

"Yes!" exclaimed Silas delighted. "Where did you find it?"

"Just here."

Mr. Wilson opened it, anxious to see whether the contents were intact.

"It's all safe," he said, with a sigh of relief.

"Was there much money in it?" asked Bert.

"Yes; two dollars and sixty-seven cents. It's a narrow escape! Suppose a dishonest person had found it?"

"It would have been terrible!" said Bert, successfully checking his disposition to laugh.

"I'm much obliged to you, Bert, for findin' it. I suppose you don't want any reward?"

"Oh, no! I am working for you, you know, and it wasn't my own time I was using."

"That's true! Still, I am willin' to give you two cents to encourage you to be honest."

"Thank you, Mr. Wilson; but I don't need any reward for that."

"You're a good boy, and if you stay with me I'll make a man of you."

"Thank you."

Bert was privately of opinion that if he remained till the age of twenty-one in Silas Wilson's employ, boarding at his table, he would grow into a very thin, under-sized man indeed.

Supper was a less substantial meal than dinner in the Wilson household, consisting of bread and butter and tea, with the addition of a plate of doughnuts, which were so tough and hard that it occurred to Bert that they would make very good base-balls if they had been of the right shape.

After supper he went home for an hour.

"Don't you feel very tired, Bert?" asked his mother.

"Yes, mother, but I feel still more hungry. If you've got anything left from supper I think I can dispose of it."

"Certainly, Bert; but didn't you eat supper at Mr. Wilson's?"

"Mother, they don't know what good living is there. I'd rather have one of your suppers than a dozen of Mr. Wilson's. I begin to think that the board part won't be worth over fifty cents for three days. I am sure it won't cost them any more."

"I wish you were going to sleep here, Bert. I shall feel lonely."

"So do I, but I shall only be away two nights. Silas Wilson promises to make a man of me if I'll stay, but I'd rather grow to manhood somewhere else."

Bert returned to the farm-house, and about half-past eight went to bed. He knew he must be early astir, and he felt fatigued by his day of labor in the field. Besides, Mr. and Mrs. Wilson went to bed at this hour. The farmer was not fond of reading, nor indeed was there anything in the house to read, for neither he nor his wife had a literary taste. Once he took an agricultural paper for a year at a cost of two dollars, but whenever the paper arrived he groaned in spirit over the cost, and deplored his extravagance in subscribing for it.

The room assigned to Bert was over the kitchen, which was in the ell part. The roof was sloping, and, toward the eaves, very low. There was one window near the bed which he occupied.

Bert went to sleep in ten minutes, and slept soundly for three or four hours. Then something roused him, and he opened his eyes. What he saw startled him. By the bright moonlight he perceived a man climbing in at the window.

To say that Bert was perfectly calm would not be true. He was very much startled, as I think almost any boy, or man either, would have been under the circumstances.

"It is a burglar!" thought Bert in excitement. "What can I do?"

Some one evidently had heard of Silas Wilson's miserly disposition, and judged that there would be a good chance to secure booty in the farm house. Bert, though he did not admire Mr. Wilson, felt that it was his duty to protect him from being plundered, if possible. He knew that he was in some personal peril, but he was naturally a brave boy, and his spirit rose to the occasion.

He waited until the supposed burglar was in the room, and then, sitting up in bed, asked stoutly: "Who are you? What brings you here?"

The man turned swiftly toward the bed, and fixed his eyes on Bert, but did not immediately speak.

"If you are a burglar," continued Bert, emboldened by the man's hesitation, "you had better get out of the window again, or I shall call Mr. Wilson."

"No, don't call him, at least not yet," said the intruder, sinking into a chair a few feet from the bed. "Are you working here?"

"Yes."

"Who are you?"

This seemed a singular question. What could his name matter to a burglar? However, Bert answered mechanically, "My name is Bert Barton."

"The widow Barton's boy?"

"Yes; how do you know that?" demanded Bert, in bewilderment.

"Don't you know me?" was the unexpected rejoinder.

He drew nearer to the bed, and Bert gazed at him earnestly, but no light dawned upon him.

"No, I don't know you," he said, shaking his head.

"I am Silas Wilson's son," said the stranger.

"Phineas Wilson?"

Now Bert remembered that eight years before, the farmer's son, a man grown, had left Lakeville, and, so far as he knew, had not been heard of since. He had contracted a habit of drinking and had tired of farm work. Moreover, when he left, he had taken fifty dollars of his father's money with him, which had led to bitter feelings on the part of the farmer, who appeared to mourn the loss of his money more than that of his son. And this was the young man who had crept into his father's house like a thief in the night.

"Why did you get into my window?" asked Bert. "Why didn't you come to the door?"

"I—didn't know if I would be welcome. I wanted to ask. Do you know how my father feels toward me?"

"No; I have only been here one day. He ought to be glad to see his son."

"I took some money with me when I went away," said Phineas hesitating. "Father's very fond of money."

"Yes," assented Bert.

"And he would find it hard to forget that."

"Why didn't you come back before?"

