"I believe we have met before," said the young man, with a smile.

"Yes, fortunately for me," answered Luke, gratefully.

"The two parties who were determined to find you guilty looked foolish when they ascertained the real character of your accuser."

"What is this, Luke? You didn't tell me of it," said Mrs. Merton.

The story was related briefly.

"I should like to meet that woman," said Mrs. Merton, nodding energetically. "I'd give her a piece of my mind. Luke, you may hand me ten dollars."

The goods were wrapped up and the change returned.

"Where shall I send the bundle, Mrs. Merton?" asked the salesman, deferentially.

"Luke will take it."

As they left the store Mrs. Merton said: "Did you think I was buying this dress for myself, Luke?"

"I thought so," Luke answered.

"No, I have dresses enough to last me a lifetime, I may almost say. This dress pattern is for your mother."

"For my mother?" repeated Luke, joyfully.

"Yes; I hope it will be welcome."

"Indeed it will. Mother hasn't had a new dress for over a year."

"Then I guessed right. Give it to her with my compliments, and tell her I give it to her for your sake. Now, I believe I will go home."

No present made to Luke could have given him so much pleasure as this gift to his mother, for he knew how much she stood in need of it.

When they reached the house on Prairie Avenue, they met Mrs. Tracy on the steps. She had been out for a short call.

"Did you have a pleasant morning, Aunt Eliza?" she asked, quite ignoring Luke.

"Yes, quite so. Luke, I won't trouble you to come in. I shall not need you to-morrow. The next day you may call at the same hour."

Luke turned away, but was called back sharply by Mrs. Tracy.

"Boy!" she said, "you are taking away my aunt's bundle. Bring it back directly."

"Louisa," said the old lady, "don't trouble yourself. That bundle is meant for Luke's mother."

"Something you bought for her?"

"Yes, a dress pattern."

"Oh!" sniffed Mrs. Tracy, eying Luke with strong disapproval.



CHAPTER XVI

THOMAS BROWNING AT HOME

In one of the handsomest streets in Milwaukee stood a private residence which was quite in harmony with its surroundings. It looked like the home of a man of ample means. It was luxuriously furnished, and at one side was a conservatory. It was apt to attract the attention of strangers, and the question was asked: "Who lives there?"

And the answer would be: "Thomas Browning. He will probably be mayor some day."

Yes, this was the residence of Thomas Browning, formerly Thomas Butler, the man to whom the dead father of Luke Walton had intrusted the sum of ten thousand dollars to carry to his wife and children. How he fulfilled his trust, or, rather, did not fulfill it, we already know. But in Milwaukee, where Mr. Browning had become a leading citizen, it was not known. It was entirely inconsistent with what was believed to be his character. For Mr. Browning was president of one charitable society and treasurer of another. At the annual meetings of these societies he was always called upon to speak, and his allusions to the poverty and privations of those who were cared for by these societies never failed to produce an impression.

It was popularly supposed that he gave away large sums in charity. Indeed, he admitted the fact, but explained the absence of his name from subscription papers by saying: "All my gifts are anonymous. Instead of giving my name, I prefer to put down 'Cash,' so much, or 'A Friend,' such another sum. I don't wish to influence others, but it jars upon me to have my name ostentatiously paraded in the public prints."

Now, in all subscriptions there are donations ascribed to "Cash" and "A Friend," and whenever these occurred, it was generally supposed they represented Mr. Browning. But, to let the reader into a little secret, this was only a shrewd device of Mr. Browning's to have the reputation of a philanthropist at little or no expense, for, as a matter of fact, he never contributed at all to the charities in which he seemed to take such an interest!

In a pleasant room on the second floor sat the pseudo-philanthropist. The room was furnished as a library. At a writing table, poring over what looked like an account book, he looked the picture of comfort and respectability. A few well-chosen engravings adorned the walls. A pleasant light was diffused about the room from a chandelier suspended over the table.

Thomas Browning leaned back in his chair, and a placid smile overspread his naturally harsh features. He looked about him, and his thoughts somehow ran back to a time when he was very differently situated.

"Five years ago to-night," he said, "I was well-nigh desperate. I hadn't a cent to bless myself with, nor was the prospect of getting one particularly bright. How I lived, for a considerable time, I hardly know. I did have a notion at one time, when I was particularly down on my luck, of committing suicide, and so ending the struggle once for all. It would have been a great mistake!" he added after a pause. "I didn't foresee at the time the prosperous years that lay before me. Frederick Walton's money changed my whole life. Ten thousand dollars isn't a fortune, but it proved the basis of one. It enabled me to float the Excelsior Mine. I remember there were a hundred thousand shares at two dollars a share, all based upon a few acres of mining land which I bought for a song. With the ten thousand dollars, I hired an office, printed circulars, distributed glowing accounts of imaginary wealth, etc. It cost considerable for advertising, but I sold seventy thousand shares, and when I had gathered in the money I let the bottom fall out. There was a great fuss, of course, but I figured as the largest loser, being the owner of thirty thousand shares (for which I hadn't paid a cent), and so shared the sympathy extended to losers. It was a nice scheme, and after deducting all expenses, I made a clean seventy-five thousand dollars out of it, which, added to my original capital, made eighty-five thousand. Then I came to Milwaukee and bought this house. From that time my career has been upward and onward. My friends say some day I shall be mayor of the city. Well, stranger things have happened, and who knows but my friends may be right!"

At this moment a servant entered the library.

"Well, Mary, what is it?" asked the philanthropist.

"Please, sir, there's a poor woman at the door, and she would like to see you."

"Ah, yes, she wants relief from the Widows' and Orphans' Society, probably. Well, send her up. I am always at home to the poor."

"What a good man he is!" thought Mary. "It's strange he gives such low wages to the girls that work for him. He says it's because he gives away so much money in charities."

Mary ushered in, a moment later, a woman in a faded dress, with a look of care and sorrow on her thin features.

"Take a seat, madam," said Thomas Browning, urbanely. "Did you wish to see me?"

"Yes, sir. I am in difficulties, and have ventured to call upon you."

"I am glad to see you. I am always ready to see the unfortunate."

"Yes, sir; I know you have the reputation of being a philanthropist.

"No, no," said Mr. Browning, modestly. "Don't mention it. I am fully aware of the flattering estimation which is placed on my poor services, but I really don't deserve it. It is, perhaps, as the President of the Widows' and Orphans' Charitable Society that you wish to speak to me."

"No, sir. It is as President of the Excelsior Mining Company that I wish to make an appeal to you."

"Oh!" ejaculated Browning, with a perceptible change of countenance.

"Of course you remember it, sir. I was a widow, with a small property of five thousand dollars left me by my late husband. It was all I had on which to support myself and two children. The banks paid poor interest, and I was in search of a profitable investment. One of your circulars fell into my hands. The shares were two dollars each, and it was stated that they would probably yield fifty per cent dividends. That would support me handsomely. But I didn't decide to invest until I had written a private letter to you."

She took it from the pocket of her dress, and offered it to Thomas Browning, but that gentleman waved it aside.

She continued: "You indorsed all that the circular contained. You said that within a year you thought he shares would rise to at least ten dollars. So I invested all the money I had. You know what followed. In six months the shares went down to nothing, and I found myself penniless."

"I know it, my good woman," said Thomas Browning. "I know it, to my cost. I myself had sixty thousand dollars invested in the stock. I lost it all."

"But you seem to be a rich man," said the poor woman, looking about her.

"I have made it out of other ventures. But the collapse of the mine was a sad blow to me. As the president, I might have had something from the wreck, but I did not. I suffered with the rest. Now, may I ask what I can do for you?"

"It was on account of your advice that I bought stock. Don't you think you ought to make up to me a part of the loss?"

"Impossible!" said Browning, sharply. "Didn't I tell you I lost much more heavily than you?"

"Then you can do nothing for me?"

"Yes; I can put you on the pension list of the Widows' and Orphans' Society. That will entitle you to receive a dollar a week for three months."

"I am not an object of charity, sir. I wish you good-night."

"Good-night. If you change your mind come to me."

"Very unreasonable, upon my word," soliloquized Thomas Browning.

At eleven o'clock Mr. Browning went to his bedchamber. He lit the gas and was preparing to disrobe, when his sharp ear detected the sound of suppressed breathing, and the point from which it proceeded. He walked quickly to the bed, bent over, and looked underneath. In an instant he had caught a man who had been concealed beneath it.

The intruder was a wretchedly dressed tramp. Browning allowed the man to get upon his feet, and then, facing him, demanded, sternly: "Why are you here? Did you come to rob me?"



CHAPTER XVII

A STRANGE VISITOR

"Did you come to rob me?" repeated Mr. Browning, as he stood facing the tramp, whom he had brought to the light from under the bed.

There was an eager, questioning look on the face of the tramp, as he stared at the gentleman upon whose privacy he had intruded—not a look of fear, but a look of curiosity. Thomas Browning misinterpreted it. He thought the man was speechless from alarm.

"Have you nothing to say for yourself?" demanded Browning, sternly.

The answer considerably surprised him.

"Why, pard, it's you, is it?" said the man, with the air of one to whom a mystery was made plain.

"What do you mean by your impertinence?" asked the respectable Mr. Browning, angrily.

"Well, that's a good one! Who'd have thought that this 'ere mansion belonged to my old friend and pard?"

"What do you mean? Are you crazy, fellow?"

"No, I ain't crazy, as I know of, but I'm flabbergasted—that's what I am."

"Have done with this trifling and tell me why I shouldn't hand you over to the police?"

"I guess you won't do that, Tom Butler!" returned the burglar, coolly.

Browning stared in surprise and dismay at hearing his old name pronounced by this unsavory specimen of humanity.

"Who are you?" he demanded, quickly.

"Don't you know me?"

"No, I don't. I never saw you before. I don't associate with men of your class."

"Hear him now!" chuckled the tramp, in an amazed tone. "Why, Tom Butler, you an' me used to be pards. Don't you remember Jack King? Why, we've bunked together, and hunted for gold together, and almost starved together; but that was in the old days."

Browning looked the amazement he felt.

"Are you really Jack King?" he ejaculated, sinking back into an easy-chair, and staring hard at his unexpected visitor.

"I'm the same old coon, Tom, but I'm down at the heel, while you—do you really own this fine house, and these elegant fixin's?"

