"What are you doing there, Mrs. Mudge?" she said, sternly.

Mrs. Mudge rose from her knees in confusion. Even she had the grace to be ashamed of her conduct.

"Put down that letter," said the old lady in an authoritative voice quite new to her.

Mrs. Mudge, who had not yet collected her scattered senses, did as she was requested.

Aunt Lucy walked hastily to the chest, and closed it, first securing the letter, which she put in her pocket.

"I hope it will be safe, now," she said, rather contemptuously. "Ain't you ashamed of yourself, Mrs. Mudge?"

"Ashamed of myself!" shrieked that amiable lady, indignant with herself for having quailed for a moment before the old lady.

"What do you mean—you—you pauper?"

"I may be a pauper," said Aunt Lucy, calmly, "But I am thankful to say that I mind my own business, and don't meddle with other people's chests."

A red spot glowed on either cheek of Mrs. Mudge. She was trying hard to find some vantage-ground over the old lady.

"Do you mean to say that I don't mind my business?" she blustered, folding her arms defiantly.

"What were you at my trunk for?" said the old lady, significantly.

"Because it was my duty," was the brazen reply.

Mrs. Mudge had rapidly determined upon her line of defense, and thought it best to carry the war into the enemy's country.

"Yes, I felt sure that your letter was from Paul Prescott, and as he ran away from my husband and me, who were his lawful guardians, it was my duty to take that means of finding out where he is. I knew that you were in league with him, and would do all you could to screen him. This is why I went to your chest, and I would do it again, if necessary."

"Perhaps you have been before," said Aunt Lucy, scornfully. "I think I understand, now, why you were unwilling to give me another key. Fortunately there has been nothing there until now to reward your search."

"You impudent trollop!" shrieked Mrs. Mudge, furiously.

Her anger was the greater, because Aunt Lucy was entirely correct in her supposition that this was not the first visit her landlady had made to the little green chest.

"I'll give Paul the worst whipping he ever had, when I get him back," said Mrs. Mudge, angrily.

"He is beyond your reach, thank Providence," said Aunt Lucy, whose equanimity was not disturbed by this menace, which she knew to be an idle one. "That is enough for you to know. I will take care that you never have another chance to see this letter. And if you ever go to my chest again"—

"Well, ma'am, what then?"

"I shall appeal for protection to 'Squire Newcome."

"Hoity, toity," said Mrs. Mudge, but she was a little alarmed, nevertheless, as such an appeal would probably be prejudicial to her interest.

So from time to time Aunt Lucy received, through Ben, letters from Paul, which kept her acquainted with his progress at school. These letters were very precious to the old lady, and she read them over many times. They formed a bright link of interest which bound her to the outside world, and enabled her to bear up with greater cheerfulness against the tyranny of Mrs. Mudge.



XX.

PAUL OBTAINS A SITUATION.

The month after Paul Prescott succeeded in reaching the head of his class, George Dawkins exerted himself to rise above him. He studied better than usual, and proved in truth a formidable rival. But Paul's spirit was roused. He resolved to maintain his position if possible. He had now become accustomed to study, and it cost him less effort. When the end of the month came, there was considerable speculation in the minds of the boys as to the result of the rivalry. The majority had faith in Paul, but there were some who, remembering how long Dawkins had been at the head of the class, thought he would easily regain his lost rank.

The eventful day, the first of the month, at length came, and the class-list was read.

Paul Prescott ranked first.

George Dawkins ranked second.

A flush spread over the pale face of Dawkins, and he darted a malignant glance at Paul, who was naturally pleased at having retained his rank.

Dawkins had his satellites. One of these came to him at recess, and expressed his regret that Dawkins had failed of success.

Dawkins repelled the sympathy with cold disdain.

"What do you suppose I care for the head of the class?" he demanded, haughtily.

"I thought you had been studying for it."

"Then you thought wrong. Let the sexton's son have it, if he wants it. It would be of no use to me, as I leave this school at the end of the week."

"Leave school!"

The boys gathered about Dawkins, curiously.

"Is it really so, Dawkins?" they inquired.

"Yes," said Dawkins, with an air of importance; "I shall go to a private school, where the advantages are greater than here. My father does not wish me to attend a public school any longer."

This statement was made on the spur of the moment, to cover the mortification which his defeat had occasioned him. It proved true, however. On his return home, Dawkins succeeded in persuading his father to transfer him to a private school, and he took away his books at the end of the week. Had he recovered his lost rank there is no doubt that he would have remained.

Truth to tell, there were few who mourned much for the departure of George Dawkins. He had never been a favorite. His imperious temper and arrogance rendered this impossible.

After he left school, Paul saw little of him for two or three years. At their first encounter Paul bowed and spoke pleasantly, but Dawkins looked superciliously at him without appearing to know him.

Paul's face flushed proudly, and afterwards he abstained from making advances which were likely to be repulsed. He had too much self-respect to submit voluntarily to such slights.

Meanwhile Paul's school life fled rapidly. It was a happy time,—happy in its freedom from care, and happy for him, though all school boys do not appreciate that consideration, in the opportunities for improvement which it afforded. These opportunities, it is only just to Paul to say, were fully improved. He left school with an enviable reputation, and with the good wishes of his schoolmates and teachers.

Paul was now sixteen years old, a stout, handsome boy, with a frank, open countenance, and a general air of health which formed quite a contrast to the appearance he presented when he left the hospitable mansion which Mr. Nicholas Mudge kept open at the public expense.

Paul was now very desirous of procuring a situation. He felt that it was time he was doing something for himself. He was ambitious to relieve the kind sexton and his wife of some portion, at least, of the burden of his support.

Besides, there was the legacy of debt which his father had bequeathed him. Never for a moment had Paul forgotten it. Never for a moment had he faltered in his determination to liquidate it at whatever sacrifice to himself.

"My father's name shall be cleared," he said to himself, proudly. "Neither Squire Conant nor any one else shall have it in his power to cast reproach upon his memory."

The sexton applauded his purpose.

"You are quite right, Paul," he said. "But you need not feel in haste. Obtain your education first, and the money will come by-and-by. As long as you repay the amount, principal and interest, you will have done all that you are in honor bound to do. Squire Conant, as I understand from you, is a rich man, so that he will experience no hardship in waiting."

Paul was now solicitous about a place. The sexton had little influence, so that he must depend mainly upon his own inquiries.

He went into the reading-room of the Astor House every day to look over the advertised wants in the daily papers. Every day he noted down some addresses, and presented himself as an applicant for a position. Generally, however, he found that some one else had been before him.

One day his attention was drawn to the following advertisement.

"WANTED. A smart, active, wide-awake boy, of sixteen or seventeen, in a retail dry-goods store. Apply immediately at—Broadway."

Paul walked up to the address mentioned. Over the door he read, "Smith & Thompson." This, then, was the firm that had advertised.

The store ran back some distance. There appeared to be six or eight clerks in attendance upon quite a respectable number of customers.

"Is Mr. Smith in?" inquired Paul, of the nearest clerk.

"You'll find him at the lower end of the store. How many yards, ma'am?"

This last was of course addressed to a customer.

Paul made his way, as directed, to the lower end of the store.

A short, wiry, nervous man was writing at a desk.

"Is Mr. Smith in?" asked Paul.

"My name; what can I do for you?" said the short man, crisply.

"I saw an advertisement in the Tribune for a boy."

"And you have applied for the situation?" said Mr. Smith.

"Yes, sir."

"How old are you?" with a rapid glance at our hero.

"Sixteen—nearly seventeen."

"I suppose that means that you will be seventeen in eleven months and a half."

"No, sir," said Paul, "I shall be seventeen in three months."

"All right. Most boys call themselves a year older. What's your name?"

"Paul Prescott."

"P. P. Any relation to Fanny Fern?"

"No, sir," said Paul, rather astonished.

"Didn't know but you might be. P. P. and F. F. Where do you live?"

Paul mentioned the street and number.

"That's well, you are near by," said Mr. Smith. "Now, are you afraid of work?"

"No sir," said Paul, smiling, "not much."

"Well, that's important; how much wages do you expect?"

"I suppose," said Paul, hesitating, "I couldn't expect very much at first."

"Of course not; green, you know. What do you say to a dollar a week?"

"A dollar a week!" exclaimed Paul, in dismay, "I hoped to get enough to pay for my board."

"Nonsense. There are plenty of boys glad enough to come for a dollar a week. At first, you know. But I'll stretch a point with you, and offer you a dollar and a quarter. What do you say?"

"How soon could I expect to have my wages advanced?" inquired our hero, with considerable anxiety.

"Well," said Smith, "at the end of a month or two."

"I'll go home and speak to my uncle about it," said Paul, feeling undecided.

"Can't keep the place open for you. Ah, there's another boy at the door."

"I'll accept," said Paul, jumping to a decision. He had applied in so many different quarters without success, that he could not make up his mind to throw away this chance, poor as it seemed.

"When shall I come?"

"Come to-morrow."

"At what time, sir?"

"At seven o'clock."

This seemed rather early. However, Paul was prepared to expect some discomforts, and signified that he would come.

As he turned to go away, another boy passed him, probably bent on the same errand with himself.

Paul hardly knew whether to feel glad or sorry. He had expected at least three dollars a week, and the descent to a dollar and a quarter was rather disheartening. Still, he was encouraged by the promise of a rise at the end of a month or two,—so on the whole he went home cheerful.

"Well, Paul, what luck to-day?" asked Mr. Cameron, who had just got home as Paul entered.

"I've got a place, Uncle Hugh."

"You have,—where?"

"With Smith & Thompson, No.—Broadway."

"What sort of a store? I don't remember the name."

"It is a retail dry-goods store."

"Did you like the looks of your future employer?"

"I don't know," said Paul, hesitating, "He looked as if he might be a pretty sharp man in business, but I have seen others that I would rather work for. However, beggars mustn't be choosers. But there was one thing I was disappointed about."

"What was that, Paul?"

"About the wages."

"How much will they give you?"

"Only a dollar and a quarter a week, at first."

"That is small, to be sure."

"The most I think of, Uncle Hugh, is, that I shall still be an expense to you. I hoped to get enough to be able to pay my board from the first."

"My dear boy," said the sexton, kindly, "don't trouble yourself on that score. It costs little more for three than for two, and the little I expend on your account is richly made up by the satisfaction we feel in your society, and your good conduct."

"You say that to encourage me, Uncle Hugh," said Paul. "You have done all for me. I have done nothing for you."

"No, Paul, I spoke the truth. Hester and I have both been happier since you came to us. We hope you will long remain with us. You are already as dear to us as the son that we lost."

"Thank you, Uncle Hugh," said Paul, in a voice tremulous with feeling. "I will do all I can to deserve your kindness."