"I didn't dare to come till I could bring the money. I have got it with me, but not a dollar more. If you want to know what brings me back, look in my face and see for yourself."

The moon came out from behind a cloud, and by its light Bert saw that the young man's face was thin and ghastly.

"I am sick," he said; "irregular hours and whiskey have done their work. I am afraid I have got to pass in my checks."

"What does that mean—die?"

"Yes."

"Don't give up!" said Bert, feeling his sympathies go out toward this prodigal son. "You are young. It takes a good deal to kill a young man."

"You're a good fellow, Bert. That's your name, isn't it? Will you do me a favor?"

"To be sure I will."

"I am famished. I haven't had anything to eat for twenty-four hours. Can you slip downstairs and fetch me something to eat—no matter what—and a glass of milk?"

Bert hesitated. He could get what was required in the pantry, but suppose the farmer or his wife should wake up! It would make his position a very awkward one.

"Hadn't you better go down yourself?" he asked.

"I can hardly stand, I am so tired. Besides, I don't know where mother keeps things."

"I will try," said Bert; and he slipped on his pantaloons, and went softly downstairs.



CHAPTER XXI.

THE MIDNIGHT VISIT TO THE PANTRY.

"Suppose Mrs. Wilson sees me?" thought Bert uncomfortably. "She will take me for a thief."

He was actuated by the kindest motives, but he heartily wished his errand were done. As he stepped into the kitchen he heard the deep breathing of Mrs. Wilson and the noisy snore of her husband, and rightly judged that it would not be easy to rouse either of them. He opened the pantry door, and by the light of the moon was able to inspect the shelves. There was a half loaf of bread on one shelf, half a dozen doughnuts on a plate on the shelf below, and a few cold beans close beside them. Then there was a small pitcher half-full of milk.

"I don't think the beans or doughnuts will set well on an empty stomach," Bert reflected. "I'd better take the milk and two or three slices of bread."

Here the cat, who had been asleep on the hearth, roused herself, perhaps at the sight of the milk pitcher, and, mewing loudly, rubbed herself against Bert's legs.

"Scat!" cried Bert, in a low voice, anxiously looking toward the door of the bed chamber in which the farmer and his wife lay asleep.

The cat got between his legs and nearly tripped him up, but he managed to get out of the room and upstairs. Phineas looked at him eagerly.

"I have some bread and milk here," said Bert. "I couldn't find any butter. There were some cold beans and doughnuts, but—"

"The bread and milk are better. Give them to me. I am almost famished."

The bread was dry and stale, but Phineas was not in the mood to be particular. He ate like one famished, and drained the pitcher to the last drop.

"I feel better," he said then, with a sigh of relief.

"I suppose I had better take the pitcher back to the kitchen. It will be missed," reflected Bert, and he started downstairs again in his bare feet. He paused at the kitchen door, and heard the farmer talking in his sleep. This alarmed him. He decided that it would not do to replace the pitcher in the pantry, as he would be likely to be heard. He waited where he was for five minutes, and then ventured into the kitchen. This time he was successful, and with mind relieved returned to his chamber.

Phineas was dozing in his chair.

"You had better get into the bed, Mr. Wilson," said Bert, filled with compassion for the weary wayfarer. "I'll lie on the floor."

"If you don't mind. I am fagged out."

Bert made a pillow of his coat and trousers, and stretched himself on the floor. He found that there was an inside bolt, with which he fastened the door, to guard against any unexpected visit from Mr. or Mrs. Wilson.

He fell asleep again, and was only roused by a loud voice at the foot of the back stairs.

"Time to get up!" called the farmer.

"All right!" responded Bert in a loud tone.

Fortunately Silas Wilson did not think it necessary to come up. Had he done so it would have been embarrassing, for Phineas was sound asleep on the bed. Bert thought it best to rouse him before he went down stairs.

"Are you not afraid some one will come upstairs and find you here?" he asked.

"No; mother never comes up till after she has got breakfast out of the way and the dishes washed."

"I suppose you know best," said Bert doubtfully.

"If necessary I shall tell her who I am."

Bert went below, and sat down at the breakfast table. It was clear from the expression on Mrs. Wilson's face that she had something on her mind.

"Silas," she said solemnly, "something mysterious has happened during the night."

"What is it?" asked the farmer in a tone of surprise.

"We have been robbed!"

"What of?" he asked, turning pale. "Do you miss any of the spoons?"

"No."

"Or—or money?" and he pulled out his wallet hurriedly.

"No, no, it isn't that."

"What is it, then?"

"I left that pitcher half full of milk when I went to bed last night. This morning there wasn't a drop in it, and the pantry door was open."

"Cats are fond of milk," suggested Silas, with a glance at Tabby, who was lying near the fire-place.

"It wasn't the cat. She couldn't get her head inside the pitcher. Besides, there are three slices of bread missing."

"Won't cats eat bread?"

"It was a two-legged cat!" replied Mrs. Wilson significantly.

Bert reddened in spite of himself, and tried to look unconscious. He saw that Mrs. Wilson was on the point of making a discovery, and that suspicion was likely to fall upon him. This he could clear up, but it would be at the expense of the poor fellow who was asleep upstairs.