"Yes," answered Browning, mechanically.

"Well, you've fared better than I. I've been goin' down, down, till I've got about as far down as I can get."

"And you have become a burglar?"

"Well, a man must live, you know."

"You could work."

"Who would give such a lookin' man as I any work?"

"How did you get in?"

"That's my secret! You mustn't expect me to give myself away."

"And you had no idea whose house you were in?"

"I was told it belonged to a Mr. Browning."

"I am Mr. Browning—Thomas Browning."

"You! What has become of Butler?"

"I had good substantial reasons for changing my name—there was money in it, you understand."

"I'd like to change my own name on them terms. And now, Tom Butler, what are you going to do for me?"

Mr. Browning's face hardened. He felt no sympathy for the poor wretch with whom he had once been on terms of intimacy. He felt ashamed to think that they had ever been comrades, and he resented the tone of familiarity with which this outcast addressed him—a reputable citizen, a wealthy capitalist, a man whose name had been more than once mentioned in connection with the mayor's office.

"I'll tell you what I ought to do," he said, harshly.

"Well?"

"I ought to call a policeman, and give you in charge for entering my house as a burglar."

"You'd better not do that," he said without betraying alarm.

"Why not? Why should I not treat you like any other burglar?"

"Because—but I want to ask you a question."

"What did you do with that money Walton gave you on his deathbed?"

"What do you mean?" he faltered.

"Just what I say. What did you do with Walton's money?"

"I am at a loss to understand your meaning."

"No, you are not. However, I am ready to explain. On his deathbed Walton gave you ten thousand dollars to carry to his wife and family. Did you do it?"

"Who told you this?"

"It is unnecessary for me to say. It is enough that I know it. At the time you were poor enough. You might have had a few hundred dollars of your own, but certainly not much more. Now—it isn't so many years ago—I find you a rich man. Of course, I have my own ideas of how this came about."

"Do you mean to accuse me of dishonesty?" demanded Browning, angrily.

"I don't accuse you of anything. I am only thinking of what would be natural under the circumstances. I'm not an angel myself, Tom Butler, and I can't say but the money might have miscarried if it had been handed to me instead of to you. I wish it had; I wouldn't be the miserable-looking wretch I am now."

"Walton handed me some money," said Browning, cautiously—"not ten thousand dollars—and I handed it to his family."

"Where did they live?"

"In a country town," he answered, glibly.

"I was thinking I might run across Mrs. Walton some day," he said, significantly. "She would be glad to see me, as I knew her late husband in California."

"She is dead," said Browning, hastily.

"Dead! How long since?"

"She died soon after she heard of her husband's death. Died of grief, poor woman!"

"Were there no children?"

"Yes, there was a girl, but she was adopted by a relative in Massachusetts."

"I don't believe a word of it!" thought Jack King. "He wants to put me off the scent."

"Humph! And you gave the wife the money?"

"Of course."

"I may meet the girl some time; I might advertise for any of the family."

"Do you think they would be glad to see you?"

"They might help me, and I stand in need of help."

"There is no need of that. You are an old comrade in distress. I haven't forgotten the fact, though I pretended to, to try you. Here's a five-dollar bill. I'll let you out of the house myself. Considering how you entered it, you may count yourself lucky."

"That's all right, as far as it goes, Tom, but I want to remind you of a little debt you owe me. When you were out of luck at Murphy's diggings I lent you twenty-five dollars, which you have never paid back."

"I had forgotten it."

"I haven't. That money will come mighty convenient just now. It will buy me a better-looking suit, second hand, and make a different man of me. With it I can get a place and set up for a respectable human being."

"Here's the money," said Browning, reluctantly drawing the additional bills from his wallet. "Now that we are square, I hope you won't annoy me by further applications. I might have sent you out of the house under very different circumstances."

"You were always considerate, Tom," said the tramp, stowing away the bills in the pocket of his ragged vest. "May I refer to you if I apply for a situation?"

"Yes; but remember I am Thomas Browning. I prefer not to have it known that my name was ever Butler."

"All right! Now, if you'll do me the favor of showing me the door I'll leave you to your slumbers."

"It's very awkward, that man's turning up," muttered Browning, as he returned from letting out his unsavory visitor. "How could he have heard about Walton's money?"



CHAPTER XVIII

HOW JACK KING FARED

Jack King left the house with the money Browning had unwillingly given him. He sought a cheap lodging and the next morning proceeded to make himself respectable. When he had donned some clean linen, a suit of clothes which he bought cheap at a second-hand store, taken a bath, and called into requisition the services of a barber, it would have been hard to recognize him as the same man who had emerged from under the bed of the well-known philanthropist, a typical tramp and would-be burglar.

Jack King counted over the balance of his money, and found that he had nine dollars and thirty-seven cents left.

"This won't support me forever," he reflected. "I must get something to do."

While sauntering along, he fell in with an old acquaintance named Stone.

"What are you up to, King?" he asked.

"Looking for a job."

"You are my man, then. I am keeping a cigar store at the Prairie Hotel, but I have some business calling me away from the city for six weeks or two months. Will you take my place?"

"What are the inducements?"

"Board and lodging and five dollars a week."

"Agreed."

"Come over, then, and I will show you the place."

The hotel was a cheap one, not far from the railway station, and though comfortable, was not patronized by fastidious travelers.

"When do you want me to take hold?" he asked.

"To-morrow."

"All right."

"Come around at ten o'clock. I want to leave Milwaukee in the afternoon."

King could not help reflecting about the extraordinary prosperity of his old comrade, Tom Butler, now Thomas Browning, Esq.

"What does it mean?" he asked himself. "He seemed very uneasy when I asked him about Walton's money. I believe he kept it himself. I wish I knew. If I could prove it, it would be a gold mine for me. I must make inquiries, and, if possible, find out Walton's family."

"Do you know anything of Thomas Browning?" he asked Stone.

"The philanthropist? Yes. What of him?"

"I called on him last evening."

Jack did not think it best to mention the circumstances of his visit.

"Indeed! How did you know him?"

"In California."

"I suppose he laid the foundation of his fortune there."

"Is he so rich, then?"

"Yes, probably worth a quarter of a million."

This was an exaggeration, but rich men's wealth is generally overstated.

"How does he stand in the city?"

"First-class. He has been mentioned for mayor. I shouldn't be surprised if he might get the office some day."

"He has certainly been very lucky."

"I should say so. Was he rich in California?"

"Not when I knew him. At one time there he had to borrow money of me. He paid me back last evening."

"He is on the top of the ladder now, at any rate."

"His respectability would suffer a little," thought Jack King, "if I could prove that he had appropriated Walton's money. I must think the matter over, and secure some information if I can."

The next Sunday evening he called at the house of the philanthropist, and sent in his name.

Thomas Browning went himself to the door. He was afraid King might be wearing the same disreputable suit in which he had made his former visit. But to his relief his visitor looked quite respectable.

"Do you wish to see me?" he asked.

"Yes; but only for a social call. I am not acquainted in Milwaukee, and it does me good to see an old friend and comrade."

"I have not much time to spare, but come in!"

They went into the philanthropist's library, formerly described.

"Have you found anything to do?" asked Browning.

"Yes."

"What is it?"

King answered the question.

"It is not much," he added, "but will do for the present."

"At any rate, it is considerably better than entering a house at night and hiding under the bed," said Browning, dryly.

"So it is," answered King, smiling. "You must make allowance for my destitute condition. I little thought that I was in the house of an old friend. I have been asking about you, Tom Butler—I beg pardon, Mr. Browning—and I find that you stand very high in Milwaukee."

A shade of annoyance showed itself on the philanthropist's face when King referred to him under his former name, but when his high standing was referred to he smiled complacently.

"Yes," he said, "I have been fortunate enough to win the good opinion of my fellow-citizens."

"Some one told me that you would probably run for mayor some day."

"It may be. I have been sounded on the subject."

"The worst of running for office is that if a man has ever done anything discreditable it is sure to be brought out against him."

"I hope you don't mean to imply that I have ever done anything discreditable," said Browning, sharply.

"Oh, dear, no! How could I think such a thing? But sometimes false charges are brought. If you had ever betrayed a trust, or kept money belonging to another, of course, it would hurt you."

"Certainly it would," said the philanthropist, his voice betraying some nervousness, "but I am glad to say that my conscience is clear on that point."

"By the way, Jack, let me send for a bottle of wine. We'll drink to the memory of old time."

"With all my heart, Tom. I see you're the right sort. When you are nominated for office I will work for you."

Browning smiled graciously on his visitor, and the interview closed pleasantly.

"He's afraid of me!" thought Jack, as he left the house.



CHAPTER XIX

A SENSATIONAL INCIDENT

When Luke brought home the dress pattern his mother was much pleased.

"I have needed a dress for a good while," she said, "but I never felt that I could spare the money to buy even a common one. This material is very nice."

"It cost seventy-five cents a yard. I was with Mrs. Merton when she bought it."

"I hope you didn't hint to Mrs. Merton that I needed one."

"No, that isn't like me, mother, but I own that I was very glad when she thought of it."

"Please tell her how grateful I am."

"I will certainly do so. Now, mother, I want you to have it made up at once. I can spare the money necessary."

"It will cost very little. I will have it cut by a dress maker and make it up myself. I hope you will long retain the friendship of Mrs. Merton."

"It won't by my fault if I don't. But I can't help seeing that her niece, Mrs. Tracy, and Harold, a boy about my age, look upon me with dislike."

"Why should they? I don't see how anyone can dislike you."

"You are my mother and are prejudiced in my favor. But I am sure they have no reason to dislike me. I think, however, they are jealous, and fear the old lady will look upon me with too much favor. She is very rich, I hear, and they expect to inherit all her fortune."

"Money makes people mean and unjust."

"If I can only get hold of some, I'll run the risk of that," said Luke. "I should feel a good deal more comfortable if I hadn't two enemies in the house."

"Do your duty, my son, and leave the rest to God. It isn't well to borrow trouble."

"No doubt you are right, mother. I will follow your advice."

The next morning Luke was at his usual stand near the Sherman House when a boy who was passing uttered a slight exclamation of surprise. Looking up, Luke recognized Harold Tracy.

"So it's you, is it?" said Harold, not over politely.

"Yes," answered Luke. "I hope you are well."