XXI.

SMITH AND THOMPSON'S YOUNG MAN.

At seven o'clock the next morning Paul stood before Smith & Thompson's store.

As he came up on one side, another boy came down on the other, and crossed the street.

"Are you the new boy?" he asked, surveying Paul attentively.

"I suppose so," said Paul. "I've engaged to work for Smith & Thompson."

"All right. I'm glad to see you," said the other.

This looked kind, and Paul thanked him for his welcome.

"O." said the other, bursting into a laugh, "you needn't trouble yourself about thanking me. I'm glad you've come, because now I shan't have to open the store and sweep out. Just lend a hand there; I'll help you about taking down the shutters this morning, and to-morrow you'll have to get along alone."

The two boys opened the store.

"What's your name?" asked Paul's new acquaintance.

"Paul Prescott. What is yours?"

"Nicholas Benton. You may call me MR. Benton."

"Mr. Benton?" repeated Paul in some astonishment.

"Yes; I'm a young man now. I've been Smith & Thompson's boy till now. Now I'm promoted."

Paul looked at MR. Benton with some amusement. That young man was somewhat shorter than himself, and sole proprietor of a stock of pale yellow hair which required an abundant stock of bear's grease to keep it in order. His face was freckled and expressionless. His eyebrows and eyelashes were of the same faded color. He was dressed, however, with some pretensions to smartness. He wore a blue necktie, of large dimensions, fastened by an enormous breast-pin, which, in its already tarnished splendor, suggested strong doubts as to the apparent gold being genuine.

"There's the broom, Paul," said Mr. Benton, assuming a graceful position on the counter.

"You'll have to sweep out; only look sharp about raising a dust, or Smith'll be into your wool."

"What sort of a man is Mr. Smith?" asked Paul, with some curiosity.

"O, he's an out and outer. Sharp as a steel trap. He'll make you toe the mark."

"Do you like him?" asked Paul, not quite sure whether he understood his employer's character from the description.

"I don't like him well enough to advise any of my folks to trade with him," said Mr. Benton.

"Why not?"

"He'd cheat 'em out of their eye teeth if they happened to have any," said the young man coolly, beginning to pick his teeth with a knife.

Paul began to doubt whether he should like Mr. Smith.

"I say," said Mr. Benton after a pause, "have you begun to shave yet?"

Paul looked up to see if his companion were in earnest.

"No," said he; "I haven't got along as far as that. Have you?"

"I," repeated the young man, a little contemptuously, "of course I have. I've shaved for a year and a half."

"Do you find it hard shaving?" asked Paul, a little slyly.

"Well, my beard is rather stiff," said the late BOY, with an important air, "but I've got used to it."

"Ain't you rather young to shave, Nicholas?" asked Paul.

"Mr. Benton, if you please."

"I mean, Mr. Benton."

"Perhaps I was when I begun. But now I am nineteen."

"Nineteen?"

"Yes, that is to say, I'm within a few months of being nineteen. What do you think of my moustache?"

"I hadn't noticed it."

"The store's rather dark," muttered Mr. Benton, who seemed a little annoyed by this answer. "If you'll come a little nearer you can see it."

Drawing near, Paul, after some trouble, descried a few scattering hairs.

"Yes," said he, wanting to laugh, "I see it."

"Coming on finely, isn't it?" asked Mr. Nicholas Benton, complacently.

"Yes," said Paul, rather doubtfully.

"I don't mind letting you into a secret," said Benton, affably, "if you won't mention it. I've been using some of the six weeks' stuff."

"The what?" asked Paul, opening his eyes.

"Haven't you heard of it?" inquired Benton, a little contemptuously. "Where have you been living all your life? Haven't you seen it advertised,—warranted to produce a full set of whiskers or moustaches upon the smoothest face, etc. I got some a week ago, only a dollar. Five weeks from now you'll see something that'll astonish you."

Paul was not a little amused by his new companion, and would have laughed, but that he feared to offend him.

"You'd better get some," said Mr. Benton. "I'll let you just try mine once, if you want to."

"Thank you," said Paul; "I don't think I want to have a moustache just yet."

"Well, perhaps you're right. Being a boy, perhaps it wouldn't be advisable."

"When does Mr. Smith come in?"

"Not till nine."

"And the other clerks?"

"About eight o'clock. I shan't come till eight, to-morrow morning."

"There's one thing I should like to ask you," said Paul. "Of course you won't answer unless you like."

"Out with it."

"How much does Mr. Smith pay you?"

"Ahem!" said Benton, "what does he pay you?"

"A dollar and a quarter a week."

"He paid me a dollar and a half to begin with."

"Did he? He wanted me to come first at a dollar."

"Just like him. Didn't I tell you he was an out and outer? He'll be sure to take you in if you will let him."

"But," said Paul, anxiously, "he said he'd raise it in a month or two."

"He won't offer to; you'll have to tease him. And then how much'll he raise it? Not more than a quarter. How much do you think I get now?"

"How long have you been here?"

"A year and a half."

"Five dollars a week," guessed Paul.

"Five! he only gives me two and a half. That is, he hasn't been paying me but that. Now, of course, he'll raise, as I've been promoted."

"How much do you expect to get now?"

"Maybe four dollars, and I'm worth ten any day. He's a mean old skinflint, Smith is."

This glimpse at his own prospects did not tend to make Paul feel very comfortable. He could not repress a sigh of disappointment when he thought of this mortifying termination of all his brilliant prospects. He had long nourished the hope of being able to repay the good sexton for his outlay in his behalf, besides discharging the debt which his father had left behind him. Now there seemed to be little prospect of either. He had half a mind to resign his place immediately upon the entrance of Mr. Smith, but two considerations dissuaded him; one, that the sum which he was to receive, though small, would at least buy his clothes, and besides, he was not at all certain of obtaining another situation.

With a sigh, therefore, he went about his duties.

He had scarcely got the store ready when some of the clerks entered, and the business of the day commenced. At nine Mr. Smith appeared.

"So you're here, Peter," remarked he, as he caught sight of our hero.

"Paul," corrected the owner of that name.

"Well, well, Peter or Paul, don't make much difference. Both were apostles, if I remember right. All ready for work, eh?"

"Yes, sir," said Paul, neither very briskly nor cheerfully.

"Well," said Mr. Smith, after a pause, "I guess I'll put you into the calico department. Williams, you may take him under your wing. And now Peter,—all the same, Paul,—I've got a word or two to say to you, as I always do to every boy who comes into my store. Don't forget what you're here for? It's to sell goods. Take care to sell something to every man, woman, and child, that comes in your way. That's the way to do business. Follow it up, and you'll be a rich man some day."

"But suppose they don't want anything?" said Paul.

"Make 'em want something," returned Smith, "Don't let 'em off without buying. That's my motto. However, you'll learn."

Smith bustled off, and began in his nervous way to exercise a general supervision over all that was going on in the store. He seemed to be all eyes. While apparently entirely occupied in waiting upon a customer, he took notice of all the customers in the store, and could tell what they bought, and how much they paid.

Paul listened attentively to the clerk under whom he was placed for instruction.

"What's the price of this calico?" inquired a common-looking woman.

"A shilling a yard, ma'am," (this was not in war times.)

"It looks rather coarse."

"Coarse, ma'am! What can you be thinking of? It is a superfine piece of goods. We sell more of it than of any other figure. The mayor's wife was in here yesterday, and bought two dress patterns off of it."

"Did she?" asked the woman, who appeared favorably impressed by this circumstance.

"Yes, and she promised to send her friends here after some of it. You'd better take it while you can get it."

"Will it wash?"

"To be sure it will."

"Then I guess you may cut me off ten yards."

This was quickly done, and the woman departed with her purchase.

Five minutes later, another woman entered with a bundle of the same figured calico.

Seeing her coming, Williams hastily slipped the remnant of the piece out of sight.

"I got this calico here," said the newcomer, "one day last week. You warranted it to wash, but I find it won't. Here's a piece I've tried."

She showed a pattern, which had a faded look.

"You've come to the wrong store," said Williams, coolly. "You must have got the calico somewhere else."

"No, I'm sure I got it here. I remember particularly buying it of you."

"You've got a better memory than I have, then. We haven't got a piece of calico like that in the store."

Paul listened to this assertion with unutterable surprise.

"I am quite certain I bought it here," said the woman, perplexed.

"Must have been the next store,—Blake & Hastings. Better go over there."

The woman went out.

"That's the way to do business," said Williams, winking at Paul.

Paul said nothing, but he felt more than ever doubtful about retaining his place.



XXII.

MR. BENTON'S ADVENTURE.

One evening, about a fortnight after his entrance into Smith & Thompson's employment, Paul was putting up the shutters, the business of the day being over. It devolved upon him to open and close the store, and usually he was the last one to go home.

This evening, however, Mr. Nicholas Benton graciously remained behind and assisted Paul in closing the store. This was unusual, and surprised Paul a little. It was soon explained, however.

"Good-night, Nicholas,—I mean, Mr. Benton," said Paul.

"Not quite yet. I want you to walk a little way with me this evening."

Paul hesitated.

"Come, no backing out. I want to confide to you a very important secret."

He looked so mysterious that Paul's curiosity was aroused, and reflecting that it was yet early, he took his companion's proffered arm, and sauntered along by his side.

"What's the secret?" he asked at length, perceiving that Nicholas was silent.

"Wait till we get to a more retired place."

He turned out of Broadway into a side street, where the passers were less numerous.

"I don't think you could guess," said the young man, turning towards our hero.

"I don't think I could."

"And yet," continued Benton, meditatively, "it is possible that you may have noticed something in my appearance just a little unusual, within the last week. Haven't you, now?"

Paul could not say that he had.

Mr. Benton looked a little disappointed.

"Nobody can tell what has been the state of my feelings," he resumed after a pause.

"You ain't sick?" questioned Paul, hastily.

"Nothing of the sort, only my appetite has been a good deal affected. I don't think I have eaten as much in a week as you would in a day," he added, complacently.

"If I felt that way I should think I was going to be sick," said Paul.

"I'll let you into the secret," said Mr. Benton, lowering his voice, and looking carefully about him, to make sure that no one was within hearing distance—"I'M IN LOVE."

This seemed so utterly ludicrous to Paul, that he came very near losing Mr. Benton's friendship forever by bursting into a hearty laugh.

"I didn't think of that," he said.

"It's taken away my appetite, and I haven't been able to sleep nights," continued Mr. Benton, in a cheerful tone. "I feel just as Howard Courtenay did in the great story that's coming out in the Weekly Budget. You've read it, haven't you?"

"I don't think I have," said Paul.