"But how could anybody get into the house?" asked Silas. "The doors were locked, weren't they?"

"Yes, Silas. In forty years I have never failed to lock the door before I went to bed."

"Then I don't see——"

"Nor I—yet!" said Mrs. Wilson significantly, and Bert thought—but he may have been mistaken—that her eyes turned for a moment in his direction.

"At any rate it isn't much of a loss. Was there anything else in the closet?"

"There were some doughnuts and beans."

"Were any of them taken?"

"No, not that I can see."

"Cats don't care for them."

"Don't be a fool, Silas! That poor cat had no more to do with the robbery than I have."

"Mebbe you're right; but cats have been known to steal. I like dogs better myself."

"I don't!" cried Mrs. Wilson with emphasis. "I'm not going to have any dog trapesing over my floors with his muddy feet."

"Just as you like, Sophia. You'd better lock the pantry door in future."

"I'm not sure that that will answer, unless I hide the key."

"Do you seriously think a human being took the things?"

"Yes, I do—in the middle of the night."

"By gracious! that's serious, He might have come into our room and taken my wallet and watch."

"And maybe murdered us in our beds!" added Mrs. Wilson grimly.

"Did you hear anybody walking round the house last night, Bert?" asked the farmer, who was by this time worked up into a state of agitation.

"No," answered Bert.

"I am glad he did not ask me whether I saw anybody," thought he. "I don't want to tell a lie."

"I usually sleep pretty sound," he added, a little ashamed of his duplicity, yet not knowing how else to avert suspicions.

"So we all do!" said the farmer's wife. "We might be all murdered in our beds without knowing anything about it."

"I shouldn't want to know anything about it if that was going to happen," observed Silas, not without reason. "I don't think it could have been a very desperate ruffian, if he contented himself with taking bread and milk."

"He may come again to-night," suggested Mrs. Wilson.

"I hope not," said Silas fervently. "I—I couldn't sleep if I thought so."

"We must get to the bottom of this," went on his wife resolutely. "I am not willing to have such goings on in my house."

"How are you going to do it, Sophia? Probably the thief's miles off by this time."

"He may be, or he may not be!" said Mrs. Wilson in an oracular tone.

"I've heard of folks walking in their sleep," she added, after a pause.

"You don't mean me?" asked Silas.

"No; if you did it I'd have had a chance to find out in forty years. Do you ever walk in your sleep?" she asked, turning suddenly to Bert.

The question was so unexpected that he could not help changing color, and this served to increase Mrs. Wilson's dawning suspicions.

"Not that I ever heard of," Bert answered, after a pause.

"I knew a boy once that did—it was a second cousin of my brother's first wife."

"I am sure I never get up in my sleep."

The door leading into the entry from which the back-stairs ascended was open, and through this, just at this moment, was heard a sound that startled all three who were sitting at the breakfast table.

It was a loud, unmistakeable sneeze, and it came from the chamber which Bert had occupied.

The farmer and his wife started as if the house had been shaken by an exploding bombshell. Both turned as pale as death, looked fearfully at each other, and clutched tightly at the edges of the table.

"Silas!" said Mrs. Wilson, in a hollow voice, "the burglar is upstairs!"



CHAPTER XXII.

A PANIC AT FARMER WILSON'S.

Silas Wilson was not a brave man, and at his wife's suggestion he turned pale, and looked panic-stricken.

"Do—you—think so?" he asked feebly.

"Do I think so? I know so," returned Mrs. Wilson energetically.

"How could he get up there?"

Mrs. Wilson walked to the window, and her lynx eyes detected the ladder by which Phineas had climbed to the window of Bert's room.

"Do you see that?" she asked.

It is rather surprising that she did not suspect Bert of knowing something about the matter, but she had not yet had time to put two and two together.

"It's terrible!" murmured Silas, mopping the cold perspiration from his forehead. "What can we do?"

"What can we do? Go and get your gun, Silas, and go up and confront the villain. That's what we can do."

Somehow the suggestion did not seem to find favor with Mr. Wilson.

"He would shoot me," he said. "He's probably waitin' for me with a loaded weepun upon the landin'."

"Silas Wilson, I am ashamed of you. Are you going to let a villainous burglar rampage round upstairs, stealin' whatever he can lay his hands on? Come now!"

"I believe you care more for the few things upstairs than for your husband's life," said Silas reproachfully.

"Do you want me to go, Silas? What'll the folks in the village say when they hear of it?"

"I don't know as I know where the gun is," said Silas nervously.

"It's out in the woodshed behind the door."

"I don't know as it's loaded. Besides I wouldn't want to be took up for murder."

"Not much danger, Silas Wilson! Such men as you don't get into such scrapes as that."

Mrs. Wilson went out into the woodshed, and returned, holding the gun in such a way that it pointed directly at her husband.

"Don't you know no better than to p'int that gun at me, Sophia?" exclaimed Silas in no little terror. "Beats all what fools women are about firearms."