"I didn't know you were a newsboy."

"I spend a part of my time in selling papers."

"Does Mrs. Merton know you are a newsboy?"

"I think I have told her, but I am not certain."

"It must be inconvenient for you to come so far as our house every day?"

"Of course it takes up some time, but Mrs. Merton does not allow me to work for nothing."

"How much does Aunt Eliza pay you?"

"I would rather you would ask Mrs. Merton. I am not sure that she would care to have me tell."

"You seem to forget that I am her nephew that is, her grandnephew. It is hardly likely she would keep such a thing secret from me."

"That may be, but I would rather you would ask her."

"Does she pay you more than two dollars a week?"

"Again I must refer you to her."

"It is ridiculous to make a secret of such a trifle," said Harold, annoyed.

"How much do you make selling papers?" he asked.

"I averaged about seventy-five cents a day before I began to work for Mrs. Merton. Now I don't make as much."

"Why don't you black boots, too? Many of the newsboys do?"

"I never cared to take up that business."

"If you should go into it, I would give you a job now and then."

"I am not likely to go into that business, but I shall be glad to sell you a paper whenever you need one."

"You are not too proud to black boots, are you?" persisted Harold.

"I don't think it necessary to answer that question. I have always got along without it so far."

Harold carried the news home to his mother that Luke was a newsboy, and Mrs. Tracy found an opportunity to mention it at the supper table.

"Harold saw your paragon this morning, Aunt Eliza," she commenced.

"Have I a paragon? I really wasn't aware of it," returned the old lady.

"Your errand boy."

"Oh, Luke. Where did you see him, Harold?"

"He was selling papers near the Sherman House."

"I hope you bought one of him."

"I didn't have any change."

"Did you know he was a newsboy, Aunt Eliza?" asked Mrs. Tracy.

"Yes; he told me so. You speak of it as if it were something to his discredit."

"It is a low business, of course."

"Why is it a low business?"

"Oh, well, of course it is only poor street boys who engage in it."

"I am aware that Luke is poor, and that he has to contribute to the support of his mother and brother. I hope, if you were poor, that Harold would be willing to work for you."

"I wouldn't sell papers," put in Harold.

"I don't suppose Luke sells papers from choice."

"Aunt Eliza, I don't see why you should so persistently compare Harold with that ragged errand boy of yours."

"Is he ragged? I am glad you noticed it. I must help him to a new suit."

This was far from a welcome suggestion to Mrs. Tracy, and she made haste to add: "I don't think he's ragged. He dresses well enough for his position in life."

"Still, I think he needs some new clothes, and I thank you for suggesting it, Louisa."

The next day, Luke, to his surprise, was asked to ac company Mrs. Merton to a ready-made clothing house on Clark Street, where he was presented with a fine suit, costing twenty dollars.

"How kind you are, Mrs. Merton!" said Luke.

"I didn't notice that you needed a new suit," returned the old lady, "but my niece, Mrs. Tracy, spoke of it, and I was glad to take the hint."

It was in the afternoon of the same day that Luke, having an errand that carried him near the lake shore, strolled to the end of North Pier. He was fond of the water, but seldom had an opportunity to go out on it.

"How are you, Luke?" said a boy in a flat-bottomed boat a few rods away.

In the boy who hailed him Luke recognized John Hagan, an acquaintance of about his own age.

"Won't you come aboard?" asked John.

"I don't mind, if you'll come near enough."

In five minutes Luke found himself on board the boat, He took the oars and relieved John, who was disposed to rest.

They rowed hither and thither, never very far from the pier. Not far away was a boat of the same build, occupied by a man of middle size, whose eccentric actions attracted their attention. Now he would take the oars and row with feverish haste, nearly fifty strokes to a minute; then he would let his oars trail, and seem wrapped in thought. Suddenly the boys were startled to see him spring to his feet and, flinging up his arms, leap head first into the lake.



CHAPTER XX

AMBROSE KEAN'S IMPRUDENCE

Luke and his companion were startled by the sudden attempt at suicide, and for an instant sat motionless in their boat. Luke was the first to regain his self-possession.

"Quick, let us try to save him," he called to John Hagan.

They plunged their oars into the water, and the boat bounded over the waves. Fortunately they were but half a dozen rods from the place where the would-be suicide was now struggling to keep himself up. For, as frequently happens, when he actually found himself in the water, the instinct of self-preservation impelled the would-be self-destroyer to attempt to save himself. He could swim a very little, but the waters of the lake were in lively motion, his boat had floated away, and he would inevitably have drowned but for the energetic action of Luke and John. They swept their boat alongside, and Luke thrust his oar in the direction of the struggling man.

"Take hold of it," he said, "and we will tow you to your own boat."

Guided and sustained by the oar, the man gripped the side of Luke's boat, leaving the oar free. His weight nearly overbalanced the craft, but with considerable difficulty the boys succeeded in reaching the other boat, and, though considerably exhausted, its late occupant managed to get in.

As he took his place in the boat he presented a sorry spectacle, for his clothes were wet through and dripping.

"You will take your death of cold unless you go on shore at once," said Luke.

"It wouldn't matter much if I did," said the young man, gloomily.

"We will row to shore also," said Luke to John Hagan. "He may make another attempt to drown himself. I will see what I can do to reason him out of it."

They were soon at the pier, and the three landed.

"Where do you live?" asked Luke, taking his position beside the young man.

The latter named a number on Vine Street. It was at a considerable distance, and time was precious, for the young man was trembling from the effects of his immersion.

"There is no time to lose. We must take a carriage," said Luke.

He summoned one, which fortunately had just returned from the pier, to which it had conveyed a passenger, and the two jumped in.

Luke helped him up to his room, a small one on the third floor, and remained until he had changed his clothes and was reclining on the bed.

"You ought to have some hot drink," he said. "Can any be got in the house?"

"Yes; Mrs. Woods, the landlady, will have some hot water."

Luke went downstairs and succeeded in enlisting the sympathetic assistance of the kind-hearted woman by representing that her lodger had been upset in the lake and was in danger of a severe cold.

When the patient had taken down a cup of hot drink, he turned to Luke and said: "How can I thank you?"

"There is no need to thank me. I am glad I was at hand when you needed me."

"What is your name?"

"Luke Walton."

"Mine is Ambrose Kean. You must think I am a fool,"

"I think," said Luke, gently, "that you have some cause of unhappiness."

"You are right there. I have been unfortunate, but I am also an offender against the law, and it was the fear of exposure and arrest that made me take the step I did. I thought I was ready to die, but when I found myself in the water life seemed dearer than it had before, and I tried to escape. Thanks to you, I am alive, but now I almost wish that I had succeeded. I don't know how to face what is before me."

"Would you mind telling me what it is?"

"No; I need someone to confide in, and you deserve my confidence. Let me tell you, then, that I am employed in an office on Dearborn Street. My pay is small, twelve dollars a week, but it would be enough to support me if I had only myself to look out for. But I have a mother in Milwaukee, and I have been in the habit of sending her four dollars a week. That left me only eight dollars, which I found it hard to live on, and there was nothing left for clothes."

"I can easily believe that," said Luke.

"I struggled along, however, as best I might, but last week I received a letter from my mother saying that she was sick. Of course her expenses were increased, and she wrote to know if I could send her a little extra money. I have been living so close up to my income that I absolutely had less than a dollar in my pocket. Unfortunately, temptation came at a time when I was least prepared to resist it. One of our customers from the country came in when I was alone, and paid me fifty dollars in bills, for which I gave him a receipt. No one saw the payment made. It flashed upon me that this sum would make my mother comfortable even if her sickness lasted a considerable time. Without taking time to think, I went to an express office, and forwarded to her a package containing the bills. It started yesterday, and by this time is in my mother's hands. You see the situation I am placed in. The one who paid the money may come to the office at any time and reveal my guilt."

"I don't wonder that you were dispirited," returned Luke. "But can nothing be done? Can you not replace the money in time?"

"How can I? I have told you how small my salary is."

"Have you no friend or friends from whom you could borrow the money?"

"I know of none. I have few friends, and such as they are, are, like myself, dependent on small pay. I must tell you, by the way, how we became poor. My mother had a few thousand dollars, which, added to my earnings, would have made us comparatively independent, but in an evil hour she invested them in a California mine, on the strength of the indorsement of a well-known financier of Milwaukee, Mr. Thomas Browning——"

"Who?" asked Luke, in surprise.

"Thomas Browning. Do you know him?"

"I have seen him. He sometimes comes to Chicago, and stops at the Sherman House."

"He recommended the stock so highly—in fact, he was the president of the company that put it on the market—that my poor mother thought it all right, and invested all she had. The stock was two dollars a share. Now it would not fetch two cents. This it was that reduced us to such extreme poverty."

"Do you think Mr. Browning was honest in his recommendation of the mine?" asked Luke, thoughtfully.

"I don't know. He claimed to be the principal loser himself. But it is rather remarkable that he is living like a rich man now. Hundreds lost their money through this mine. As Mr. Browning had himself been in California——"

"What is that?" asked Luke, in excitement. "You say this Browning was once in California? Can you tell when?"

"Half a dozen years ago, more or less."

"And he looks like the man to whom my poor father confided ten thousand dollars for us," thought Luke. "It is very strange. Everything tallies but the name. The wretch who swindled us was named Butler."

"Why do you ask when Mr. Browning was in California?" asked the young man.

"Because my father died in California," answered Luke, evasively, "and I thought it possible that Mr. Browning might have met him."



CHAPTER XXI

A FRIEND IN NEED

"Mr. Browning is a man of very peculiar appearance," said Kean.

"You refer to the wart on the upper part of his right cheek?"

"Yes, it gives him a repulsive look."

"And yet he is popular in Milwaukee?"

"Yes, among those who were not swindled by his mining scheme. He has done more harm than he can ever repair. For instance," added the young man, bitterly, "this crime which I have committed—I will call it by its right name—I was impelled to do by my mother's poverty, brought on by him."

"How does it happen that you are not at the office to day?"

"I felt sick—sick at heart, rather than sick in body, and I sent word to my employer that I could not be there. I dread entering the office, for at any time exposure may come."

"If you could only raise the fifty dollars, you could replace the money before it was inquired for."

Ambrose Kean shook his head.

"I can't possibly raise it," he said, despondently.