"Then you ought to. It's tiptop. It's rather curious too that the lady looks just as Miranda does, in the same story."

"How is that?"

"Wait a minute, and I'll read the description."

Mr. Benton pulled a paper from his pocket,—the last copy of the Weekly Budget,—and by the light of a street lamp read the following extract to his amused auditor.

"Miranda was just eighteen. Her form was queenly and majestic. Tall and stately, she moved among her handmaidens with a dignity which revealed her superior rank. Her eyes were dark as night. Her luxuriant tresses,—there, the rest is torn off," said Mr. Benton, in a tone of vexation.

"She is tall, then?" said Paul.

"Yes, just like Miranda."

"Then," said our hero, in some hesitation, "I should think she would not be very well suited to you."

"Why not?" asked Mr. Benton, quickly.

"Because," said Paul, "you're rather short, you know."

"I'm about the medium height," said Mr. Benton, raising himself upon his toes as he spoke.

"Not quite," said Paul, trying not to laugh.

"I'm as tall as Mr. Smith," resumed Mr. Benton, in a tone which warned Paul that this was a forbidden subject. "But you don't ask me who she is."

"I didn't know as you would be willing to tell."

"I shan't tell any one but you. It's Miss Hawkins,—firm of Hawkins & Brewer. That is, her father belongs to the firm, not she. And Paul," here he clutched our hero's arm convulsively, "I've made a declaration of my love, and—and——"

"Well?"

"She has answered my letter."

"Has she?" asked Paul with some curiosity, "What did she say?"

"She has written me to be under her window this evening."

"Why under her window? why didn't she write you to call?"

"Probably she will, but it's more romantic to say, 'be under my window.'"

"Well, perhaps it is; only you know I don't know much about such things."

"Of course not, Paul," said Mr. Benton; "you're only a boy, you know."

"Are you going to be under her window, Nich,—I mean Mr. Benton?"

"Of course. Do you think I would miss the appointment? No earthly power could prevent my doing it."

"Then I had better leave you," said Paul, making a movement to go.

"No, I want you to accompany me as far as the door. I feel—a little agitated. I suppose everybody does when they are in love," added Mr. Benton, complacently.

"Well," said Paul, "I will see you to the door, but I can't stay, for they will wonder at home what has become of me."

"All right."

"Are we anywhere near the house?"

"Yes, it's only in the next street," said Mr. Benton, "O, Paul, how my heart beats! You can't imagine how I feel!"

Mr. Benton gasped for breath, and looked as if he had swallowed a fish bone, which he had some difficulty in getting down.

"You'll know how to understand my feelings sometime, Paul," said Mr. Benton; "when your time comes, I will remember your service of to-night, and I will stand by you."

Paul inwardly hoped that he should never fall in love, if it was likely to affect him in the same way as his companion, but he thought it best not to say so.

By this time they had come in sight of a three-story brick house, with Benjamin Hawkins on the door-plate.

"That's the house," said Mr. Benton, in an agitated whisper.

"Is it?"

"Yes, and that window on the left-hand side is the window of her chamber."

"How do you know?"

"She told me in the letter."

"And where are you to stand?"

"Just underneath, as the clock strikes nine. It must be about the time."

At that moment the city clock struck nine.

Mr. Benton left Paul, and crossing the street, took up his position beneath the window of his charmer, beginning to sing, in a thin, piping voice, as preconcerted between them—

"Ever of thee, I'm fo-o-ondly dreaming."

The song was destined never to be finished.

From his post in a doorway opposite, Paul saw the window softly open. He could distinguish a tall female figure, doubtless Miss Hawkins herself. She held in her hand a pitcher of water, which she emptied with well-directed aim full upon the small person of her luckless admirer.

The falling column struck upon his beaver, thence spreading on all sides. His carefully starched collar became instantly as limp as a rag, while his coat suffered severely from the shower.

His tuneful accents died away in dismay.

"Ow!" he exclaimed, jumping at least a yard, and involuntarily shaking himself like a dog, "who did that?"

There was no answer save a low, musical laugh from the window above, which was involuntarily echoed by Paul.

"What do you mean by laughing at me?" demanded Mr. Benton, smarting with mortification, as he strode across the street, trying to dry his hat with the help of his handkerchief, "Is this what you call friendship?"

"Excuse me," gasped Paul, "but I really couldn't help it."

"I don't see anything to laugh at," continued Mr. Benton, in a resentful tone; "because I have been subjected to unmanly persecution, you must laugh at me, instead of extending to me the sympathy of a friend."

"I suppose you won't think of her any more," said Paul, recovering himself.

"Think of her!" exclaimed Mr. Benton, "would you have me tear her from my heart, because her mercenary parent chooses to frown upon our love, and follow me with base persecution."

"Her parent!"

"Yes, it was he who threw the water upon me. But it shall not avail," the young man continued, folding his arms, and speaking in a tone of resolution, "bolts and bars shall not keep two loving hearts asunder."

"But it wasn't her father," urged Paul, perceiving that Mr. Benton was under a mistake.

"Who was it, then?"

"It was the young lady herself."

"Who threw the water upon me? It is a base slander."

"But I saw her."

"Saw who?"

"A tall young lady with black hair."

"And was it she who threw the water?" asked Mr. Benton, aghast at this unexpected revelation.

"Yes."

"Then she did it at the command of her proud parent."

Paul did not dispute this, since it seemed to comfort Mr. Benton. It is doubtful, however, whether the young man believed it himself, since he straightway fell into a fit of gloomy abstraction, and made no response when Paul bade him "good-night."



XXIII.

PAUL LOSES HIS SITUATION AND GAINS A FRIEND.

Paul had a presentiment that he should not long remain in the employ of Smith & Thompson; it was not many weeks before this presentiment was verified.

After having received such instruction as was necessary, the calico department was left in Paul's charge. One day a customer in turning over the patterns shown her took up a piece which Paul knew from complaints made by purchasers would not wash.

"This is pretty," said she, "it is just what I have been looking for. You may cut me off twelve yards."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Wait a minute, though," interposed the lady, "will it wash?"

"I don't think it will," said Paul, frankly, "there have been some complaints made about that."

"Then I shall not want it. Let me see what else you have got."

The customer finally departed, having found nothing to suit her.

No sooner had she left the store than Mr. Smith called Paul.

"Well, did you sell that lady anything?"

"No, sir."

"And why not?" demanded Smith, harshly.

"Because she did not like any of the pieces."

"Wouldn't she have ordered a dress pattern if you had not told her the calico would not wash?"

"Yes, sir, I suppose so," said Paul, preparing for a storm.

"Then why did you tell her?" demanded his employer, angrily.

"Because she asked me."

"Couldn't you have told her that it would wash?"

"That would not have been the truth," said Paul, sturdily.

"You're a mighty conscientious young man," sneered Smith, "You're altogether too pious to succeed in business. I discharge you from my employment."

"Very well, sir," said Paul, his heart sinking, but keeping up a brave exterior, "then I have only to bid you good-morning."

"Good-morning, sir," said his employer with mock deference, "I advise you to study for the ministry, and no longer waste your talents in selling calico."

Paul made no reply, but putting on his cap walked out of the store. It was the middle of the week, and Mr. Smith was, of course, owing him a small sum for his services; but Paul was too proud to ask for his money, which that gentleman did not see fit to volunteer.

"I am sure I have done right," thought Paul. "I had no right to misrepresent the goods to that lady. I wonder what Uncle Hugh will say."

"You did perfectly right," said the sexton, after Paul had related the circumstances of his dismissal. "I wouldn't have had you act differently for twenty situations. I have no doubt you will get a better position elsewhere."

"I hope so," said Paul. "Now that I have lost the situation, Uncle Hugh, I don't mind saying that I never liked it."

Now commenced a search for another place. Day after day Paul went out, and day after day he returned with the same want of success.

"Never mind, Paul," said the sexton encouragingly. "When you do succeed, perhaps you'll get something worth waiting for."

One morning Paul went out feeling that something was going to happen,—he didn't exactly know what,—but he felt somehow that there was to be a change in his luck. He went out, therefore, with more hopefulness than usual; yet, when four o'clock came, and nothing had occurred except failure and disappointment, which unhappily were not at all out of the ordinary course, Paul began to think that he was very foolish to have expected anything.

He was walking listlessly along a narrow street, when, on a sudden, he heard an exclamation of terror, of which, on turning round, he easily discovered the cause.

Two spirited horses, attached to an elegant carriage, had been terrified in some way, and were now running at the top of their speed.

There was no coachman on the box; he had dismounted in order to ring at some door, when the horses started. He was now doing his best to overtake the horses, but in a race between man and horse, it is easy to predict which will have the advantage.

There seemed to be but one person in the carriage. It was a lady,—whose face, pale with terror, could be seen from the carriage window. Her loud cries of alarm no doubt terrified the horses still more, and, by accelerating their speed, tended to make matters worse.

Paul was roused from a train of despondent reflections by seeing the horses coming up the street. He instantly comprehended the whole danger of the lady's situation.

Most boys would have thought of nothing but getting out of the way, and leaving the carriage and its inmate to their fate. What, indeed, could a boy do against a pair of powerful horses, almost beside themselves with fright?

But our hero, as we have already had occasion to see, was brave and self-possessed, and felt an instant desire to rescue the lady, whose glance of helpless terror, as she leaned her head from the window, he could see. Naturally quickwitted, it flashed upon him that the only way to relieve a horse from one terror, was to bring another to bear upon him.

With scarcely a moment's premeditation, he rushed out into the middle of the street, full in the path of the furious horses, and with his cheeks pale, for he knew his danger, but with determined air, he waved his arms aloft, and cried "Whoa!" at the top of his voice.

The horses saw the sudden movement. They saw the boy standing directly in front of them. They heard the word of command to which they had been used, and by a sudden impulse, relieved from the blind terror which had urged them on, they stopped suddenly, and stood still in the middle of the street, still showing in their quivering limbs the agitation through which they had passed.

Just then the coachman, panting with his hurried running, came up and seized them by the head.

"Youngster," said he, "you're a brave fellow. You've done us a good service to-day. You're a pretty cool hand, you are. I don't know what these foolish horses would have done with the carriage if it had not been for you."

"Let me get out," exclaimed the lady, not yet recovered from her fright.

"I will open the door," said Paul, observing that the coachman was fully occupied in soothing the horses.

He sprang forward, and opening the door of the carriage assisted the lady to descend.

She breathed quickly.

"I have been very much frightened," she said; "and I believe I have been in very great danger. Are you the brave boy who stopped the horses?"

Paul modestly answered in the affirmative.

"And how did you do it? I was so terrified that I was hardly conscious of what was passing, till the horses stopped."