"They may be fools, but they ain't cowards," returned Mrs. Wilson. "Come, are you going up or not?"

"Hadn't I better go to the foot of the stairs and fire up?" asked Silas with a bright idea.

"And then he'd come down on you, when your gun was discharged, and run his bayonet into you," said Mrs. Wilson, who knew that at the battle of Bunker Hill the muskets had bayonets attached.

"I'll give him warnin'!" continued Silas. "It'll only be fair. He'll probably be frightened and climb down the ladder."

"I never did see such a 'fraid cat in my life!" quoth Mrs. Wilson contemptuously.

"Mebbe you're braver'n I be. If you are, go up yourself!" said Silas Wilson angrily.

"You want to put your wife in danger, do you?" returned Mrs. Wilson, who was as averse to facing the burglar as her husband, though she talked more courageously.

"And you want to expose your husband to danger," retorted Silas, "so it's an even thing, so far as I can see."

It is hardly necessary to say that Bert enjoyed the dispute between the husband and wife, though he maintained an outward gravity which helped him to conceal his secret amusement. By this time he thought it time for him to take part.

"I'll go up," he said.

"You will?" exclaimed Silas in surprise and relief.

"Yes, I am not afraid."

"To be sure! The burglar wouldn't do you no harm. You're only a boy. Do you know how to fire a gun?"

"Yes, but I shan't need the gun. I am sure the burglar wouldn't harm me."

"You're a brave boy, Bert," said the farmer. "You're doing just what I would have done at your age."

"You never would have done it, Silas! I should be ashamed anyway to own up I was more of a coward as a grown man than as a boy."

"Sophia, you don't know much about burglars and their ways. Don't be afraid, Bert; I'll back you up; I'll stand at the door of the kitchen with the gun in my hand, and help you if you need it."

Bert smiled, for he knew just how valuable Silas Wilson's assistance would be, but he made no comment, and started on his perilous enterprise.

"I hope he won't come to no harm," said Mrs. Wilson. "I don't know but I'd better go with him."

"It would be safer for you, Sophia, for burglars don't shoot women."

"Much you know about it, Silas."

The two moved toward the kitchen door, Silas handling the gun as if he were afraid of it. They listened with painful attention, and presently heard the sound of voices, though they could not make out what was being said.

"The boy's speakin' to him!" said Silas, awe-struck. "I never see such a terrible time. I wish I'd told Bert to tell the burglar to go back the same way he came, and we wouldn't fire at him. I don't want to be too hard on the transgressor. Mebbe he's driven to his evil ways by destitution."

Mrs. Wilson paid very little attention to what her husband was saying, being more intent on what was passing upstairs.

After a short interval Bert came down.

"Well?" said Silas eagerly. "Did you see the burglar?"

"Yes."

"Where is he?"

"In my room."

"What is he doin' there?"

"He is lying on the bed."

"Well, if I ever saw such impudence!" ejaculated Mrs. Wilson.

"Has he got a gun with him? Did he offer to shoot you?"

"No," answered Bert gravely. "The poor fellow is sick."

"Poor fellow, indeed!" sniffed Mrs. Wilson. "What does he mean by getting into a respectable house through a window? He'll end up his days in jail."

"Does—does he look desperate?" inquired Silas Wilson. "Would he be likely to hurt me or Mis' Wilson?"

"No; he says he would like to have you come up."

"Well, of all things!" ejaculated Sophia.

"I've got something to tell you," went on Bert, turning from one to the other. "He wants me to tell you before you go up. It is some one whom you both know, though you haven't seen him for a good many years."

Silas did not understand, but a mother's instincts were quicker.

"Is it our son—Phineas?" she asked.

"Yes," answered Bert; "it is your son."

"Who stole fifty dollars from his father, and crept away like a thief in the night!" exclaimed the farmer indignantly.

"He has suffered, and is very weak," rejoined Bert. "He hadn't had anything to eat for twenty-four hours, and I may as well tell you that it was I who came downstairs in the night and took up the bread and milk to him."

"You did quite right," said Mrs. Wilson, who was half-way upstairs by this time. He was her own son in spite of all, and though she was not an emotional woman, she yearned to see the face of her only child, with a mother's feelings all aroused within her.

"He took fifty dollars!" repeated Silas Wilson, still harping on a wrong which he had never forgotten nor forgiven.

Bert was rather disgusted at the farmer's meanness, but he relieved his anxiety.

"He's brought you back the money!" he said shortly.

"He has!" exclaimed Silas in a tone of gladness. "Did he tell you so?"

"Yes; it is all the money he had, and he went without food rather than spend any of it."

"Come, that's encouragin'," said the farmer. "He's turnin' from his evil ways."

When they reached Bert's chamber they saw Mrs. Wilson kneeling beside the bed, her harsh features softened by the light of an affection which had been absent from them for years. She looked contented and happy, now that her boy was restored to her.

"Got back again, Phineas, hey?" said Silas Wilson. "You're lookin' kinder peaked."

"Yes, father, I've been sick, but now——"

"I'll soon get him well!" interposed Mrs. Wilson. "I'll go right down and bring up some breakfast."