"I would let you have it if I possessed as much money, but, as you may suppose, I am poor."

"I am no less grateful to you, Luke. You have a good heart, I am sure. You don't despise me?"

"No, why should I?"

"I have been guilty of a crime."

"But you are sorry for it. Is there positively no one with whom you are acquainted who is rich enough to help you?"

"There is one lady in Chicago—a rich lady—who was a schoolmate of my mother. She was older and in better circumstances, but they were good friends."

"Who is this lady?"

"A Mrs. Merton."

"Mrs. Merton!" exclaimed Luke, in excitement. "Of Prairie Avenue?"

"Yes; I believe she lives there."

"Why, I know her—I am in her employ," said Luke.

Ambrose Kean stared at Luke in open amazement.

"Is this true?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Is she a kind lady? Do you think she would help me in this trouble of mine?"

"She is very kind-hearted, as I know from my own experience. I will go to her at once, and see what I can do."

Ambrose Kean grasped Luke's hand with fervor.

"You are a friend sent from heaven, I truly believe," he said. "You have given me hope of retrieving myself."

"I will leave you for a time," said Luke. "There is no time to be lost."

"I shall be full of anxiety till I see you again."

"Be hopeful. I think I shall bring you good news."

When Luke reached the house on Prairie Avenue he was about to ring the bell when Harold Tracy opened the door.

"You here again!" he said, in a tone of displeasure. "Weren't you here this morning?"

"Yes."

"Did Aunt Eliza ask you to come this afternoon?"

"No."

"Then what brings you?"

"Business," answered Luke, curtly, and he quietly entered the hall, and said to a servant who was passing through, "Will you be kind enough to ask Mrs. Merton if she will see me?"

"Well, you're cheeky!" ejaculated Harold, who had in tended to keep him out.

"As long as Mrs. Merton doesn't think so, I shall not trouble myself," said Luke, coldly.

"Sooner or later Aunt Eliza will see you in your true colors," said Harold, provoked.

"I think she does now."

At this moment the servant returned.

"You are to go upstairs," she said. "Mrs. Merton will see you."

The old lady was sitting back in an easy-chair when Luke entered. She smiled pleasantly.

"This is an unexpected pleasure," she said, "this after-noon call."

"I will tell you at once what brought me, Mrs. Merton."

"It isn't sickness at home, I hope?"

"No, I came for a comparative stranger."

Then Luke told the story of Ambrose Kean, his sudden yielding to temptation, his repentance and remorse.

"I am interested in your friend," said Mrs. Merton. "You say he appropriated fifty dollars?"

"Yes, but it was to help his mother."

"True, but it was a dangerous step to take. It won't be considered a valid excuse."

"He realizes all that. His employer is a just but strict man, and if the theft is discovered Kean will be arrested, and, of course, convicted."

"And you think I will help him? Is that why you have come to me with this story?"

"I don't think I would have done so if he had not mentioned you as an old friend and schoolmate of his mother."

"What's that?" added Mrs. Merton, quickly. "His mother an old schoolmate of mine?"

"That is what he says."

"What was her name before marriage?"

"Mary Robinson."

"You don't say so!" Mrs. Merton exclaimed with vivacity. "Why, Mary was my favorite at school. And this young man is her son?

"I would have helped him without knowing this, but now I won't hesitate a moment. Mary's boy! You must bring him here. I want to question him about her."

"I can tell you something about her. She lost her money by investing in a California mine—I think it was the Excelsior Mine."

"She, too?"

Luke looked surprised. He did not understand the meaning of this exclamation.

"I have a thousand shares of that worthless stock myself," continued the old lady. "It cost me two thousand dollars, and now it is worth nothing."

"The one who introduced the stock was a Mr. Browning, of Milwaukee."

"I know. He was an unscrupulous knave, I have no doubt. I could afford the loss, but hundreds invested, like poor Mary, who were ruined. Is the man living, do you know?"

"Yes, he is living in Milwaukee. He is rich, and is prominently spoken of as a candidate for mayor."

"If he is ever a candidate I will take care that his connection with this swindling transaction is made known. A man who builds up a fortune on the losses of the poor is a contemptible wretch, in my opinion."

"And mine, too," said Luke. "It is very strange that he answers the description of a man who cheated our family out of ten thousand dollars."

"Indeed! How was that?"

Luke told the story, and Mrs. Merton listened with great interest.

"So all corresponds except the name?"

"Yes."

"He may have changed his name."

"I have thought of that. I mean to find out some time."

"I won't keep you any longer. Your friend is, no doubt, in great anxiety. I have the money here in bills. I will give them to you for him."

Mrs. Merton was in the act of handing a roll of bills to Luke when the door opened suddenly, and Mrs. Tracy entered.

She frowned in surprise and displeasure when she saw her aunt giving money to "that boy," as she contemptuously called him.



CHAPTER XXII

HOW AMBROSE KEAN WAS SAVED

"I didn't know you were occupied, Aunt Eliza," said Mrs. Tracy, in a significant tone, as she paused at the door.

"My business is not private," returned the old lady. "Come in, Louisa."

Mrs. Tracy did come in, but she regarded Luke with a hostile and suspicious glance.

"That is all, Luke," said his patroness. "You may go. You can report to me to-morrow."

"All right, ma'am."

When Luke had left the room, Mrs. Tracy said: "You appear to repose a great deal of confidence in that boy."

"Yes; I think he deserves it."

Mrs. Tracy coughed.

"You seem to trust him with a great deal of money."

"Yes."

"Of course, I don't want to interfere, but I think you will need to be on your guard. He is evidently bent on getting all he can out of you."

"That is your judgment, is it, Louisa?"

"Yes. Aunt Eliza, since you ask me."

"He has done me a service this morning. He has brought to my notice a son of one of my old school mates who is in a strait, and I have just sent him fifty dollars."

"By that boy?"

"Yes. Why not?"

"Are you sure the person to whom you sent the money will ever get it?"

"Please speak out what you mean. Don't hint. I hate hints."

"In plain terms, then, I think the boy will keep the money himself, or, at any rate, a part of it."

"I don't fear it."

"Have you any more to say?"

"Nothing, except to warn you against that designing boy."

"You are very kind, Louisa, but I am not quite a simpleton. I have seen something of the world, and I don't think I am easily taken in."

Mrs. Tracy left the room, not very well satisfied. She really thought Luke had designs upon the old lady's money, and was averse even to his receiving a legacy, since it would take so much from Harold and herself.

"Harold, when I entered your aunt's room, what do you think I saw?"

This she said to Harold, who was waiting below.

"I don't know."

"Aunt Eliza was giving money to that boy."

"Do you know how much?"

"Fifty dollars."

"Whew! Was it for himself?"

"He came to her with a trumped-up story of an old schoolmate of aunt's who was in need of money."

"Do you think he will keep it himself?"

"I am afraid so."

"What a cheeky young rascal he is, to be sure! I have no doubt you are right."

"Yes; there is too much reason to think he is an unscrupulous adventurer, young as he is."

"Why don't you tell aunt so?"

"I have."

"And what does she say?"

"It doesn't make the least impression upon her."

"What do you think the boy will do?"

"Get her to make a will in his favor, or at least to leave him a large legacy."

Harold turned pale.

"That would be robbing us," he said.

"Of course it would. He wouldn't mind that, you know."

"He was very impertinent to me this morning."

"I presume so. He depends upon his favor with aunt."

"Isn't there anything we can do, mother?"

"I must consider."

Meanwhile Luke returned at once to the room of Ambrose Kean. He found the young man awaiting him with great anxiety.

"What success?" he asked, quickly.

"I have got the fifty dollars," answered Luke.

"Thank God! I am saved!" ejaculated the young man.

"Would you mind taking it round to the office with a note from me?" asked Kean.

"I will do so cheerfully."

"Then I shall feel at ease."

"Mrs. Merton would like to have you call on her. She remembered your mother at once."

"I shall be glad to do so, but shall be ashamed to meet her now that she knows of my yielding to temptation."

"You need not mind that. She also suffered from the rascality of Thomas Browning, and she will make allowances for you."

"Then I will go some day with you."

"You had better give me a letter to take to your employer with the money."

"I will."

Ambrose Kean wrote the following note:

JAMES COOPER:

DEAR SIR:—Hiram Crossley called at the office yesterday and paid in fifty dollars due to you. Being busy, I thrust it into my pocket, and inadvertently took it with me. I think I shall be able to be at the office to-morrow, but think it best to send the money by a young friend. I gave Mr. Crossley a receipt.

Yours respectfully, AMBROSE KEAN.

When Luke reached the office, Mr. Cooper was conversing with a stout, broad-shouldered man, of middle age, and Luke could not help hearing some of their conversation.

"You say you paid fifty dollars to my clerk, Mr. Crossley?" asked the merchant.

"Yes."

"Have you his receipt?"

"Here it is."

Mr. Cooper examined it.

"Yes, that is his signature."

"Isn't he here to-day?"

"No; he sent word that he had a headache."

"And you don't find the money?"

"No."

"That is singular." And the two men exchanged glances of suspicion.

"What sort of a young man is he?"

"I never had any cause to suspect him."

"I hope it is all right."

"If it isn't, I will discharge him," said Cooper, nodding emphatically.

"He probably didn't think I would be here so soon. I didn't expect to be, but a telegram summoned me to the city on other business."

Of course Luke understood that the conversation related to Kean, and that he had arrived none too soon. He came forward.

"I have a letter for you from Mr. Kean," he said.

"Ha! Give it to me!"

Mr. Cooper tore open the envelope, saw the bank bills, and read the letter.

"It's all right, Mr. Crossley," he said, his brow clearing. "Read that letter."

"I am really glad," said Crossley.

"How is Mr. Kean?" asked Cooper, in a friendly tone.

"He had a severe headache, but he is better, and hopes to be at the office to-morrow."

"Tell him I shall be glad to see him, but don't want him to come unless he is really able."

"Thank you, sir. I will do so." And Luke left the office.

He went back to Ambrose Kean, and told him what had happened at the office.

"I have escaped better than I deserved," he said. "It will be a lesson to me. Please tell Mrs. Merton that her timely aid has saved my reputation and rescued my poor mother from sorrow and destitution."

"I will, and I am sure she will consider the money well spent."