Paul modestly related his agency in the matter.

The lady gazed at his flushed face admiringly.

"How could you have so much courage?" she asked. "You might have been trampled to death under the hoofs of the horses."

"I didn't think of that. I only thought of stopping the horses."

"You are a brave boy. I shudder when I think of your danger and mine. I shall not dare to get into the carriage again this afternoon."

"Allow me to accompany you home?" said Paul, politely.

"Thank you; I will trouble you to go with me as far as Broadway, and then I can get into an omnibus."

She turned and addressed some words to the coachman, directing him to drive home as soon as the horses were quieted, adding that she would trust herself to the escort of the young hero, who had rescued her from the late peril.

"You're a lucky boy," thought John, the coachman. "My mistress is one that never does anything by halves. It won't be for nothing that you have rescued her this afternoon."

As they walked along, the lady, by delicate questioning, succeeded in drawing from our hero his hopes and wishes for the future. Paul, who was of a frank and open nature, found it very natural to tell her all he felt and wished.

"He seems a remarkably fine boy," thought the lady to herself. "I should like to do something for him."

They emerged into Broadway.

"I will detain you a little longer," said the lady; "and perhaps trouble you with a parcel."

"I shall be very glad to take it," said Paul politely.

Appleton's bookstore was close at hand. Into this the lady went, followed by her young companion.

A clerk advanced, and inquired her wishes.

"Will you show me some writing-desks?"

"I am going to purchase a writing-desk for a young friend of mine," she explained to Paul; "as he is a boy, like yourself, perhaps you can guide me in the selection."

"Certainly," said Paul, unsuspiciously.

Several desks were shown. Paul expressed himself admiringly of one made of rosewood inlaid with pearl.

"I think I will take it," said the lady.

The price was paid, and the desk was wrapped up.

"Now," said Mrs. Danforth, for this proved to be her name, "I will trouble you, Paul, to take the desk for me, and accompany me in the omnibus, that is, if you have no other occupation for your time."

"I am quite at leisure," said Paul. "I shall be most happy to do so."

Paul left the lady at the door of her residence in Fifth Avenue, and promised to call on his new friend the next day.

He went home feeling that, though he had met with no success in obtaining a place, he had been very fortunate in rendering so important a service to a lady whose friendship might be of essential service to him.



XXIV.

PAUL CALLS ON MRS. DANFORTH.

"Mrs. Edward Danforth," repeated the sexton, on hearing the story of Paul's exploit.

"Why, she attends our church."

"Do you know Mr. Danforth?" asked Paul, with interest.

"Only by sight. I know him by reputation, however."

"I suppose he is very rich."

"Yes, I should judge so. At any rate, he is doing an extensive business."

"What is his business?"

"He is a merchant."

"A merchant," thought Paul; "that is just what I should like to be, but I don't see much prospect of it."

"How do you like Mrs. Danforth?" inquired the sexton.

"Very much," said Paul, warmly. "She was very kind, and made me feel quite at home in her company."

"I hope she may be disposed to assist you. She can easily do so, in her position."

The next day Paul did not as usual go out in search of a situation. His mind was occupied with thoughts of his coming interview with Mrs. Danforth, and he thought he would defer his business plans till the succeeding day.

At an early hour in the evening, he paused before an imposing residence on Fifth Avenue, which he had seen but not entered the day previous.

He mounted the steps and pulled the bell.

A smart-looking man-servant answered his ring.

"Is Mrs. Danforth at home?" asked Paul.

"Yes, I believe so."

"I have called to see her."

"Does she expect you?" asked the servant, looking surprised.

"Yes; I come at her appointment," said Paul.

"Then I suppose it's all right," said the man. "Will you come in?" he asked, a little doubtfully.

Paul followed him into the house, and was shown into the drawing-room, the magnificence of which somewhat dazzled his eyes; accustomed only to the plain sitting-room of Mr. Cameron.

The servant reappeared after a brief absence, and with rather more politeness than he had before shown, invited Paul to follow him to a private sitting-room upstairs, where he would see Mrs. Danforth.

Looking at Paul's plain, though neat clothes, the servant was a little puzzled to understand what had obtained for Paul the honor of being on visiting terms with Mrs. Danforth.

"Good evening, Paul," said Mrs. Danforth, rising from her seat and welcoming our hero with extended hand. "So you did not forget your appointment."

"There was no fear of that," said Paul, with his usual frankness. "I have been looking forward to coming all day."

"Have you, indeed?" said the lady with a pleasant smile.

"Then I must endeavor to make your visit agreeable to you. Do you recognize this desk?"

Upon a table close by, was the desk which had been purchased the day previous, at Appleton's.

"Yes," said Paul, "it is the one you bought yesterday. I think it is very handsome."

"I am glad you think so. I think I told you that I intended it for a present. I have had the new owner's name engraved upon it."

Paul read the name upon the plate provided for the purpose. His face flushed with surprise and pleasure. That name was his own.

"Do you really mean it for me," he asked.

"If you will accept it," said Mrs. Danforth, smiling.

"I shall value it very much," said Paul, gratefully. "And I feel very much indebted to your kindness."

"We won't talk of indebtedness, for you remember mine is much the greater. If you will open the desk you will find that it is furnished with what will, I hope, prove of use to you."

The desk being opened, proved to contain a liberal supply of stationery, sealing wax, postage stamps, and pens.

Paul was delighted with his new present, and Mrs. Danforth seemed to enjoy the evident gratification with which it inspired him.

"Now," said she, "tell me a little about yourself. Have you always lived in New York?"

"Only about three years," said Paul.

"And where did you live before?"

"At Wrenville, in Connecticut."

"I have heard of the place. A small country town, is it not?"

Paul answered in the affirmative.

"How did you happen to leave Wrenville, and come to New York?"

Paul blushed, and hesitated a moment.

"I ran away," he said at length, determined to keep nothing back.

"Ran away! Not from home, I hope."

"I had no home," said Paul, soberly. "I should never have left there, if my father had not died. Then I was thrown upon the world. I was sent to the Poorhouse. I did not want to go, for I thought I could support myself."

"That is a very honorable feeling. I suppose you did not fare very well at the Poorhouse."

In reply, Paul detailed some of the grievances to which he had been subjected. Mrs. Danforth listened with sympathizing attention.

"You were entirely justified in running away," she said, as he concluded. "I can hardly imagine so great a lack of humanity as these people showed. You are now, I hope, pleasantly situated?"

"Yes," said Paul, "Mr. and Mrs. Cameron treat me with as great kindness as if I were their own child."

"Cameron! Is not that the name of the sexton of our church?" said Mrs. Danforth, meditatively.

"It is with him that I have a pleasant home."

"Indeed, I am glad to hear it. You have been attending school, I suppose."

"Yes, it is not more than two months since I left off school."

"And now I suppose you are thinking of entering upon some business."

"Yes; I have been trying to obtain a place in some merchant's counting-room."

"You think, then, that you would like the career of a merchant?"

"There is nothing that would suit me better."

"You have not succeeded in obtaining a place yet, I suppose?"

"No. They are very difficult to get, and I have no influential friends to assist me."

"I have heard Mr. Danforth say that he experienced equal difficulty when he came to New York, a poor boy."

Paul looked surprised.

"I see that you are surprised," said Mrs. Danforth, smiling. "You think, perhaps, judging from what you see, that my husband was always rich. But he was the son of a poor farmer, and was obliged to make his own way in the world. By the blessing of God, he has been prospered in business and become rich. But he often speaks of his early discouragements and small beginnings. I am sorry he is not here this evening. By the way, he left word for you to call at his counting-room to-morrow, at eleven o'clock. I will give you his address."

She handed Paul a card containing the specified number, and soon after he withdrew, bearing with him his handsome gift, and a cordial invitation to repeat his call.

He looked back at the elegant mansion which he had just left, and could not help feeling surprised that the owner of such a palace, should have started in life with no greater advantages than himself.



XXV.

AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE.

Paul slept late the next morning. He did not hear the breakfast-bell, and when the sexton came up to awaken him he rubbed his eyes with such an expression of bewilderment that Mr. Cameron could not forbear laughing.

"You must have had queer dreams, Paul," said he.

"Yes, Uncle Hugh," said Paul, laughing, "I believe I have."

"When you have collected your wits, which at present seem absent on a wool-gathering expedition, perhaps you will tell what you have been dreaming about."

"So I will," said Paul, "and perhaps you can interpret it for me. I dreamed that I was back again at Mr. Mudge's, and that he sent me out into the field to dig potatoes. I worked away at the first hill, but found no potatoes. In place of them were several gold pieces. I picked them up in great surprise, and instead of putting them into the basket, concluded to put them in my pocket. But as all the hills turned out in the same way I got my pockets full, and had to put the rest in the basket. I was just wondering what they would do for potatoes, when all at once a great dog came up and seized me by the arm——"

"And you opened your eyes and saw me," said the sexton, finishing out his narrative.

"Upon my word, that's very complimentary to me. However, some of our potatoes have escaped transformation into gold pieces, but I am afraid you will find them rather cold if you don't get down to breakfast pretty quick."

"All right, Uncle Hugh. I'll be down in a jiffy."

About half-past ten Paul started on his way to Mr. Danforth's counting-room. It was located on Wall Street, as he learned from the card which had been given him by Mrs. Danforth. He felt a little awkward in making this call. It seemed as if he were going to receive thanks for the service which he had rendered, and he felt that he had already been abundantly repaid. However, he was bound in courtesy to call, since he did so at the request of Mrs. Danforth.

It was a large stone building, divided up into offices, to which Paul had been directed. Mr. Danforth's office he found after a little search, upon the second floor.

He opened the door with a little embarrassment, and looked about him.

In one corner was a small room, used as a more private office, the door of which was closed. In the larger room the only one whom he saw, was a boy, apparently about his own age, who was standing at a desk and writing.

This boy looked around as Paul entered, and he at once recognized in him an old acquaintance.

"George Dawkins!" he exclaimed in surprise.

The latter answered in a careless indifferent tone, not exhibiting any very decided pleasure at meeting his old schoolmate.

"Oh, it's you, Prescott, is it?"

"Yes," said Paul, "I haven't met you since you left our school."

"No, I believe we have not met," said Dawkins, in the same tone as before.

"How long have you been in this office?" asked our hero.

"I really can't say," said Dawkins, not looking up.

"You can't say!"

"No, I'm rather forgetful."

Paul could not help feeling chilled at the indifferent manner in which his advances were met. He had been really glad to see Dawkins, and had addressed him with cordiality. He could not conceal from himself that Dawkins did not seem inclined to respond to it.

"Still," thought Paul, extenuatingly, "perhaps that is his way."