"I can eat it, mother. I have had nothing except the bread and milk Bert brought me."

On Wednesday evening Bert closed his engagement with the farmer, and declined to continue it, though urged strongly to do so. He went home in a whirl of excitement, for Phineas Wilson had told him something which overwhelmed him with astonishment.



CHAPTER XXIII.

BERT FORMS A RESOLUTION.

"Mother," said Bert abruptly, as he entered the cottage at the close of his engagement with the farmer, "when did father die?"

Mrs. Barton sank into a chair, and looked searchingly in her son's face.

"Why—do—you—ask?" she said slowly.

"I have been told to-day that he was living only a year since."

"Who told you?"

"Phineas Wilson, the farmer's son."

"Did he see him a year ago?"

"Yes, in some town in Canada—near Toronto, I believe. But, mother, you don't seem surprised."

"No, Bert, for I knew your father was living."

"Then why don't he come home. Why don't he live with us? Is there some mystery?"

"Yes, Bert, and a painful one for your unfortunate father. It is the fear of a prison that has kept him away from home."

"Surely, mother," said Bert, painfully shocked, "my father was not a criminal?"

"No, but circumstances made him appear such."

"Tell me the story."

"It is time that you heard it. Ten years ago your father and Albert Marlowe were employed by Weeks Brothers, large shoe manufacturers in a Massachusetts town. Both were skilled workmen——"

"Did Squire Marlowe work at the bench?"

"Yes, his position was precisely the same as your father's, no worse and no better. Both received the same pay—two dollars a day."

"Does Percy know this?"

"Probably not. Albert Marlowe is not fond of speaking of his early days when he was a common workman. At that time our families were intimate and associated on equal terms. Our circumstances and ways of living were the same. We lived in a double house, Albert occupying one tenement, we the other."

"Were you and Mrs. Marlowe friendly then?"

"Yes; she had not yet become a fine lady, but did her own work, dispensing with a servant. We lived plainly, and, if anything, your father was the more prosperous of the two, as we managed to save from fifty to seventy-five dollars a year, while I don't believe Albert saved anything. But one day a terrible thing happened. Mr. Weeks, the senior partner, was a trustee and guardian for some minor children. A part of their property was invested in United States bonds, 5-20's as they are called. He kept them in his safe in the factory. One morning when he opened the safe they were missing. You can imagine the dismay of the guardian and his indignation against the unknown thief. The loss was publicly proclaimed, and a reward of one hundred dollars was offered to any one who could and would give any information that would lead to the discovery of the thief. Some one—a young man named Harding—entered the office of the firm and informed them that he had seen your father thrusting a paper, looking like a government bond, into the inside pocket of his overcoat—it was in the middle of winter. The workmen kept their coats in a small room near the entrance of the factory. Of course the room was visited, your father's coat was examined, and in one of the pockets was found one of the missing bonds, one for five hundred dollars. Your father was summoned, charged with the theft, and required to tell what he had done with the remaining bonds. He was thunder-struck at the accusation, and denied in the most positive terms any knowledge of the stolen property. His statement was not credited. He was arrested, tried for the offense, and sentenced to a term of imprisonment."

"Bert's face flushed with indignation, and he clinched his fist almost unconsciously.

"Did he go to prison?" he asked hoarsely.

"No; some of his friends, who believed in his innocence, helped him to escape, and supplied him with funds to get out of the country. Now you know why he has remained absent all these years."

"But why was I never told of this, mother? Why did I not know at the time?"

"You were only six years of age, and were sent away during the excitement to the house of a friend living at some distance. I moved away from the town in which my misfortunes were known, and eventually came here, learning that Albert Marlowe had established himself in business here. You readily believed that your father was dead."

"I understand now, mother. But is it not terrible that the happiness of a family should be broken up in this way?"

"Yes, Bert. Providence permits it for some wise purpose, no doubt, though it is hard for us to understand why it should be."

"One thing I don't understand, mother. You say that Squire Marlowe was a common workman, like my father, and a poor man?"

"Yes, Bert."

"How is it that he is now a rich manufacturer? Where did he get the necessary capital?"

"Nobody knew. He took all his friends by surprise when he went into business for himself on a large scale. Whatever the amount of his capital, he has never been financially embarrassed, and has gone on prospering."

"Till now he is a rich man, living in luxury, while we are living from hand to mouth, and poor father is an exile somewhere."

"Yes, Bert."

"Don't you receive letters from father?"

"If I should, it would draw attention to him, and might imperil his safety."

"I might meet him sometime, and not know him."

"Have you no recollection of him?"

"Not the least? Haven't you any picture of him, mother?"

"Yes, I have a daguerreotype upstairs—an old-style picture."

"Why have you never shown it to me?"

"Because it would have led you to ask questions which would have been embarrassing for me to answer. You might have mentioned the existence of the picture before some visitor, and compelled me to produce it. Suppose this had been the case, and it had been recognized, it might have got your father into trouble."

"Now that I know all the circumstances, won't you show me the picture, mother?"