The next morning, as Luke stood at his usual post, he saw Thomas Browning, of Milwaukee, come out of the Sherman House. He knew him at once by the wart on the upper part of his right cheek, which gave him a remarkable appearance.

"Can there be two persons answering this description?" Luke asked himself.

Thomas Browning came across the street, and paused in front of Luke.



CHAPTER XXIII

STEPHEN WEBB IS PUZZLED

"Will you have a morning paper?" asked Luke.

He wanted to have a few words with Mr. Browning, even upon an indifferent subject, as he now thought it probable that this was the man who had defrauded his mother and himself.

Browning, too, on his part, wished for an opportunity to speak with the son of the man he had so shamefully swindled.

"Yes," he said, abruptly, "you may give me the Times."

When the paper had been paid for, he said:

"Do you make a good living at selling papers?"

"It gives me about seventy-five cents a day," answered Luke.

"You can live on that, I suppose?"

"I have a mother to support."

"That makes a difference. Why do you stay in Chicago? You could make a better living farther West."

"In California?" asked Luke, looking intently at Browning.

Thomas Browning started.

"What put California into your head?" he asked.

"My father died in California."

"A good reason for your not going there."

"I thought you might be able to tell me something about California," continued Luke.

"Why should I?"

"I thought perhaps you had been there."

"You are right," said Browning, after a pause. "I made a brief trip to San Francisco at one time. It was on a slight matter of business. But I don't know much about the interior and can't give you advice."

"I wonder if this is true," thought Luke. "He admits having been to California, but says he has never been in the interior. If that is the case, he can't have met my father."

"I may at some time have it in my power to find you a place farther West, but not in California," resumed Browning. "I will take it into consideration. I frequently come to Chicago, and I presume you are to be found here."

"Yes, sir."

Thomas Browning waved his hand by way of good-by, and continued on his way.

"The boy seems sharp," he said to himself. "If he had the slightest hint of my connection with his father's money, he looks as if he would follow it up. Luckily there is no witness and no evidence. No one can prove that I received the money."

At the corner of Adams Street Mr. Browning encountered his nephew, Stephen Webb, who was gazing in at a window with a cigar in his mouth, looking the very image of independent leisure.

"You are profitably employed," said Browning, dryly.

Stephen Webb wheeled round quickly.

"Glad to see you, Uncle Thomas," he said, effusively. "I suppose you received my letter?"

"Yes."

"I hope you are satisfied. I had hard work to find out about the boy."

"Humph! I don't see how there could be anything difficult about it. I hope you didn't mention my name?"

"No. I suppose you are interested in the boy," said Stephen, with a look of curious inquiry.

"Yes; I always feel interested in the poor, and those who require assistance."

"I am glad of that, uncle, for you have a poor nephew."

"And a lazy one," said Browning, sharply. "Where would I be if I had been as indolent as you?"

"I am sure I am willing to do whatever you require, Uncle Thomas. Have you any instructions?"

"Well, not just now, except to let me know all you can learn about the newsboy. Has he any other source of income except selling papers?"

"I believe he does a few odd jobs now and then, but I don't suppose he earns much outside."

"I was talking with him this morning."

"You were!" ejaculated Stephen in a tone of curiosity. "Did you tell him you felt an interest in him?"

"No, and I don't want you to tell him so. I suggested that he could make a better income by leaving Chicago, and going farther West."

"I think I might like to do that, Uncle Thomas."

"Then why don't you?"

"I can't go without money."

"You could take up a quarter-section of land and start in as a farmer. I could give you a lift that way if I thought you were in earnest."

"I don't think I should succeed as a farmer," said Stephen, with a grimace.

"Too hard work, eh?"

"I am willing to work hard, but that isn't in my line."

"Well, let that go. You asked if I had any instructions. Find opportunities of talking with the boy, and speak in favor of going West."

"I will. Is there anything more?"

"No. I believe not."

"You couldn't let me have a couple of dollars extra, could you, uncle?"

"Why should I?"

"I—I felt sick last week, and had to call in a doctor, and then get some medicine."

"There's one dollar! Don't ask me for any more extras."

"He's awfully close-fisted," grumbled Stephen.

"I am afraid King might visit Chicago, and find out the boy," said Browning to himself as he continued his walk. "That would never do, for he is a sharp fellow, and would put the boy on my track if he saw any money in it. My best course is to get this Luke out of Chicago, if I can."

Stephen Webb made it in his way to fall in with Luke when he was selling afternoon papers.

"This is rather a slow way of making a fortune, isn't it, Luke?" he asked.

"Yes; I have no thoughts of making a fortune at the newspaper business."

"Do you always expect to remain in it?" continued Webb.

"Well, no," answered Luke, with a smile. "If I live to be fifty or sixty I think I should find it rather tiresome."

"You are right there."

"But I don't see any way of getting out of it just yet. There may be an opening for me by and by."

"The chances for a young fellow in Chicago are not very good. Here am I twenty-five years old and with no prospects to speak of."

"A good many people seem to make good livings, and many grow rich, in Chicago."

"Yes, if you've got money you can make money. Did you ever think of going West?"

Luke looked a little surprised.

"A gentleman was speaking to me on that subject this morning," he said.

"What did he say to you?" asked Stephen, curiously.

"He recommended me to go West, but did not seem to approve of California."

"Why not. Had he ever been there?"

"He said he had visited San Francisco, but had never been in the interior."

"What a whopper that was!" thought Stephen Webb. "Why should Uncle Thomas say that?"

"What sort of a looking man was he? Had you ever seen him before?" he inquired.

"He is a peculiar-looking man—has a wart on his right cheek."

"Did he mention the particular part of the West?"

"No; he said he would look out for a chance for me."

"It is curious Uncle Thomas feels such an interest in that boy," Webb said to himself, meditatively.



CHAPTER XXIV

MRS. MERTON PASSES A PLEASANT EVENING

Ambrose Kean called with Luke an evening or two later to thank Mrs. Merton in person for her kindness. They arrived ten minutes after Mrs. Tracy and Harold had started for Hooley's Theater, and thus were saved an embarrassing meeting with two persons who would have treated them frigidly.

They were conducted upstairs by the servant, and were ushered into Mrs. Merton's room.

Ambrose Kean was naturally ill at ease, knowing that Mrs. Merton was acquainted with the error he had committed. But the old lady received him cordially.

"I am glad to meet the son of my old schoolmate, Mary Robinson," she said.

"In spite of his unworthiness?" returned Ambrose, his cheek flushing with shame.

"I don't know whether he is unworthy. That remains to be seen."

"You know I yielded to temptation and committed a theft."

"Yes; but it was to help your mother."

"It was, but that does not relieve me from guilt."

"You are right; still it greatly mitigates it. Take my advice; forget it, and never again yield to a similar temptation."

"I will not, indeed, Mrs. Merton," said the young many earnestly. "I feel that I have been very fortunate in escaping the consequences of my folly, and in enlisting your sympathy."

"That is well! Let us forget this disagreeable circumstance, and look forward to the future. How is Mary your mother?"

"She is an invalid."

"And poor. There is a remedy for poverty. Let us also hope there is a remedy for her ill-health. But tell me, why did you not come to see me before? You have been some time in Chicago."

"True, but I knew you were a rich lady. I didn't think you would remember or care to hear from one so poor and obscure as my mother."

"Come, I consider that far from a compliment," said the old lady. "You really thought as badly of me as that?"

"I know you better now," said Ambrose, gratefully.

"It is well you do. You have no idea how intimate your mother and I used to be. She is five years my junior, I think, so that I regarded her as a younger sister. It is many years since we met. And how is she looking?"

"She shows the effects of bad health, but I don't think she looks older than her years."

"We have both changed greatly, no doubt. It is to be expected. But you can tell her that I have not forgotten the favorite companion of my school days."

"I will do so, for I know it will warm her heart and brighten her up."

"When we were girls together our worldly circumstances did not greatly differ. But I married, and my husband was very successful in business."

"While she married and lost all she had."

"It is often so. It might have been the other way. Your mother might have been rich, and I poor; but I don't think she would have been spoiled by prosperity any more than I have been. Now tell me how you are situated."

"I am a clerk, earning twelve dollars a week."

"And your employer—is he kind and considerate?"

"He is just, but he has strict notions. Had he learned my slip the other day he would have discharged me, perhaps had me arrested. Now, thanks to your prompt kindness, he knows and will know nothing of it."

"Is he likely to increase your salary?"

"He will probably raise me to fifteen dollars a week next January. Then I can get along very well. At present it is difficult for me, after sending my mother four dollars a week, to live on the balance of my salary."

"I should think it would be."

"Still, I would have made it do, but for mother's falling sick, and so needing a larger allowance."

"I hope she is not seriously ill," said Mrs. Merton, with solicitude.

"No, fortunately not. I think she will be as well as usual in a few weeks."

"Tell her I inquired particularly for her, and that I send her my love and remembrance."

"I shall be only too glad to do so."

The time slipped away so rapidly that Luke was surprised when, looking at the French clock on the mantel, he saw that it lacked but a quarter of ten o'clock.

"Mr. Kean," he said, glancing at the clock, "it is getting late."

"So it is," said Ambrose, rising. "I am afraid we have been trespassing upon your kindness, Mrs. Merton."

"Not at all!" said Mrs. Merton, promptly. "I have enjoyed the evening, I can assure you. Mr. Kean, you must call again."

"I shall be glad to do so, if you will permit me."

"I wish you to do so. Luke will come with you. I shall want to hear more of your mother, and how she gets along."

As they were leaving, Mrs. Merton slipped into the hand of Ambrose Kean an envelope.

"The contents is for your mother," she said. "I have made the check payable to you."

"Thank you. It is another mark of your kindness."

When Ambrose Kean examined the check, he ascertained to his joy that it was for a hundred dollars.

"What a splendid old lady she is, Luke!" he said, enthusiastically.

"She is always kind, Mr. Kean. I have much to be grateful to her for. I wish I could say the same of other members of the family."

"What other members of the family are there?"

"A niece, Mrs. Tracy, and her son, Harold."

"Why didn't we see them to-night?"

"I don't know. I suppose they were out."

The next day Ambrose handed the check to his employer and asked if he would indorse it, and so enable him to draw the money.

James Cooper took the check and examined the signature.

"Eliza Merton," said he. "Is it the rich Mrs. Merton who lives on Prairie Avenue?"