As the conversation began to flag, Paul was reminded of his errand by Dawkins saying, in a tone which was half a sneer, "Have you any business with Mr. Danforth this morning, or did you merely come in out of curiosity?"

"I have called to see Mr. Danforth," said Paul.

"He is usually pretty busy in the morning," said Dawkins.

"He directed me to call in the morning," said Paul, sturdily.

"Oh, indeed!" said Dawkins, a little surprised. "I wonder," he thought, "what business this fellow can have with Mr. Danforth. Can he be fishing for a place?"

"Mr. Danforth is engaged with a visitor just now," he at length condescended to say; "if your time is not too valuable to wait, you can see him by-and-by."

"Thank you," said Paul, rather nettled, "you are very polite."

To this Dawkins made no reply, but resumed his pen, and for the next ten minutes seemed entirely oblivious of Paul's presence.

Our hero took up the morning paper, and began, as he had so often done before, to look over the list of wants, thinking it possible he might find some opening for himself.

About ten minutes later the door of the inner office opened, and two gentlemen came out. One was a gentleman of fifty, a business friend of Mr. Danforth's, the other was Mr. Danforth himself.

The former remarked, on seeing Paul, "Is this your son, Danforth?"

"No," said the merchant, nodding in a friendly manner to Paul.

"That's a good joke," thought Dawkins, chuckling to himself; "Mr. Danforth must be immensely flattered at having a sexton's adopted son taken for his."

After a final word or two on business matters, and arrangements for another interview, the visitor departed, and Mr. Danforth, now at leisure, turned to Paul.

"Now my lad," he said kindly, "if you will follow me, we shall have a chance to talk a little."

Paul followed the merchant into his office, the door of which was closed, much to the regret of Dawkins, who had a tolerably large share of curiosity, and was very anxious to find out what business Paul could possibly have with his employer.

"Take that seat, if you please;" said Mr. Danforth, motioning Paul to an arm-chair, and sitting down himself, "Mrs. Danforth told me from how great a peril you rescued her. You are a brave boy."

"I don't know," said Paul, modestly, "I didn't think of the danger. If I had, perhaps I should have hesitated."

"If you had not been brave you would have thought of your own risk. My wife and myself are under very great obligations to you."

"That more than repays me for all I did," said Paul, in a tone of mingled modesty and manliness.

"I like the boy," thought Mr. Danforth; "he is certainly quite superior to the common run."

"Have you left school?" he inquired, after a pause.

"Yes, sir. Last term closed my school life."

"Then you have never been in a situation."

"Yes, sir."

"Indeed! Before you left school?"

"No, sir, since."

"You did not like it, then?"

"No, sir," said Paul.

"And was that the reason of your leaving?"

"No, sir; my employer was not satisfied with me," said Paul, frankly.

"Indeed! I am surprised to hear this! If you have no objection, will you tell me the circumstances?"

Paul related in a straightforward manner the difficulty he had had with Smith & Thompson.

"I hope you don't think I did wrong," he concluded.

"By no means," said Mr. Danforth, warmly. "Your conduct was entirely creditable. As for Smith, I know of him. He is a sharper. It would have done you no good to remain in his employ."

Paul was pleased with this commendation. He had thought it possible that his dismissal from his former situation might operate against him with the merchant.

"What are your present plans and wishes?" asked Mr. Danforth, after a slight pause.

"I should like to enter a merchant's counting-room," said Paul, "but as such places are hard to get, I think I shall try to get into a store."

Mr. Danforth reflected a moment, then placing a piece of paper before our hero, he said, "Will you write your name and address on this piece of paper, that I may know where to find you, in case I hear of a place?"

Paul did as directed. He had an excellent handwriting, a point on which the merchant set a high value.

The latter surveyed the address with approval, and said, "I am glad you write so excellent a hand. It will be of material assistance to you in securing a place in a counting-room. Indeed, it has been already, for I have just thought of a place which I can obtain for you."

"Can you, sir?" said Paul, eagerly.

"Where is it?"

"In my own counting-room," said Mr. Danforth, smiling.

"I am very much obliged to you," said Paul, hardly believing his ears.

"I was prepared to give it to you when you came in, in case I found you qualified. The superiority of your handwriting decides me. When can you come?"

"To-morrow, if you like, sir."

"I like your promptness. As it is the middle of the week, however, you may take a vacation till Monday. Your salary will begin to-morrow."

"Thank you, sir."

"I will give you five dollars per week at first, and more as your services become more valuable. Will that be satisfactory?"

"I shall feel rich, sir. Mr. Smith only gave me a dollar and a quarter."

"I hope you will find other differences between me and Mr. Smith," said the merchant, smiling.

These preliminaries over, Mr. Danforth opened the door, and glancing at Dawkins, said, "Dawkins, I wish you to become acquainted with your fellow clerk, Paul Prescott."

Dawkins looked surprised, and anything but gratified as he responded stiffly, "I have the honor of being already acquainted with Mr. Prescott."

"He is a little jealous of an interloper," thought Mr. Danforth, noticing the repellent manner of young Dawkins. "Never mind, they will get acquainted after awhile."

When George Dawkins went home to dinner, his father observed the dissatisfied look he wore.

"Is anything amiss, my son?" he inquired.

"I should think there was," grumbled his son.

"What is it?"

"We've got a new clerk, and who do you think it is?"

"Who is it?"

"The adopted son of old Cameron, the sexton."

"Indeed," said Mrs. Dawkins. "I really wonder at Mr. Danforth's bad taste. There are many boys of genteel family, who would have been glad of the chance. This boy is a low fellow of course."

"Certainly," said her son, though he was quite aware that this was not true.

"What could have brought the boy to Danforth's notice?" asked Dawkins, senior.

"I don't know, I'm sure. The boy has managed to get round him in some way. He is very artful."

"I really think, husband, that you ought to remonstrate with Mr. Danforth about taking such a low fellow into his counting-room with our George."

"Pooh!" said Mr. Dawkins, who was a shade more sensible than his wife, "he'd think me a meddler."

"At any rate, George," pursued his mother, "there's one thing that is due to your family and bringing up,—not to associate with this low fellow any more than business requires."

"I certainly shall not," said George, promptly.

He was the worthy son of such a mother.



XXVI.

A VULGAR RELATION.

At the end of the first week, Paul received five dollars, the sum which the merchant had agreed to pay him for his services. With this he felt very rich. He hurried home, and displayed to the sexton the crisp bank note which had been given him.

"You will soon be a rich man, Paul," said Mr. Cameron, with a benevolent smile, returning the bill.

"But I want you to keep it, Uncle Hugh."

"Shall I put it in the Savings Bank, for you, Paul?"

"I didn't mean that. You have been supporting me—giving me board and clothes—for three years. It is only right that you should have what I earn."

"The offer is an honorable one on your part, Paul," said the sexton; "but I don't need it. If it will please you, I will take two dollars a week for your board, now, and out of the balance you may clothe yourself, and save what you can."

This arrangement seemed to be a fair one. Mr. Cameron deposited the five dollar note in his pocket-book, and passed one of three dollars to Paul. This sum our hero deposited the next Monday morning, in a savings bank. He estimated that he could clothe himself comfortably for fifty dollars a year. This would leave him one hundred towards the payment of the debt due to Squire Conant.

"By-and-by my salary will be raised," thought Paul. "Then I can save more."

He looked forward with eager anticipation to the time when he should be able to redeem his father's name, and no one would be entitled to cast reproach upon his memory.

He endeavored to perform his duties faithfully in the office, and to learn as rapidly as he could the business upon which he had entered. He soon found that he must depend mainly upon himself. George Dawkins seemed disposed to afford him no assistance, but repelled scornfully the advances which Paul made towards cordiality. He was by no means as faithful as Paul, but whenever Mr. Danforth was absent from the office, spent his time in lounging at the window, or reading a cheap novel, with one of which he was usually provided.

When Paul became satisfied that Dawkins was not inclined to accept his overtures, he ceased to court his acquaintance, and confined himself to his own desk.

One day as he was returning from dinner, he was startled by an unceremonious slap upon the shoulder.

Looking up in some surprise, he found that this greeting had come from a man just behind him, whose good-humored face and small, twinkling eyes, he at once recognized.

"How do you do, Mr. Stubbs?" inquired Paul, his face lighting up with pleasure.

"I'm so's to be round. How be you?" returned the worthy pedler, seizing our hero's hand and shaking it heartily.

Mr. Stubbs was attired in all the glory of a blue coat with brass buttons and swallow tails.

"When did you come to New York?" asked Paul.

"Just arrived; that is, I got in this mornin'. But I say, how you've grown. I shouldn't hardly have known you."

"Shouldn't you, though?" said Paul, gratified as most boys are, on being told that he had grown. "Have you come to the city on business?"

"Well, kinder on business, and kinder not. I thought I'd like to have a vacation. Besides, the old lady wanted a silk dress, and she was sot on havin' it bought in York. So I come to the city."

"Where are you stopping, Mr. Stubbs?"

"Over to the Astor House. Pretty big hotel, ain't it?"

"Yes, I see you are traveling in style."

"Yes, I suppose they charge considerable, but I guess I can stand it. I hain't been drivin' a tin-cart for nothin' the last ten years.

"How have you been enjoying yourself since you arrived?"

"Oh, pretty well. I've been round seeing the lions, and came pretty near seeing the elephant at one of them Peter Funk places."

"You did! Tell me about it."

"You see I was walkin' along when a fellow came out of one of them places, and asked me if I wouldn't go in. I didn't want to refuse such a polite invitation, and besides I had a curiosity to see what there was to be seen, so I went in. They put up a silver watch, I could see that it was a good one, and so I bid on it. It ran up to eight dollars and a quarter. I thought it was a pity it should go off so cheap, so I bid eight and a half."

"'Eight and a half and sold,' said the man; 'shall I put it up for you?"

"'No, I thank you,' said I, 'I'll take it as it is.'

"'But I'll put it up in a nice box for you,' said he.

"I told him I didn't care for the box. He seemed very unwilling to let it go, but I took it out of his hand and he couldn't help himself. Well, when they made out the bill, what do you suppose they charged?"

"I don't know."

"Why, eighteen and a half."

"'Look here,' said I, 'I guess here's something of a mistake. You've got ten dollars too much.'

"'I think you must be mistaken,' said he, smiling a foxy smile.

"'You know I am not,' said I, rather cross.

"We can't let that watch go for any thing shorter,' said he, coolly.

"Just then a man that was present stepped up and said, 'the man is right; don't attempt to impose upon him.'