"Yes, Bert; the only objection I had is now removed."

Mrs. Barton went upstairs, and soon returned with one of those old-fashioned pictures of which many of my readers may have specimens in their homes—a daguerreotype.

Bert scanned it attentively, and he first looked bewildered, then surprised.

"I have seen a face like that," he said after a pause.

"Where, Bert?"

"I don't remember. Is it possible that I can remember so far back?"

"It may be an accidental resemblance."

"No, the face is like in every respect. Can't you explain it to me, mother?"

"Think a little, Bert. Perhaps you will recall where you saw a face like this."

"I have it now," said Bert, his face brightening up. "It is like Mr. Robinson—the friend of father, who called here a few weeks since."

"Bert," said his mother slowly, "Mr. Robinson was not your father's friend. It was your father himself."

Bert looked the picture of astonishment.

"Why did you not tell me, mother?"

"How could I? You did not even know that he was alive. Ever since then I have been seeking an opportunity to tell you the truth."

"I am glad to know. What did father have to say?"

"He thinks he has found out—at any rate he has strong suspicions—who was the real thief for whom he suffered."

"Who is it, mother? Is it any one I ever knew?"

"Yes, Bert."

"Tell me quick."

"Then you must promise to keep it secret till we are in a condition to prove the truth of our suspicions. It was Albert Marlowe."

"The squire?"

"Yes."

"That must explain his being able to go into business for himself."

"Yes. Your father is on the track of a man who was his accomplice, or rather his tool, in the matter—the young man named Harding, on whose information your father was arrested. Of course he is placed under a disadvantage in making these inquiries, being under the ban of the law."

"Mother," said Bert solemnly, "I am going to solve the mystery, if possible, make my father's evidence clear, and expose the real criminal. I am only a boy, and I don't know how I shall accomplish it, but I won't rest till I have done it."

"May Heaven grant you success, my dear boy!" responded Mrs. Barton fervently.



CHAPTER XXIV.

THE OFFICE OF THE MAGNET MINE.

Bert took the morning train to New York, and arrived about half-past seven o'clock. He met with no adventures on the way, and as soon as he reached the Grand Central Depot took a Fourth Avenue car down, as instructed by Uncle Jacob. In a large building of many stories on Nassau Street, on the sixth floor, was an office on the door of which Bert read

MAGNET MINING CO.

This, as he understood, was the office where Jacob Marlowe was employed.

Bert was considering whether he ought to knock or not, when a brisk-looking gentleman stepped up, and, opening the door, entered. Bert followed him in.

"Whom did you wish to see?" asked the brisk-looking man.

"Mr. Jacob Marlowe. Is this the office where he is employed?"

"Yes," answered the man, with a smile.

Bert hardly needed this assurance, however, as he had already discovered Uncle Jacob sitting in an inner room, at a desk, conversing on business, apparently, with an elderly man of dignified appearance.

"He will soon be at leisure," said the one who had just entered, and seated himself at another desk in the outer room.

"That must be Uncle Jacob's employer," thought Bert.

"What news do you hear of the mine?" he heard the elderly man ask.

"Excellent," answered Uncle Jacob. "It has gone up five points within two weeks. The output is steadily increasing."

"Do you know anything of it from your own knowledge?"

"Certainly; I ought to, for I was myself its discoverer."

This rather surprised Bert.

"It was a rich find," continued Uncle Jacob, "and I have no hesitation in putting it on the New York market."

"There are so many wild-cat mines, you know, that a man needs to be very cautious."

"Quite true. In such mines it is only the men who capitalize them who make money. I would not lend myself to any such scheme of deception. I have a reputation to sustain, and I value that more than money. Our mine has found favor with some of the most conservative investors in the city." Here Uncle Jacob mentioned several names, so prominent that they were familiar to Bert, country boy though he was.

"You may put me down for five hundred shares," said the elderly man, apparently convinced. "I will send you round a check to-morrow. To whom shall I make it payable?"

"To me."

"Very well."

The old gentleman rose, drew on his gloves, and went out, Uncle Jacob accompanying him to the door. This brought him face to face with Bert.

"So you have come, Bert," he said with a pleasant smile. "How did you leave your mother?"

"Very well, uncle."

"At what time did you breakfast?"

"At half-past six."

"Then you must be hungry. It is rather early for my lunch, but I will go out with you now. Mr. Bascom, I shall be back within an hour. If any one calls to see me, try to keep him."

"Yes, sir," answered Bascom deferentially.

"He can't be Uncle Jacob's employer," thought Bert. "He is too respectful. I had no idea uncle was such a man of business. He doesn't appear to be afraid of anybody."

They descended in the elevator, rather to Bert's surprise, who had climbed up by the staircase. Crossing the street they entered a dairy restaurant, which in spite of the name supplied the usual variety of dishes. They found a table at which no others were seated, and Uncle Jacob ordered a substantial meal of roast beef and vegetables.

"Did you find me easily, Bert?" he inquired.

"Oh, yes, uncle. I had to inquire the way once only. Do you like your place?"

"Very well, indeed, Bert."