"Yes, sir."

"Indeed; I did not know that you were acquainted with her."

"She and my mother were schoolmates."

"And so you keep up the acquaintance?"

"I spent last evening at her house. This check is a gift from her to my mother."

Ambrose Kean rose greatly in the estimation of his employer when the latter learned that Kean had such an aristocratic friend, and he was treated with more respect and consideration than before.

Meanwhile Harold and his mother had enjoyed themselves at the theater.

"I suppose Aunt Eliza went to bed early, Harold," said Mrs. Tracy, as they were on their way home.

"Went to roost with the hens," suggested Harold, laughing at what he thought to be a good joke.

"Probably it is as well for her," said his mother. "It isn't good for old people to sit up late."

It was about half-past eleven when they were admitted by the drowsy servant.

"I suppose Mrs. Merton went to bed long ago, Laura," said Mrs. Tracy.

"No, ma'am, she set up later than usual."

"That is odd. I thought she would feel lonely."

"Oh, she had company, ma'am."

"Company! Who?"

"Master Luke was here all the evenin', and a young man with him."

Mrs. Tracy frowned ominously.

"The sly young artful!" she said to Harold when they were alone. "He is trying all he can to get on aunt's weak side. Something will have to be done, or we shall be left out in the cold."



CHAPTER XXV

MRS. TRACY'S BROTHER

A day or two later, while Mrs. Merton was in the city shopping, accompanied by Luke, a man of thirty years of age ascended the steps of the house on Prairie Avenue and rang the bell.

"Is Mrs. Tracy at home?" he asked of the servant who answered the bell.

"Yes, sir; what name shall I give?"

"Never mind about the name. Say it is an old friend."

"Won't you come in, sir?"

"Yes, I believe I will."

Mrs. Tracy received the message with surprise mingled with curiosity.

"Who can it be?" she asked herself.

She came downstairs without delay.

The stranger, who had taken a seat in the hall, rose and faced her.

"Don't you know me, Louisa?" he asked.

"Is it you, Warner?" she exclaimed, surprised and! startled.

"Yes," he answered, laughing. "It's a good while since we met."

"Five years. And have you——"

"What—reformed?"

"Yes."

"Well, I can't say as to that. I can only tell you that I am not wanted by the police at present. Is the old lady still alive?"

"Aunt Eliza?"

"Of course."

"Yes, she is alive and well."

"I thought perhaps she might have died, and left you in possession of her property."

"Not yet. I don't think she has any intention of dying for a considerable number of years."

"That is awkward. Has she done nothing for you?"

"We have a free home here, and she makes me a moderate allowance, but she is not disposed to part with much money while she lives."

"I am sorry for that. I thought you might be able to help me to some money. I am terribly hard up."

"You always were, no matter how much money you had."

"I never had much. The next thing is, how does the old lady feel toward me?"

"I don't think she feels very friendly, though nothing has passed between us respecting you for a long time. She has very strict notions about honesty, and when you embezzled your employer's money you got into her black books."

"That was a youthful indiscretion," said Warner, smiling. "Can't you convince her of that?"

"I doubt if I can lead her to think of it in that light."

"I know what that means, Louisa. You want to get the whole of the old lady's property for yourself and that boy of yours. You always were selfish."

"No, Warner, though I think I am entitled to the larger part of aunt's money, I don't care to have you left out in the cold. I will do what I can to reconcile her to you."

"Come, that's fair and square. You're a trump, Louisa. You have not forgotten that I am your brother."

"No, I am not so selfish as you think. If I don't succeed in restoring you to Aunt Eliza's good graces, and she chooses to leave me all her property, I promise to take care of you and allow you a fair income."

"That's all right, but I would rather the old lady would provide for me herself."

"Do you doubt my word?"

"No, but your idea of what would be a fair income might differ from mine. How much do you think the old lady's worth?"

"Quarter of a million, I should think," replied Mrs. Tracy, guardedly.

"Yes, and considerably more, too."

"Perhaps so. I have no means of judging."

"Supposing it to be the figure you name, how much would you be willing to give me, if she leaves me out in the cold?"

"I am not prepared to say, Warner. I would see that you had no good reason to complain."

"I should prefer to have you name a figure, so that I might know what to depend upon."

But this Mrs. Tracy declined to do, though her brother continued to urge her.

"Where have you been for a few years past, Warner?" she asked.

"Floating about. At first I didn't dare to come back. It was a year at least before I heard that aunt had paid up the sum I got away with. When I did hear it I was in Australia."

"What did you do there?"

"I was a bookkeeper in Melbourne for a time. Then I went into the country. From Australia I came to California, and went to the mines. In fact, I have only just come from there."

"Didn't you manage to make money anywhere?"

"Yes, but it didn't stick by me. How much money do you think I have about me now?"

"I can't guess," said Mrs. Tracy, uneasily.

"Five dollars and a few cents. However, I am sure you will help me," he continued.

"Really, Warner, you mustn't hope for too much from me. I have but a small allowance from Aunt Eliza—hardly enough to buy necessary articles for Harold and myself."

"Then you can speak to aunt in my behalf."

"Yes, I can do that."

"Where is she?"

"She has gone out shopping this morning."

"Alone, or is Harold with her?"

"Neither," answered Mrs. Tracy, her brow darkening. "She has picked up a boy from the street, and installed him as a first favorite."

"That's queer, isn't it?"

"Yes; but Aunt Eliza was always queer."

"What's the boy's name?"

"Luke Walton."

"What's his character?"

"Sly—artful. He is scheming to have aunt leave him Something in her will."

"If she leaves him a few hundred dollars it won't hurt us much."

"You don't know the boy. He won't be satisfied with that."

"You don't mean to say that his influence over aunt is dangerous?"

"Yes, I do."

"Can't you get her to bounce him?"

"I have done what I could, but she seems to be infatuated. If he were a gentleman's son I shouldn't mind so much, but Harold saw him the other day selling papers near the Sherman House."

"Do you think aunt's mind is failing?"

"She seems rational enough on all other subjects. She was always shrewd and sharp, you know."

"Well, that's rather an interesting state of things. I haven't returned to Chicago any too soon."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because it will be my duty to spoil the chances of this presuming young man."

"That is easier said than done. You forget that Aunt Eliza thinks a great deal more of him than she does of you."

"I haven't a doubt that you are right."

"Then what can you do?"

"Convince her that he is a scapegrace. Get him into a scrape, in other words."

"But he is too smart to be dishonest, if that is what you mean."

"It is not necessary for him to be dishonest. It is only necessary for her to think he is dishonest."

There was some further conversation. As Warner Powell was leaving the house, after promising to call in the evening, he met on the steps Mrs. Merton, under the escort of Luke Walton.

The old lady eyed him sharply.



CHAPTER XXVI

THE PRODIGAL'S RECEPTION

"Don't you know me, Aunt Eliza?" asked Warner Powell casting down his eyes under the sharp glance of the old lady.

"So it is you, is it?" responded Mrs. Merton, in a tone which could not be considered cordial.

"Yes, it is I. I hope you are not sorry to see me?"

"Humph! It depends on whether you have improved or not."

Luke Walton listened with natural interest and curiosity. This did not suit Mrs. Tracy, who did not care to have a stranger made acquainted with her brother's peccadilloes.

"Warner," she said, "I think Aunt Eliza will do you the justice to listen to your explanation. I imagine, young man, Mrs. Merton will not require your services any longer to-day."

The last words were addressed to Luke.

"Yes, Luke; you can go," said the old lady, in a very different tone.

Luke bowed and left the house.

"Louisa," said Mrs. Merton, "in five minutes you may bring your brother up to my room."

"Thank you, aunt."

When they entered the apartment they found the old lady seated in a rocking-chair awaiting them.

"So you have reformed, have you?" she asked, abruptly.

"I hope so, Aunt Eliza."

"I hope so, too. It is full time. Where have you been?"

"To Australia, California, and elsewhere."

"A rolling stone gathers no moss."

"In this case it applies," said Warner. "I have earned more or less money, but I have none now."

"How old are you?"

"Thirty."

"A young man ought not to be penniless at that age. If you had remained in your place at Mr. Afton's, and behaved yourself, you would be able to tell a different story."

"I know it, aunt."

"Don't be too hard upon him, Aunt Eliza," put in Mrs. Tracy. "He is trying to do well now."

"I am very glad to hear it."

"Would you mind my inviting him to stay here for a time? The house is large, you know."

Mrs. Merton paused. She didn't like the arrangement, but she was a just and merciful woman, and it was possible that Warner had reformed, though she was not fully satisfied on that point.

"For a time," she answered, "till he can find employment."

"Thank you, Aunt Eliza," said the young man, relieved, for he had been uncertain how his aunt would treat him. "I hope to show that your kindness is appreciated."

"I am rather tired now," responded Mrs. Merton, as an indication that the interview was over.

"We'd better go and let aunt rest," said Warner, with alacrity. He did not feel altogether comfortable in the society of the old lady.

When they were alone Mrs. Tracy turned to her brother with a smile of satisfaction.

"You have reason to congratulate yourself on your reception," she said.

"I don't know about that. The old woman wasn't very complimentary."

"Be careful how you speak of her. She might hear you, or the servants might, and report."

"Well, she is an old woman, isn't she?"

"It is much better to refer to her as the old lady—better still to speak of her as Aunt Eliza."

"I hope she will make up her mind to do something for me."

"She has; she gives you a home in this house."

"I would a good deal rather have her pay my board outside, where I would feel more independent."

"I have been thinking, Warner, you might become her secretary and man of business. In that case she would dispense with this boy, whose presence bodes danger to us all."

"I wouldn't mind being her man of business, to take charge of her money, but as to trotting round town with her like a tame poodle, please excuse me."

"Warner," said his sister, rather sharply, "just remember, if you please, that beggars can't be choosers."

"Perhaps not, but this plan of yours would be foolish. She wouldn't like it, nor would I. Why don't you put Harold up to offering his services? He's as large as this boy, isn't he?"

"He is about the same size."

"Then it would be a capital plan. You would get rid of the boy that way."

"You forget that Harold has not finished his education. He is now attending a commercial school. I should like to have him go to college, but he doesn't seem to care about it."

"So, after all, the boy seems to be a necessity."

"I would prefer a different boy—less artful and designing."