"With that he calmed right down. It seems it was a policeman who was sent to watch them, that spoke. So I paid the money, but as I went out I heard the auctioneer say that the sale was closed for the day. I afterwards learned that if I had allowed them to put the watch in a box, they would have exchanged it for another that was only plated."

"Do you know anybody in the city?" asked Paul.

"I've got some relations, but I don't know where they live."

"What is the name?" asked Paul, "we can look into the directory."

"The name is Dawkins," answered the pedler.

"Dawkins!" repeated Paul, in surprise.

"Yes, do you happen to know anybody of the name?"

"Yes, but I believe it is a rich family."

"Well, so are my relations," said Jehoshaphat. "You didn't think Jehoshaphat Stubbs had any rich relations, did you? These, as I've heard tell, hold their heads as high as anybody."

"Perhaps I may be mistaken," said Paul.

"What is the name—the Christian name, I mean—of your relation?"

"George."

"It must be he, then. There is a boy of about my own age of that name. He works in the same office."

"You don't say so! Well, that is curious, I declare. To think that I should have happened to hit upon you so by accident too."

"How are you related to them?" inquired Paul.

"Why, you see, I'm own cousin to Mr. Dawkins. His father and my mother were brother and sister."

"What was his father's business?" asked Paul.

"I don't know what his regular business was, but he was a sexton in some church."

This tallied with the account Paul had received from Mr. Cameron, and he could no longer doubt that, strange as it seemed, the wealthy Mr. Dawkins was own cousin to the pedler.

"Didn't you say the boy was in the same office with you, Paul?"

"Yes."

"Well, I've a great mind to go and see him, and find out where his father lives. Perhaps I may get an invite to his house."

"How shocked Dawkins will be!" thought Paul, not, it must be confessed, without a feeling of amusement. He felt no compunction in being the instrument of mortifying the false pride of his fellow clerk, and he accordingly signified to Mr. Stubbs that he was on his way to the counting-room.

"Are you, though? Well, I guess I'll go along with you. Is it far off?"

"Only in the next street."

The pedler, it must be acknowledged, had a thoroughly countrified appearance. He was a genuine specimen of the Yankee,—a long, gaunt figure, somewhat stooping, and with a long aquiline nose. His dress has already been described.

As Dawkins beheld him entering with Paul, he turned up his nose in disgust at what he considered Paul's friend.

What was his consternation when the visitor, approaching him with a benignant smile, extended his brown hand, and said, "How d'ye do, George? How are ye all to hum?"

Dawkins drew back haughtily.

"What do you mean?" he said, pale with passion.

"Mr. Dawkins," said Paul, with suppressed merriment, "allow me to introduce your cousin, Mr. Stubbs."

"Jehoshaphat Stubbs," explained that individual. "Didn't your father never mention my name to you?"

"Sir," said Dawkins, darting a furious glance at Paul, "you are entirely mistaken if you suppose that any relationship exists between me and that—person."

"No, it's you that are mistaken," said Mr. Stubbs, persevering, "My mother was Roxana Jane Dawkins. She was own sister to your grandfather. That makes me and your father cousins Don't you see?"

"I see that you are intending to insult me," said Dawkins, the more furiously, because he began to fear there might be some truth in the man's claims. "Mr. Prescott, I leave you to entertain your company yourself."

And he threw on his hat and dashed out of the counting-room.

"Well," said the pedler, drawing a long breath, "that's cool,—denyin' his own flesh and blood. Rather stuck up, ain't he?"

"He is, somewhat," said Paul; "if I were you, I shouldn't be disposed to own him as a relation."

"Darned ef I will!" said Jehoshaphat sturdily; "I have some pride, ef I am a pedler. Guess I'm as good as he, any day."



XXVII.

MR. MUDGE'S FRIGHT.

Squire Newcome sat in a high-backed chair before the fire with his heels on the fender. He was engaged in solemnly perusing the leading editorial in the evening paper, when all at once the table at his side gave a sudden lurch, the lamp slid into his lap, setting the paper on fire, and, before the Squire realized his situation, the flames singed his whiskers, and made his face unpleasantly warm.

"Cre-a-tion!" he exclaimed, jumping briskly to his feet.

The lamp had gone out, so that the cause of the accident remained involved in mystery. The Squire had little trouble in conjecturing, however, that Ben was at the bottom of it.

Opening the door hastily, he saw, by the light in the next room, that young gentleman rising from his knees in the immediate vicinity of the table.

"Ben-ja-min," said the Squire, sternly,

"What have you been a-doing?"

Ben looked sheepish, but said nothing.

"I repeat, Benjamin, what have you been a-doing?"

"I didn't mean to," said Ben.

"That does not answer my interrogatory. What have you been a-doing?"

"I was chasing the cat," said Ben, "and she got under the table. I went after her, and somehow it upset. Guess my head might have knocked against the legs."

"How old are you, Benjamin?"

"Fifteen."

"A boy of fifteen is too old to play with cats. You may retire to your dormitory."

"It's only seven o'clock, father," said Ben, in dismay.

"Boys that play with cats are young enough to retire at seven," remarked the Squire, sagaciously.

There was nothing for Ben but to obey.

Accordingly with reluctant steps he went up to his chamber and went to bed. His active mind, together with the early hour, prevented his sleeping. Instead, his fertile imagination was employed in devising some new scheme, in which, of course, fun was to be the object attained. While he was thinking, one scheme flashed upon him which he at once pronounced "bully."

"I wish I could do it to-night," he sighed.

"Why can't I?" he thought, after a moment's reflection.

The more he thought of it, the more feasible it seemed, and at length he decided to attempt it.

Rising from his bed he quickly dressed himself, and then carefully took the sheet, and folding it up in small compass put it under his arm.

Next, opening the window, he stepped out upon the sloping roof of the ell part, and slid down to the end where he jumped off, the height not being more than four feet from the ground. By some accident, a tub of suds was standing under the eaves, and Ben, much to his disgust, jumped into it.

"Whew!" exclaimed he, "I've jumped into that plaguy tub. What possessed Hannah to put it in a fellow's way?"

At this moment the back door opened, and Hannah called out, in a shrill voice, "Who's there?" Ben hastily hid himself, and thought it best not to answer.

"I guess 'twas the cat," said Hannah, as she closed the door.

"A two-legged cat," thought Ben, to himself; "thunder, what sopping wet feet I've got. Well, it can't be helped."

With the sheet still under his arm, Ben climbed a fence and running across the fields reached the fork of the road. Here he concealed himself under a hedge, and waited silently till the opportunity for playing his practical joke arrived.

I regret to say that Mr. Mudge, with whom we have already had considerable to do, was not a member of the temperance society. Latterly, influenced perhaps by Mrs. Mudge's tongue, which made his home far from a happy one, he had got into the habit of spending his evenings at the tavern in the village, where he occasionally indulged in potations that were not good for him. Generally, he kept within the bounds of moderation, but occasionally he exceeded these, as he had done on the present occasion.

Some fifteen minutes after Ben had taken his station, he saw, in the moonlight, Mr. Mudge coming up the road, on his way home. Judging from his zigzag course, he was not quite himself.

Ben waited till Mr. Mudge was close at hand, when all at once he started from his place of concealment completely enveloped in the sheet with which he was provided. He stood motionless before the astounded Mudge.

"Who are you?" exclaimed Mudge, his knees knocking together in terror, clinging to an overhanging branch for support.

There was no answer.

"Who are you?" he again asked in affright.

"Sally Baker," returned Ben, in as sepulchral a voice as he could command.

Sally Baker was an old pauper, who had recently died. The name occurred to Ben on the spur of the moment. It was with some difficulty that he succeeded in getting out the name, such was his amusement at Mr. Mudge's evident terror.

"What do you want of me?" inquired Mudge, nervously.

"You half starved me when I was alive," returned Ben, in a hollow voice, "I must be revenged."

So saying he took one step forward, spreading out his arms. This was too much for Mr. Mudge. With a cry he started and ran towards home at the top of his speed, with Ben in pursuit.

"I believe I shall die of laughing," exclaimed Ben, pausing out of breath, and sitting down on a stone, "what a donkey he is, to be sure, to think there are such things as ghosts. I'd like to be by when he tells Mrs. Mudge."

After a moment's thought, Ben wrapped up the sheet, took it under his arm, and once more ran in pursuit of Mr. Mudge.

Meanwhile Mrs. Mudge was sitting in the kitchen of the Poorhouse, mending stockings. She was not in the pleasantest humor, for one of the paupers had managed to break a plate at tea-table (if that can be called tea where no tea is provided), and trifles were sufficient to ruffle Mrs. Mudge's temper.

"Where's Mudge, I wonder?" she said, sharply; "over to the tavern, I s'pose, as usual. There never was such a shiftless, good-for-nothing man. I'd better have stayed unmarried all the days of my life than have married him. If he don't get in by ten, I'll lock the door, and it shall stay locked. 'Twill serve him right to stay out doors all night."

Minutes slipped away, and the decisive hour approached.

"I'll go to the door and look out," thought Mrs. Mudge, "if he ain't anywhere in sight I'll fasten the door."

She laid down her work and went to the door.

She had not quite reached it when it was flung open violently, and Mr. Mudge, with a wild, disordered look, rushed in, nearly overturning his wife, who gazed at him with mingled anger and astonishment.

"What do you mean by this foolery, Mudge?" she demanded, sternly.

"What do I mean?" repeated her husband, vaguely.

"I needn't ask you," said his wife, contemptuously. "I see how it is, well enough. You're drunk!"

"Drunk!"

"Yes, drunk; as drunk as a beast."

"Well, Mrs. Mudge," hiccoughed her husband, in what he endeavored to make a dignified tone, "you'd be drunk too if you'd seen what I've seen."

"And what have you seen, I should like to know?" said Mrs. Mudge.

Mudge rose with some difficulty, steadied himself on his feet, and approaching his wife, whispered in a tragic tone, "Mrs. Mudge, I've seen a sperrit."

"It's plain enough that you've seen spirit," retorted his wife. "'Tisn't many nights that you don't, for that matter. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Mudge."

"It isn't that," said her husband, shaking his hand, "it's a sperrit,—a ghost, that I've seen."

"Indeed!" said Mrs. Mudge, sarcastically, "perhaps you can tell whose it is."

"It was the sperrit of Sally Baker," said Mudge, solemnly.

"What did she say?" demanded Mrs. Mudge, a little curiously.

"She said that I—that we, half starved her, and then she started to run after me—and—oh, Lordy, there she is now!"

Mudge jumped trembling to his feet. Following the direction of his outstretched finger, Mrs. Mudge caught a glimpse of a white figure just before the window. I need hardly say that it was Ben, who had just arrived upon the scene.