"Is it a good man you work for?"

Uncle Jacob smiled.

"I have no fault to find with him," he answered.

"I thought perhaps that man with black hair and whiskers might be the boss."

"No, he is a clerk."

"Like you?"

"Yes," answered Jacob, with another smile.

"Does the boss often come in?"

"He doesn't interfere much. You see he has a good deal of confidence in Mr. Bascom and myself."

"So I thought."

"What made you think so?"

"You seem to talk and act as if you were independent."

"It's a way I have, Bert. As I understand the business thoroughly, more than anybody else, there is no reason why I shouldn't, is there?"

"Oh, no!"

"That is why I enjoy my position so well."

"Do you get paid your wages every Saturday night?"

"Oftener, if I please," answered Jacob Marlowe, seeming amused. "If I happen to get short in the middle of the week, I can draw in advance."

"You seem to have a very good position, Uncle Jacob. It is a great deal better than opening a cigar store in Lakeville."

"Yes, I think so myself—Albert Marlowe was right in advising me against it. Have you seen him lately?"

"I see him about every day, but not to speak to."

"It was mean in him to discharge you from the factory."

"So I thought, Uncle Jacob."

"I wrote asking him to take you back."

"What did he say?" asked Bert, with interest.

"He in effect told me to mind my own business. I hope you and your mother have not suffered for want of money?"

"No, thanks to you, Uncle Jacob. Mother thought you ought not to have sent so much."

"I don't think I shall miss it, Bert," said Uncle Jacob. "I am glad that it helped you."

"The twenty-dollar bill got me into trouble."

"How was that?"

Bert told the story of his arrest on the charge of robbing Mr. Jones, and gave an account of his trial.

"And you were tried before Albert Marlowe?"

"Yes."

"I suppose Percy rejoiced in your humiliation?"

"No, he didn't. He behaved like a brick. He walked to the court-room with me, and told me he was sure I was not guilty."

"I am certainly surprised, but I am pleased also. That is a point in Percy's favor, an unexpected one. He shan't lose by it."

"I am afraid I shouldn't have got off if it hadn't been for a young lawyer from New York, named Conway, who volunteered to defend me."

"Go on. Give me an account of it. Can you give me the address of Mr. Conway?"

"Yes, uncle. I have it here."

"I may be able to throw a little business in his way. One good turn deserves another."

"I wish you would, Uncle Jacob. Mr. Conway refused to accept a fee, knowing that I could not afford to pay him."

Uncle Jacob asked other questions as the dinner proceeded. Finally Bert brought out his most important piece of news.

"I have just found out that my father is still alive," he said.

"Yes, I knew that," returned Uncle Jacob calmly.

"You knew it?"

"Yes, he has been to see me."

"He has! When?"

"Last week."

"You don't think him guilty of the charge which was brought against him?"

"No; I think him a badly-used man."

"I wish I could be the means of proving his innocence."

"I mean that you shall be."

Bert surveyed his uncle in surprise.

"In fact, it is for that reason I have sent for you. Your father has put his case into my hands, and I propose to see him righted. This evening, when I am free from business cares, I will speak further with you on this subject."

Uncle Jacob called for his check, paid it, and they returned to the office.



CHAPTER XXV.

AN ADVERTISEMENT AND WHAT CAME OF IT.

Uncle Jacob left the office at five o'clock, and Bert, who had been exploring the lower part of New York, went uptown with him on the Sixth Avenue road. They got out at Twenty-third Street, and Jacob Marlowe led the way to a large, roomy house near Seventh Avenue. He took out a night-key, and opening the outer door proceeded to a large, handsomely furnished apartment on the second floor, with a bedroom attached.

"This is where I live, Bert," he remarked, as he took off his hat and hung it up in a closet.

Bert looked around him. To him the room looked quite luxurious, being furnished in a style which would compare favorably even with Squire Marlowe's, the best house in Lakeville.

Bert knew nothing of room rents in New York; but, inexperienced as he was, he was surprised that his uncle, on a salary of twelve dollars a week, should be able to live so well. He would have been even more amazed had he known that the weekly rent of the room he was in was twelve dollars.

"You've got a splendid room, Uncle Jacob," he said. "I shouldn't think you could afford to live in such style."

"Some of my friends think I am extravagant," observed Jacob Marlowe with a smile. "Perhaps they are right."

"I am afraid you can't save anything," went on Bert gravely. "What if you should get sick?"

"I see, Bert, you are more prudent than I am. However I have invested some of my money in the Magnet Mine, and it is likely to double. So I feel justified in making myself comfortable."

"I am glad to hear that, Uncle Jacob. You deserve to succeed, you are so kind to others."

"I am glad you think so, Bert. I want to do some good while I live. It gives a man something to live for."

After supper, which was taken at a restaurant near by, Uncle Jacob said: "Now let us come to business. I promised your father that I would do what I could to prove him innocent of the charge made against him ten years since."

"Where is my father? Is he in the city?"

"No; it is not safe for him to stay here, as he is subject to arrest, and might be recognized. He has gone back to Canada. Do you know the particulars of his story?"