"How much does the old woman—beg pardon, the old lady—pay him?"

"I don't know. Harold asked Luke, but he wouldn't tell. I have no doubt he manages to secure twice as much as his services are worth. He's got on Aunt Eliza's blind side."

"Just what I would like to do, but I have never been able to discover that she had any."

"Did you take notice of the boy?"

"Yes; he's rather a good-looking youngster, it seems to me."

"How can you say so?" demanded Mrs. Tracy, sharply. "There's a very common look about him, I think. He isn't nearly as good-looking as Harold."

"Harold used to look like you," said Warner, with a smile. "Natural you should think him good-looking. But don't it show a little self-conceit, Louisa?"

"That's a poor joke," answered his sister, coldly. "What are you going to do?"

"Going out to see if I can find any of my old acquaintances."

"You had much better look out for a position, as Aunt Eliza hinted."

"Don't be in such a hurry, Louisa. Please bear in mind that I have only just arrived in Chicago after an absence of five years."

"Dinner will be ready in half an hour."

"Thank you. I don't think I should like a second interview with Aunt Eliza quite so soon. I will lunch outside."

"A lunch outside costs money, and you are not very well provided in that way."

"Don't trouble yourself about that, Louisa. I intend to be very economical.

"My estimable sister is about as mean as anyone I know," said Warner to himself, as he left the house. "Between her and the old woman, I don't think I shall find it very agreeable living here. A cheap boarding house would be infinitely preferable."

On State Street Warner Powell fell in with Stephen Webb, an old acquaintance.

"Is it you, Warner?" asked Webb, in surprise. "It's an age since I saw you."

"So it is. I haven't been in Chicago for five years."

"I remember. A little trouble, wasn't there?"

"Yes; but I'm all right now, except that I haven't any money to speak of."

"That's my situation exactly."

"However, I've got an old aunt worth a million, more or less, only she doesn't fully appreciate her nephew."

"And I have an uncle, pretty well to do, who isn't so deeply impressed with my merits as I wish he were."

"I am staying with my aunt just at present, but hope to have independent quarters soon. One trouble is, she takes a fancy to a boy named Luke Walton."

"Luke Walton!" repeated Stephen in amazement.

"Do you know him?"

"Yes, my uncle has set me to spy on him—why, I haven't been able to find out. So he is in favor with your aunt?"

"Yes, he calls at the house every day, and is in her employ. Sometimes she goes out shopping with him."

"That's strange. Let us drop into the Saratoga and compare notes."

They turned into Dearborn Street, and sat down to lunch in the Saratoga.



CHAPTER XXVII

UNCLE AND NEPHEW

"So this boy is an object of interest to your uncle?" resumed Warner Powell.

"Yes."

"Does he give any reason for his interest?"

"No, except that he is inclined to help him when there is an opportunity."

"Does the boy know him?"

"No."

"Has he met your uncle?"

"Yes; Uncle Thomas frequently visits Chicago—he lives in Milwaukee—and stays at the Sherman when he is here. He has stopped and bought a paper of Luke once or twice."

"I remember my sister told me this boy Luke was a newsboy."

"How did he get in with your aunt?"

"I don't know. I presume it was a chance acquaintance. However that may be, the young rascal seems to have got on her blind side, and to be installed first favorite."

"Your sister doesn't like it?"

"Not much. Between you and me, Louisa—Mrs. Tracy—means to inherit all the old lady's property, and doesn't like to have anyone come in, even for a trifle. She'll have me left out in the cold if she can, but I mean to have something to say to that. In such matters you can't trust even your own sister."

"I agree with you, Warner."

The two young men ate a hearty dinner, and then adjourned to a billiard room, where they spent the afternoon over the game. Warner reached home in time for supper.

"Where have you been, Warner?" asked Mrs. Tracy.

"Looking for work," was the answer.

"What success did you meet with?"

"Not much as yet. I fell in with an old acquaintance, who may assist me in that direction."

"I am glad you have lost no time in seeking employment. It will please aunt."

Warner Powell suppressed a smile. He wondered what Mrs. Merton would have thought could she have seen in what manner he prosecuted his search for employment.

"This is Harold," said Mrs. Tracy, proudly, as her son came in. "Harold, this is your Uncle Warner."

"So you are Harold," said his uncle. "I remember you in short pants. You have changed considerably in five years."

"Yes, I suppose so," answered Harold, curtly. "Where have you been?"

"In Australia, California, and so on."

"How long are you going to stay in Chicago?"

"That depends on whether I can find employment. If you hear of a place let me know."

"I don't know of any unless Aunt Eliza will take you into her employ in place of that newsboy, Luke Walton."

"She can have me if she will pay me enough salary. How much does Luke get?"

"I don't know. He won't tell."

"Do you like him?"

"I don't consider him a fit associate for me. He is a common newsboy."

"Does Aunt Eliza know that?"

"Yes; it makes no difference to her. She's infatuated with him."

"I wish she were infatuated with me. I shall have to ask Luke his secret. Aunt Eliza doesn't prefer him to you, does she?"

"I have no doubt she does. She's very queer about some things."

"Harold," said his mother, solicitously, "I don't think you pay Aunt Eliza enough attention. Old persons, you know, like to receive courtesies."

"I treat her politely, don't I?" asked Harold, aggressively. "I can't be dancing attendance upon her and flattering her all the time."

"From what I have seen of Luke Walton," thought Warner Powell, "I should decidedly prefer him to this nephew of mine. He seems conceited and disagreeable. Of course, it won't do to tell Louisa that, for she evidently admires her graceless cub, because he is hers."

"Are you intimate with this Luke?" asked Warner, mischievously.

"What do you take me for?" demanded Harold, of fended. "I am not in the habit of getting intimate with street boys."

Warner Powell laughed.

"I am not so proud as you, Nephew Harold," he said. "Travelers pick up strange companions. In San Francisco I became intimate with a Chinaman."

"You don't mean it?" exclaimed Harold, in incredulity and disgust."

"Yes, I do."

"You weren't in the laundry business with him, were you?" went on Harold, with a sneer.

"No," he answered aloud. "The laundry business may be a very good one—I should like the income it produces even now—but I don't think I have the necessary talent for it. My Chinese friend was a commission merchant worth at least a hundred thousand dollars. I wasn't above borrowing money from him sometimes."

"Of course, that makes a difference," said Mrs. Tracy, desiring to make peace between her brother and son. "He must have been a superior man. Harold thought you meant a common Chinaman, such as we have in Chicago."

The reunited family sat down to supper together.

After supper Warner made an excuse for going out.

"I have an engagement with a friend who knows of a position he thinks I can secure," he said.

"I hope you won't be late," said Mrs. Tracy.

"No, I presume not, but you had better give me a pass key."

Mrs. Tracy did so reluctantly. She was afraid Harold might want to join his uncle; but the nephew was not taken with his new relative, and made no such proposal.

In reality, Warner Powell had made an engagement to go to McVicker's Theater with his friend Stephen Webb, who had arranged to meet him at the Sherman House.

While waiting, Warner, who had an excellent memory for faces, recognized Luke, who was selling papers at his usual post. There was some startling news in the evening papers—a collision on Lake Michigan—and Luke had ordered an unusual supply, which occupied him later than his ordinary hour. He had taken a hasty supper at Brockway & Milan's, foreseeing that he would not be home till late.

"Aunt Eliza's boy!" thought Warner. "I may as well take this opportunity to cultivate his acquaintance."

He went up to Luke and asked for a paper.

"You don't remember me?" he said, with a smile.

"No," answered Luke, looking puzzled.

"I saw you on Prairie Avenue this morning. Mrs. Merton is my aunt."

"I remember you now. Are you Mrs. Tracy's brother?"

"Yes, and the uncle of Harold. How do you and Harold get along?"

"Not at all. He takes very little notice of me."

"He is a snob. Being his uncle, I take the liberty to say it."

"There is no love lost between us," Luke said. "I would like to be more friendly, but he treats me like an enemy."

"He is jealous of your favor with my aunt."

"There is no occasion for it. He is a relative, and I am only in her employ."

"She thinks a good deal of you, doesn't she?"

"She treats me very kindly."

"Harold suggested to me this evening at supper that I should take your place. You needn't feel anxious. I have no idea of doing so, and she wouldn't have me if I had."

"I think a man like you could do better."

"I am willing to. But here comes my friend, who is going to the theater with me."

Looking up, Luke was surprised to see Stephen Webb.



CHAPTER XXVIII

HAROLD'S TEMPTATION

Mrs. Merton was rather astonished when her grand-nephew Harold walked into her room one day and inquired for her health. (She had been absent from the dinner table on account of a headache.)

"Thank you, Harold," she said. "I am feeling a little better."

"Have you any errand you would like to have me do for you?"

Mrs. Merton was still more surprised, for offers of services were rare with Harold.

"Thank you, again," she said, "but Luke was here this morning, and I gave him two or three commissions."

"Perhaps you would like me to read to you, Aunt Eliza."

"Thank you, but I am a little afraid it wouldn't be a good thing for my head. How are you getting on at school, Harold?"

"Pretty well."

"You don't want to go to college?"

"No. I think I would rather be a business man."

"Well, you know your own tastes best."

"Aunt Eliza," said Harold, after a pause, "I want to ask a favor of you."

"Speak out, Harold."

"Won't you be kind enough to give me ten dollars?"

"Ten dollars," repeated the old lady, eying Harold closely. "Why do you want ten dollars?"

"You see, mother keeps me very close. All the fellows have more money to spend than I."

"How much does your mother give you as an allowance?"

"Two dollars a week."

"It seems to me that is liberal, considering that you don't have to pay for your board or clothes."

"A boy in my position is expected to spend money."

"Who expects it?"

"Why, everybody."

"By the way, what is your position?" asked the old lady, pointedly.

"Why," said Harold, uneasily, "I am supposed to be rich, as I live in a nice neighborhood on a fashionable street."

"That doesn't make you rich, does it?"

"No," answered Harold, with hesitation.

"You don't feel absolutely obliged to spend more than your allowance, do you?"

"Well, you see, the fellows think I am mean if I don't. There's Ben Clark has an allowance of five dollars a week, and he is three months younger than I am."

"Then I think his parents or guardians are very unwise. How does he spend his liberal allowance?"

"Oh, he has a good time."