Mrs. Mudge was at first stupefied by what she saw, but being a woman of courage she speedily recovered herself, and seizing the broom from behind the door, darted out in search of the "spirit." But Ben, perceiving that he was discovered, had disappeared, and there was nothing to be seen.

"Didn't I tell you so?" muttered Mudge, as his wife re-entered, baffled in her attempt, "you'll believe it's a sperrit, now."

"Go to bed, you fool!" retorted his wife.

This was all that passed between Mr. and Mrs. Mudge on the subject. Mr. Mudge firmly believes, to this day, that the figure which appeared to him was the spirit of Sally Baker.



XXVIII.

HOW BEN GOT HOME.

Delighted with the complete success of his practical joke, Ben took his way homeward with the sheet under his arm. By the time he reached his father's house it was ten o'clock. The question for Ben to consider now was, how to get in. If his father had not fastened the front door he might steal in, and slip up stairs on tiptoe without being heard. This would be the easiest way of overcoming the difficulty, and Ben, perceiving that the light was still burning in the sitting-room, had some hopes that he would be able to adopt it. But while he was only a couple of rods distant he saw the lamp taken up by his father, who appeared to be moving from the room.

"He's going to lock the front door," thought Ben, in disappointment; "if I had only got along five minutes sooner."

From his post outside he heard the key turn in the lock.

The 'Squire little dreamed that the son whom he imagined fast asleep in his room was just outside the door he was locking.

"I guess I'll go round to the back part of the house," thought Ben, "perhaps I can get in the same way I came out."

Accordingly he went round and managed to clamber upon the roof, which was only four feet from the ground. But a brief trial served to convince our young adventurer that it is a good deal easier sliding down a roof than it is climbing up. The shingles being old were slippery, and though the ascent was not steep, Ben found the progress he made was very much like that of a man at the bottom of a well, who is reported as falling back two feet for every three that he ascended. What increased the difficulty of his attempt was that the soles of his shoes were well worn, and slippery as well as the shingles.

"I never can get up this way," Ben concluded, after several fruitless attempts; "I know what I'll do," he decided, after a moment's perplexity; "I'll pull off my shoes and stockings, and then I guess I can get along better."

Ben accordingly got down from the roof, and pulled off his shoes and stockings. As he wanted to carry these with him, he was at first a little puzzled by this new difficulty. He finally tied the shoes together by the strings and hung them round his neck. He disposed of the stockings by stuffing one in each pocket.

"Now," thought Ben, "I guess I can get along better. I don't know what to do with the plaguy sheet, though."

But necessity is the mother of invention, and Ben found that he could throw the sheet over his shoulders, as a lady does with her shawl. Thus accoutered he recommenced the ascent with considerable confidence.

He found that his bare feet clung to the roof more tenaciously than the shoes had done, and success was already within his grasp, when an unforeseen mishap frustrated his plans. He had accomplished about three quarters of the ascent when all at once the string which united the shoes which he had hung round his neck gave way, and both fell with a great thump on the roof. Ben made a clutch for them in which he lost his own hold, and made a hurried descent in their company, alighting with his bare feet on some flinty gravel stones, which he found by no means agreeable.

"Ow!" ejaculated Ben, limping painfully, "them plaguy gravel stones hurt like thunder. I'll move 'em away the first thing to-morrow. If that confounded shoe-string hadn't broken I'd have been in bed by this time."

Meanwhile Hannah had been sitting over the kitchen fire enjoying a social chat with a "cousin" of hers from Ireland, a young man whom she had never seen or heard of three months before. In what way he had succeeded in convincing her of the relationship I have never been able to learn, but he had managed to place himself on familiar visiting terms with the inmate of 'Squire Newcome's kitchen.

"It's only me cousin, sir," Hannah explained to the 'Squire, when he had questioned her on the subject; "he's just from Ireland, sir, and it seems like home to see him."

On the present occasion Tim Flaherty had outstayed his usual time, and was still in the kitchen when Ben reached home. They did not at first hear him, but when he made his last abortive attempt, and the shoes came clattering down, they could not help hearing.

"What's that?" asked Hannah, listening attentively.

She went to the door to look out, her cousin following.

There was nothing to be seen.

"Perhaps you was dramin' Hannah," said Tim, "more by token, it's time we was both doin' that same, so I'll bid you good-night."

"Come again soon, Tim," said Hannah, preparing to close the door.

A new plan of entrance flashed upon Ben.

He quickly put on his shoes and stockings, unfolded the sheet and prepared to enact the part of a ghost once more,—this time for the special benefit of Hannah.

After fully attiring himself he came to the back door which Hannah had already locked, and tapped three times.

Hannah was engaged in raking out the kitchen fire.

"Sure it's Tim come back," thought she, as she went to the door. "Perhaps he's forgotten something."

She opened the door unsuspiciously, fully expecting to see her Irish cousin standing before her.

What was her terror on beholding a white-robed figure, with extended arms.

"Howly virgin, defend me!" she exclaimed, in paralyzing terror, which was increased by a guttural sound which proceeded from the throat of the ghost, who at the same time waved his arms aloft, and made a step towards Hannah.

Hannah, with a wild howl dropped the lamp and fed towards the sitting-room, where 'Squire Newcome was still sitting.

Ben sped upstairs at the top of his speed, dashed into his own chamber, spread the sheet on the bed, and undressed so rapidly that he seemed only to shake his clothes off, and jumped into bed. He closed his eyes and appeared to be in a profound slumber.

Hannah's sudden appearance in the sitting-room in such a state naturally astonished the 'Squire.

"What's the matter?" he demanded of the affrighted servant.

"Oh, sir," she gasped, "I'm almost kilt entirely."

"Are you?" said the 'Squire, "you appear to be more frightened than hurt."

"Yes, sir, shure I am frightened, which indeed I couldn't help it, sir, for I never saw a ghost before in all my life."

"A ghost! What nonsense are you talking, Hannah?"

"Shure it's not nonsense, for it's just now that the ghost came to the door, sir, and knocked, and I went to the door thinking it might be me cousin, who's been passing the evening with me, when I saw a great white ghost, ten foot tall, standing forninst me."

"Ten feet tall?"

"Yes, sir, and he spread out his arms and spoke in a terrible voice, and was going to carry me off wid him, but I dropped the lamp, and O sir, I'm kilt entirely."

"This is a strange story," said 'Squire Newcome, rather suspiciously; "I hope you have not been drinking."

Hannah protested vehemently that not a drop of liquor had passed her lips, which was true.

"I'll go out and hunt for the ghost," said the 'Squire.

"Oh, don't sir. He'll carry you off," said Hannah, terrified.

"Nonsense!" exclaimed the 'Squire. "Follow me, or you may stay here if you are frightened."

This Hannah would by no means do, since the 'Squire had taken the lamp and she would be left in the dark.

Accordingly she followed him with a trembling step, as he penetrated through the kitchen into the back room, ready to run at the least alarm.

The back-door was wide open, but nothing was to be seen of the ghost.

"Perhaps the ghost's up-stairs," said Hannah, "I can't sleep up there this night, shure."

But something had attracted Squire Newcome's attention. It was quite muddy out of doors, and Ben had tracked in considerable mud with him. The footprints were very perceptible on the painted floor.

"The ghost seems to have had muddy shoes," said the 'Squire dryly; "I guess I can find him."

He followed the tracks which witnessed so strongly against Ben, to whose chamber they led.

Ben, though still awake, appeared to be in a profound slumber.

"Ben-ja-min!" said his father, stooping over the bed.

There was no answer.

"Ben-ja-min!" repeated his father, giving him a shake, "what does all this mean?"

"What?" inquired Ben, opening his eyes, and looking very innocent.

"Where have you been, to-night?"

"You sent me to bed," said Ben, "and I came."

But the 'Squire was not to be deceived. He was already in possession of too much information to be put off. So Ben, who with all his love of mischief was a boy of truth, finally owned up everything. His father said very little, but told him the next morning that he had made up his mind to send him to a military boarding-school, where the discipline was very strict. Ben hardly knew whether to be glad or sorry, but finally, as boys like change and variety, came to look upon his new prospects with considerable cheerfulness.



XXIX.

DAWKINS IN DIFFICULTIES.

George Dawkins was standing at his desk one morning, when a man entered the office, and stepping up to him, unceremoniously tapped him on the shoulder.

Dawkins turned. He looked extremely annoyed on perceiving his visitor, whose outward appearance was certainly far from prepossessing. His face exhibited unmistakable marks of dissipation, nor did the huge breast pin and other cheap finery which he wore conceal the fact of his intense vulgarity. His eyes were black and twinkling, his complexion very dark, and his air that of a foreigner. He was, in fact, a Frenchman, though his language would hardly have betrayed him, unless, as sometimes, he chose to interlard his discourse with French phrases.

"How are you this morning, my friend?" said the newcomer.

"What are you here for?" asked Dawkins, roughly.

"That does not seem to me a very polite way of receiving your friends."

"Friends!" retorted Dawkins, scornfully, "who authorized you to call yourself my friend?"

"Creditor, then, if it will suit you better, mon ami."

"Hush," said Dawkins, in an alarmed whisper, "he will hear," here he indicated Paul with his finger.

"And why should I care? I have no secrets from the young man."

"Stop, Duval," exclaimed Dawkins, in an angry whisper, "Leave the office at once. Your appearing here will injure me."

"But I am not your friend; why should I care?" sneered Duval.

"Listen to reason. Leave me now, and I will meet you when and where you will."

"Come, that sounds better."

"Now go. I'm afraid Mr. Danforth will be in."

"If he comes, introduce me."

Dawkins would like to have knocked the fellow over.

"Name your place and time, and be quick about it," said he impatiently.

"Eight o'clock this evening, you know where," was the answer.

"Very well. Good-morning."

"Mind you bring some money."

"Good-morning," returned Dawkins, angrily.

At length, much to his relief, Duval left the office. Dawkins stole a side glance at Paul, to see what impression the interview had made upon him, but our hero, who had overheard some portions of the dialogue, perceiving that Dawkins wished it to be private, took as little notice of the visitor as possible. He could not help thinking, however, that Duval was a man whose acquaintance was likely to be of little benefit to his fellow clerk.

Throughout the day Dawkins appeared unusually nervous, and made several blunders which annoyed Mr. Danforth. Evidently he had something on his mind. Not to keep the reader in suspense, George had fallen among bad companions, where he had learned both to drink and to gamble. In this way he had made the acquaintance of Duval, an unscrupulous sharper, who had contrived to get away all his ready money, and persuading him to play longer in the hope of making up his losses had run him into debt one hundred and fifty dollars. Dawkins gave him an acknowledgment of indebtedness to that amount. This of course placed him in Duval's power, since he knew of no means of raising such a sum. He therefore kept out of the Frenchman's way, avoiding the old haunts where he would have been likely to meet him. Dawkins supposed Duval ignorant of the whereabouts of his employer's counting-room. So he had been, but he made it his business to ascertain where it was. He had no idea of losing sight of so valuable a prize.