"Yes; mother told me all about it last night."

"You know, then, that a young man named Ralph Harding informed against him, and that it was his testimony that led to your father's arrest."

"Yes."

"Your father is under the impression that this Harding was in league with Albert Marlowe, and was employed by him to throw suspicion upon your father. The weak point of the prosecution was that your father could only be connected with the five-hundred dollar bond found in his overcoat pocket, while a large balance was wholly unaccounted for. That made it seem like a cunning conspiracy, as undoubtedly it was."

"Were the other bonds never traced?"

"I understand not. No list of the numbers had been kept, and, not being registered, they could easily be sold. Your father thinks that upon these the present prosperity of Albert Marlowe was built up."

"How are we to prove that?"

"It will be difficult. One thing is absolutely essential. We must find this Ralph Harding, and persuade him, if we can, to exonerate your father and place the guilt where it properly belongs."

"Does father know where to find Harding?"

"No; if he did, the greatest difficulty in our way would be removed."

"Then I don't see that we can do anything," said Bert, disappointed.

"The task is difficult, but not impossible. All we know is, that only two months after the robbery Harding disappeared. It was reported that he went to the West, but this was by no means certain. From that day to this, nothing is positively known as to his whereabouts."

"Then I don't see what can be done," repeated Bert.

"There is one thing to guide us," continued Uncle Jacob; "the man's occupation. There is a fair probability that he is working in some shoe town, that is, if he is still alive."

"There are a good many shoe towns," objected Bert.

"True; the clew is only a faint one, yet sometimes a faint clew leads to important discoveries."

"Have you taken any steps yet, Uncle Jacob?"

"Yes; your father remembered that Harding was a Pennsylvanian by birth, and this made it possible, at least, that he had gone back to his native State. Accordingly, last week, I inserted an advertisement in two daily papers printed in Philadelphia, calling for information touching the man of whom we are in search. I will show you a copy of it."

Uncle Jacob took from his wallet a newspaper clipping and showed it to Bert.

It ran thus:

WANTED.—Information as to the present residence of Ralph Harding, who in the year 1873 was employed in the shoe manufactory of Weeks Brothers, in Lynn, Mass. He will hear something to his advantage.

"Have you had any answer to this advertisement?" asked Bert.

"Not till this morning, when I received a letter from Harrisburg, written in a feminine hand. Here it is."

He placed in Bert's hands the following letter:

DEAR SIR: I have read in the Philadelphia Ledger your advertisement for a man named Ralph Harding. A man by that name boarded with me two months ago. He was working in a shoe shop in this city, so he may be the one you are after. You say you know of something to his advantage. If there is any money coming to him I want you to see that I am paid a just debt. Mr. Harding was owing me eight weeks' board when he left the house, at four dollars a week, and dirt cheap that is; for, if I do say it myself, there are not many boarding-houses in Harrisburg where so good a table is kept for four dollars as I give. I inclose my bill, and will be very glad if you will send me the money by return of mail, taking it out of any money that is to come to Mr. Harding. I work hard for my money, and I can't afford to lose thirty-two dollars, and it isn't right that I should.

Hoping to hear from you very soon, I remain,

Yours respectfully, AMELIA STUBBS.

P. S. You can send me a check, as I can get it cashed by my grocer.

"Mrs. Stubbs means business," remarked Bert with a smile. "Have you sent her the money?"

"Not yet. I don't hold myself liable for Ralph Harding's debts, even if this is the man I am after. However, I am willing to pay Mrs. Stubbs for information, if she can furnish any that will help us."

"Have you written to her?"

"I am going to send a letter to her by you."

"Am I to go to Harrisburg?" exclaimed Bert, pleasantly surprised.

"Yes; I shall send you there to-morrow."

"I should like to go. What am I to do when I get there?"

"First of all you must call on Mrs. Stubbs. It may be well for you to engage board at her house for a week, paying in advance, as that will put you in her good graces. You will, of course, learn all you can from her, but it will be necessary also to seek information outside. I shall have to leave a good deal to your discretion."

"I hope your confidence in me won't prove to be misplaced, Uncle Jacob."

"I know you will do your best, Bert, but it is quite possible you may fail. As the poet says: ''Tis not in mortals to command success.' I am sure you will deserve it."

"Isn't it going to cost considerable to make this journey, Uncle Jacob?"

"I think we can find money enough for it."

"I am afraid your money will soon melt away, uncle. Think how much you have spent for us already."

"You remember what I told you as to my lucky investment in the Magnet Mine. At any rate it will be worth something to vindicate your father, who, for ten long and tedious years, has been compelled to pass his life in exile under the ban of a crime which he never committed."

"Yes, Uncle Jacob, but it ought not to come out of you."

"Make yourself easy, Bert. The money we spend for worthy purposes is well invested, and we are often repaid tenfold. And now, as you are unacquainted with New York, I will take you out for a walk and show you how it looks by gaslight."

Nothing could have pleased Bert better than this proposal. They returned at nine o'clock, and both he and Uncle Jacob retired at an early hour.