"I am afraid it isn't the sort of good time I would approve."

"Luke has more money than I have, and he is only a newsboy," grumbled Harold.

"How do you know?"

"I notice he always has money."

"I doubt whether he spends half a dollar a week on his own amusement. He has a mother and young brother to support."

"He says so!"

"So you doubt it?"

"It may be true."

"If you find it isn't true you can let me know."

"I am sorry that you think so much more of Luke than of me," complained Harold.

"How do you know I do?"

"Mother thinks so as well as I."

"Suppose we leave Luke out of consideration. I shall think as much of you as you deserve."

Harold rose from his seat.

"As you have no errand for me, Aunt Eliza, I will go," he said.

Mrs. Merton unlocked a drawer in a work table, took out a pocketbook, and extracted therefrom a ten-dollar-bill.

"You have asked me a favor, and I will grant it—for once," she said. "Here are ten dollars."

"Thank you," said Harold, joyfully.

"I won't even ask how you propose to spend it. I thought of doing so, but it would imply distrust, and for this occasion I won't show any."

"You are very kind, Aunt Eliza."

"I am glad you think so. You are welcome to the money."

Harold left the room in high spirits. He decided not to let his mother know that he had received so large a sum, as she might inquire to what use he intended to put it; and some of his expenditures, he felt pretty sure, would not be approved by her.

He left the house, and going downtown, joined a couple of friends of his own stamp. They adjourned to a billiard saloon, and between billiards, bets upon the game, and drinks, Harold managed to spend three dollars before suppertime.

Three days later the entire sum given him by his aunt was gone.

When Harold made the discovery, he sighed. His dream was over. It had been pleasant as long as it lasted, but it was over too soon.

"Now I must go back to my mean allowance," he said to himself, in a discontented tone. "Aunt Eliza might give me ten dollars every week just as well as not. She is positively rolling in wealth, while I have to grub along like a newsboy. Why, that fellow Luke has a great deal more money than I."

A little conversation which he had with his Uncle Warner made his discontent more intense.

"Hello, Harold, what makes you look so blue?" he asked one day.

"Because I haven't got any money," answered Harold.

"Doesn't your mother or Aunt Eliza give you any?"

"I get a little, but it isn't as much as the other fellows get."

"How much?"

"Two dollars a week."

"It is more than I had when I was of your age."

"That doesn't make it any better."

"Aunt Eliza isn't exactly lavish; still, she pays Luke Walton generously."

"Do you know how much he gets a week?" asked Harold, eagerly.

"Ten dollars."

"Ten dollars!" ejaculated Harold. "You don't really mean it."

"Yes, I do. I saw her pay him that sum yesterday. I asked her if it wasn't liberal. She admitted it, but said he had a mother and brother to support."

"It's a shame!" cried Harold, passionately.

"Why is it? The money is her own, isn't it?"

"She ought not to treat a stranger better than her own nephew."

"That means me, I judge," said Warner, smiling. "Well, there isn't anything we can do about it, is there?"

"No, I don't know as there is," replied Harold, slowly.

But he thought over what his uncle had told him, and it made him very bitter. He brooded over it till it seemed to him as if it were a great outrage. He felt that he was treated with the greatest injustice. He was incensed with his aunt, but still more so with Luke Walton, whom he looked upon as an artful adventurer.

It was while he was cherishing these feelings that a great temptation came to him. He found, one day in the street, a bunch of keys of various sizes attached to a small steel ring. He picked it up, and quick as a flash there came to him the thought of the drawer in his aunt's work table, from which he had seen her take out the morocco pocketbook. He had observed that the ten-dollar bill she gave him was only one out of a large roll, and his cupidity was aroused. He rapidly concocted a scheme by which he would be enabled to provide himself with money, and throw suspicion upon Luke.



CHAPTER XXIX

HAROLD'S THEFT

The next morning, Mrs. Merton, escorted by Luke, went to make some purchases in the city. Mrs. Tracy went out, also, having an engagement with one of her friends living on Cottage Grove Avenue. Harold went out directly after breakfast, but returned at half-past ten. He went upstairs and satisfied himself that except the servants, he was alone in the house.

"The coast is clear," he said, joyfully. "Now if the key only fits."

He went to his aunt's sitting room, and, not anticipating any interruption, directed his steps a once to the small table, from a drawer in which he had seen Mrs. Merton take the morocco pocketbook. He tried one key after another, and finally succeeded in opening the drawer. He drew it out with nervous anxiety, fearing that the pocket-book might have been removed, in which case all his work would have been thrown away.

But no! Fortune favored him this time, if it can be called a favor. There, in plain sight, was the morocco pocketbook. Harold, pale with excitement, seized and opened it. His eyes glistened as he saw that it was well filled. He took out the roll of bills, and counted them. There were five ten-dollar bills and three fives—sixty-five dollars in all. There would have been more, but Mrs. Merton, before going out, had taken four fives, which she intended to use.

It was Harold's first theft, and he trembled with agitation as he thrust the pocketbook into his pocket. He would have trembled still more if he had known that his mother's confidential maid and seamstress, Felicie Lacouvreur, had seen everything through the crevice formed by the half-open door.

Felicie smiled to herself as she moved noiselessly away from her post of concealment.

"Master Harold is trying a dangerous experiment," she said to herself. "Now he is in my power. He has been insolent to me more than once, as if he were made of superior clay, but Felicie, though only a poor servant, is not, thank Heaven, a thief, as he is. It is a very interesting drama. I shall wait patiently till it is quite played out."

In his hurry, Harold came near leaving the room with the table drawer open. But he bethought himself in time, went back, and locked it securely. It was like shutting the stable door after the horse was stolen. Then, with the stolen money in his possession, he left the house. He did not wish to be found at home when his aunt returned.

Harold had sixty-five dollars in his pocket—an amount quite beyond what he had ever before had at his disposal—but it must be admitted that he did not feel as happy as he had expected. If he had come by it honestly—if, for instance, it had been given him—his heart would have beat high with exultation, but as it was, he walked along with clouded brow. Presently he ran across one of his friends, who noticed his discomposure.

"What's the matter, Harold?" he asked. "You are in the dumps."

"Oh, no," answered Harold, forcing himself to assume a more cheerful aspect. "I have no reason to feel blue."

"You are only acting, then? I must congratulate you on your success. You look for all the world like the Knight of the Sorrowful Countenance."

"Who is he?" asked Harold, who was not literary.

"Don Quixote. Did you never hear of him?"

"No."

"Then your education has been neglected. What are you going to do to-day?"

"I don't know."

"Suppose we visit a dime museum?"

"All right."

"That is, if you have any money. I am high and dry."

"Yes, I have some money."

They went to a dime museum on Clark Street.

Harold surprised his companion by paying for the two tickets out of a five-dollar bill.

"You're flush, Harold," said his friend. "Has anybody left you a fortune?"

"No," answered Harold, uneasily. "I've been saving up money lately."

"You have? Why, I've heard of your being at theaters, playing billiards, and so on."

"Look here, Robert Greve, I don't see why you need trouble yourself so much about where I get my money."

"Don't be cranky, Harold," said Robert, good-humoredly, "I won't say another word. Only I am glad to find my friends in a healthy financial condition. I only wish I could say the same of myself."

There happened to be a matinee at the Grand Opera House, and Harold proposed going. First, however, they took a nice lunch at Brockway & Milan's, a mammoth restaurant on Clark Street, Harold paying the bill.

As they came out of the theater, Luke Walton chanced to pass.

"Good-afternoon, Harold," he said.

Harold tossed his head, but did not reply.

"Who is that boy—one of your acquaintances?" asked Robert Greve.

"He works for my aunt," answered Harold. "It is like his impudence to speak to me."

"Why shouldn't he speak to you, if you know him?" said Robert Greve, who did not share Harold's foolish pride.

"He appears to think he is my equal," continued Harold.

"He seems a nice boy."

"You don't know him as I do. He is a common newsboy."

"Suppose he is; that doesn't hurt him, does it?"

"You don't know what I mean. You don't think a common newsboy fit to associate with on equal terms, do you?"

Robert Greve laughed.

"You are too high-toned, Harold," he said. "If he is a nice boy, I don't care what sort of business a friend of mine follows."

"Well, I do," snapped Harold, "and so does my mother. I don't believe in being friends with the ragtag and bobtail of society."

Luke Walton did not allow his feelings to be hurt by the decided rebuff he had received from Harold.

"I owe it to myself to act like a gentleman," he reflected. "If Harold doesn't choose to be polite, it is his lookout, not mine. He looks down upon me because I am a working boy. I don't mean always to be a newsboy or an errand boy. I shall work my way upwards as fast as I can, and, in time, I may come to fill a good place in society."

It will be seen that Luke was ambitious. He looked above and beyond the present, and determined to improve his social condition.

It was six o'clock when Harold ascended the steps of the mansion on Prairie Avenue. He had devoted the day to amusement, but had derived very little pleasure from the money he had expended. He had very little left of the five-dollar bill which he had first changed at the dime museum. It was not easy to say where his money had gone, but it had melted away, in one shape or another.

"I wonder whether Aunt Eliza has discovered her loss," thought Harold. "I hope I shan't show any signs of nervousness when I meet her. I don't see how she can possibly suspect me. If anything is said about the lost pocketbook, I will try to throw suspicion on Luke Walton."

Harold did not stop to think how mean this would be. Self-preservation, it has been said, is the first law of nature, and self-preservation required that he should avert suspicion from himself by any means in his power. He went into the house whistling, as if to show that his mind was quite free from care.

In the hall he met Felicie.

"What do you think has happened, Master Harold?" asked the French maid.

"I don't know, I'm sure."

"Your aunt has been robbed. Some money has been taken from her room."



CHAPTER XXX

LUKE WALTON IS SUSPECTED OF THEFT

Harold was prepared for the announcement, as he felt confident his aunt would soon discover her loss, but he felt a little nervous, nevertheless.

"You don't mean it?" he ejaculated, in well-counterfeited, surprise.

"It's a fact."

"When did Aunt Eliza discover her loss, Felicie?"

"As soon as she got home. She went to her drawer to put back some money she had on hand, and found the pocketbook gone."

"Was there much money in it?"

"She doesn't say how much."

"Well," said Harold, thinking it time to carry on the programme he had determined upon, "I can't say I am surprised."