Dawkins would willingly have broken the appointment he had made with Duval, but he did not dare to do so. He knew that the man was well able to annoy him, and he would not on any account have had the affair disclosed to his father or Mr. Danforth.

As Trinity clock struck eight, he entered a low bar-room in the neighborhood of the docks.

A young man with pale, sandy hair stood behind the counter with his sleeves rolled up. He was supplying the wants of a sailor who already appeared to have taken more drink than was good for him.

"Good evening, Mr. Dawkins," said he, "you're a stranger."

"Is Duval in?" inquired Dawkins, coldly. His pride revolted at the place and company. He had never been here but once before, having met Duval elsewhere.

"He's up in his room. John show the young gentleman up to No. 9. Won't you have a glass of something this evening?"

"No," said Dawkins, abruptly.

The boy preceded him up a dark and dirty staircase.

"That's the room, sir," he said.

"Stop a minute," said Dawkins, "he may not be in."

He inwardly hoped he might not. But Duval answered his knock by coming to the door himself.

"Delighted to see you, mon ami. John, may leave the lamp. That's all, unless Mr. Dawkins wishes to order something."

"I want nothing," said Dawkins.

"They have some capital brandy."

"I am not in the mood for drinking tonight."

"As you please," said the Frenchman, disappointed; "be seated."

Dawkins sat down in a wooden rocking-chair, minus an arm.

"Well," said Duval, "how much money have you brought me?"

"None."

The Frenchman frowned and stroked his mustache, fiercely.

"What does all this mean? Are you going to put me off longer?"

"I would pay it if I could," said Dawkins, "but I haven't got the money."

"You could get it."

"How?"

"Ask your father."

"My father would rave if he knew that I had lost money in such a way."

"But you need not tell him."

"If I ask for money, he will be sure to ask what I want it for."

"Tell him you want clothes, or a watch, or a hundred things."

Dawkins shook his head; "it won't do," said he. "He wouldn't give me a hundred and fifty dollars."

"Then ask seventy-five, and I will wait a month for the rest."

"Look here, Duval, you have no rightful claim to this money. You've got enough out of me. Just tear up the paper."

Duval laughed scornfully, "Aha, Mr. Dawkins," he said, "that would be a very pretty arrangement FOR YOU. But I don't see how it is going to benefit me. No, no, I can't afford to throw away a hundred and fifty dollars so easily. If I was a rich man like your father it would make a difference."

"Then you won't remit the debt," said Dawkins, sullenly.

"You would think me a great ninny, if I did."

"Then you may collect it the best way you can."

"What do you mean by that?" demanded the Frenchman, his face darkening.

"I mean what I say," said Dawkins, desperately, "Gambling debts are not recognizable in law."

"Nothing is said about it's being a gambling debt. I have your note."

"Which is worth nothing, since I am a minor."

Duval's face became black with rage.

"Aha, my friend," said he showing his teeth, "this is a very nice game to cheat me out of my money. But it won't do, it won't do."

"Why won't it?"

"I shall say a word in your father's ear, mon ami, and in the ear of your worthy employer whom you were so anxious for me not to see, and perhaps that would be worse for you than to pay me my money."

Dawkins's brief exultation passed away. He saw that he was indeed in the power of an unscrupulous man, who was disposed to push his advantage to the utmost.

He subsided into a moody silence, which Duval watched with satisfaction.

"Well, my friend, what will you do about it?"

"I don't know what I can do."

"You will think of something. You will find it best," said the Frenchman, in a tone which veiled a threat.

"I will try," said Dawkins, gloomily.

"That is well. I thought you would listen to reason, mon ami. Now we will have a pleasant chat. Hold, I will order some brandy myself."

"Not for me," said Dawkins, rising from his chair, "I must be going."

"Will you not have one little game?" asked Duval, coaxingly.

"No, no, I have had enough of that. Goodnight."

"Then you won't stop. And when shall I have the pleasure of seeing you at my little apartment once more?"

"I don't know."

"If it is any trouble to you to come, I will call at your office," said Duval, significantly.

"Don't trouble yourself," said Dawkins, hastily; "I will come here a week from today."

"A week is a long time."

"Long or short, I must have it."

"Very well, mon ami. A week let it be. Good-night. Mind the stairs as you go down."

Dawkins breathed more freely as he passed out into the open air. He was beginning to realize that the way of the transgressor is hard.



XXX.

A TRAP IS LAID FOR PAUL.

Three months before, George Dawkins had made his first visit to a gambling house. At first, he had entered only from curiosity. He watched the play with an interest which gradually deepened, until he was easily persuaded to try his own luck. The stakes were small, but fortune favored him, and he came out some dollars richer than he entered. It would have been fortunate for him if he had failed. As it was, his good fortune encouraged him to another visit. This time he was less fortunate, but his gains about balanced his losses, so that he came out even. On the next occasion he left off with empty pockets. So it went on until at length he fell into the hands of Duval, who had no scruple in fleecing him to as great an extent as he could be induced to go.

George Dawkins's reflections were not of the most cheerful character as, leaving Duval, he slowly pursued his way homeward. He felt that he had fallen into the power of an unscrupulous villain, who would have no mercy upon him. He execrated his own folly, without which all the machination of Duval would have been without effect.

The question now, however, was, to raise the money. He knew of no one to whom he could apply except his father, nor did he have much hope from that quarter. Still, he would make the effort.

Reaching home he found his father seated in the library. He looked up from the evening paper as George entered.

"Only half-past nine," he said, with an air of sarcasm. "You spend your evenings out so systematically that your early return surprises me. How is it? Has the theater begun to lose its charm!"

There was no great sympathy between father and son, and if either felt affection for the other, it was never manifested. Mutual recrimination was the rule between them, and George would now have made an angry answer but that he had a favor to ask, and felt it politic to be conciliatory.

"If I had supposed you cared for my society, sir, I would have remained at home oftener."

"Umph!" was the only reply elicited from his father.

"However, there was a good reason for my not going to the theater to-night."

"Indeed!"

"I had no money."

"Your explanation is quite satisfactory," said his father, with a slight sneer. "I sympathize in your disappointment."

"There is no occasion, sir," said George, good humoredly, for him. "I had no great desire to go."

Dawkins took down a book from the library and tried to read, but without much success. His thoughts continually recurred to his pecuniary embarrassments, and the debt which he owed to Duval seemed to hang like a millstone around his neck. How should he approach his father on the subject? In his present humor he feared he would have little chance.

As his father laid down the newspaper Dawkins said, "Wouldn't you like a game of checkers, sir?"

This, as he well knew, was a favorite game with his father.

"I don't know but I should," said Mr. Dawkins, more graciously than was his wont.

The checker-board was brought, and the two commenced playing. Three games were played all of which his father won. This appeared to put him in a good humor, for as the two ceased playing, he drew a ten-dollar-bill from his pocket-book, and handed to his son, with the remark, "There, George, I don't want you to be penniless. You are a little extravagant, though, I think. Your pay from Mr. Danforth ought to keep you in spending money."

"Yes, sir, I have been rather extravagant, but I am going to reform."

"I am very glad to hear it."

"I wish, sir," said George a moment afterwards, "that you would allow me to buy my own clothes."

"I've no sort of an objection, I am sure. You select them now, don't you?"

"Yes, sir, but I mean to suggest that you should make me an allowance for that purpose,—about as much as it costs now,—and give me the money to spend where I please."

Mr. Dawkins looked sharply at his son.

"The result would probably be," he said, "that the money would be expended in other ways, and I should have to pay for the clothes twice over."

Dawkins would have indignantly disclaimed this, if he had not felt that he was not altogether sincere in the request he had made.

"No," continued his father, "I don't like the arrangement you propose. When you need clothing you can go to my tailor and order it, of course not exceeding reasonable limits."

"But," said Dawkins, desperately, "I don't like Bradshaw's style of making clothes. I would prefer trying some other tailor."

"What fault have you to find with Bradshaw? Is he not one of the most fashionable tailors in the city?"

"Yes, sir, I suppose so, but——"

"Come, sir, you are growing altogether too particular. All your garments set well, so far as I can judge."

"Yes, sir, but one likes a change sometimes," persisted George, a little embarrassed for further objections.

"Well," said Mr. Dawkins, after a pause, "If you are so strongly bent upon a new tailor, select one, and order what you need. You can tell him to send in his bill to me."

"Thank you sir," said his son, by no means pleased at the manner in which his request had been granted. He saw that it would in no manner promote the plan which he had in view, since it would give him no command of the ready money. It is hardly necessary to say that his alleged dissatisfaction with his father's tailor had all been trumped up for the occasion, and would never have been thought of but for the present emergency.

"What shall I do!" thought Dawkins, in perplexity, as he slowly undressed himself and retired to bed.

The only true course, undoubtedly, was to confess all to his father, to incur the storm of reproaches which would have followed as the just penalty of his transgression, and then the haunting fear of discovery would have been once and forever removed. But Dawkins was not brave enough for this. He thought only of escaping from his present difficulty without his father's knowledge.

He rose the next morning with the burden of care still weighing upon him. In the evening the thought occurred to him that he might retrieve his losses where he had incurred them, and again he bent his steps to the gambling house. He risked five dollars, being one-half of what he had. This was lost. Desperately he hazarded the remaining five dollars, and lost again.

With a muttered oath he sprang to his feet, and left the brilliant room, more gloomy and discouraged than ever. He was as badly off as before, and penniless beside. He would have finished the evening at the theater, but his recent loss prevented that. He lounged about the streets till it was time to go to bed, and then went home in a very unsatisfactory state of mind.

A day or two after, he met on Broadway the man whom of all others he would gladly have avoided.

"Aha, my friend, I am glad to meet you," said Duval, for it was he.

Dawkins muttered something unintelligible, and would have hurried on, but Duval detained him.

"Why are you in such a hurry, my friend?" he said.

"Business," returned Dawkins, shortly.

"That reminds me of the little business affair between us, mon ami. Have you got any money for me?"

"Not yet."

"Not yet! It is three days since we saw each other. Could you not do something in three days?"

"I told you I required a week," said Dawkins, roughly, "Let go my arm. I tell you I am in haste."

"Very well, mon ami," said Duval, slowly relinquishing his hold, "take care that you do not forget. There are four days more to the week."

Dawkins hurried on feeling very uncomfortable. He was quite aware that four days hence he would be as unprepared to encounter the Frenchman as now. Still, something might happen.