"No, I don't," said Paul. "Some time when I haven't a bundle, I'll accommodate you."

"You're a coward!" sneered Mike, gaining courage as he saw Paul was not disposed for an encounter.

"I don't think I am," said Paul, coolly.

"I'll hold your shirt," said Mike's companion, with a grin, "if you want to fight."

Paul, however, did not care to intrust the shirt to a stranger of so unprepossessing an appearance.

He, therefore, attempted to pass on. But Mike, encouraged by his reluctance, stepped up and shook his fist within an inch of Paul's nose, calling him at the same time a coward. This was too much for Paul's self-restraint. He dropped the shirt and pitched into Mike in so scientific a manner that the latter was compelled to retreat, and finally to flee at the top of his speed, not without having first received several pretty hard blows.

"I don't think he will meddle with me again," said Paul to himself, as he pulled down the sleeves of his jacket.

He walked back, and looked for the shirt which he had laid down before commencing the combat. But he looked in vain. Nothing was to be seen of the shirt or of Mike's companion. Probably both had disappeared together.



CHAPTER XI

BARCLAY & CO.

The loss of the shirt was very vexatious. It was not so much the value of it that Paul cared for, although this was a consideration by no means to be despised by one in his circumstances; but it had been lent as a pattern, and without it his mother would be unable to make Mr. Preston's shirts. As to recovering it, he felt that there was little chance of this. Besides, it would involve delay, and his mother could not afford to remain idle. Paul felt decidedly uncomfortable. Again Mike Donovan had done him an injury, and this time of a more serious nature than before.

What should he do?

There seemed but one answer to this question. He must go back to Mr. Preston, explain the manner in which he had lost his shirt, and ask him for another, promising, of course, to supply the place of the one lost. He was not sure whether Mr. Preston would accept this explanation. He might think it was only an attempt to defraud him. But, at any rate, it seemed the only thing to do, and it must be done at once. He entered a passing car, for it was too late to walk.

"I wish I had taken the car down," thought Paul. "Then I shouldn't have lost the shirt."

But it was too late for regrets now. He must do the best that remained to him.

It was nearly ten o'clock when Paul once more stood before the door of Mr. Preston's boarding-place. He rang the bell and asked to see him.

"You have been here before this evening?" said the servant.

"Yes."

"Then you know the room. You can walk right up."

Paul went upstairs and knocked at Mr. Preston's room. He was bidden to come in, and did so.

Mr. Preston looked up with surprise.

"I suppose you are surprised to see me," said Paul, rather awkwardly.

"Why, yes. I did not anticipate that pleasure quite so soon," said Mr. Preston, smiling.

"I am afraid it won't be a pleasure, for I bring bad news."

"Bad news?" repeated the gentleman, rather startled.

"Yes; I have lost the shirt you gave me."

"Oh, is that all?" said Mr. Preston, looking relieved. "But how did you lose it?"

"I was walking home down the Bowery, when two fellows met me. One of them, Mike Donovan, forced me into a fight. I gave him a licking," added Paul, with satisfaction; "but when it was all over, I found the other fellow had run off with the shirt."

"I don't believe it will fit him," said Mr. Preston, laughing.

As the speaker probably weighed two hundred and fifty pounds, it was, indeed, rather doubtful. Paul couldn't help laughing himself at the thought.

"You were certainly unlucky," said Mr. Preston. "Did you know the boy you fought with?"

"Yes, sir; he once before stole my stock of candy, when I was in the prize-package business."

"That was the day we got acquainted," remarked Mr. Preston.

"Yes, sir."

"He doesn't seem to be a very particular friend of yours."

"No; he hates me, Mike does, though I don't know why. But I hope you won't be angry with me for losing the shirt?"

"No; it doesn't seem to be your fault, only your misfortune."

"I was afraid you might think I had made up the story, and only wanted to get an extra shirt from you."

"No, my young friend; I have some faith in physiognomy, and you have an honest face. I don't believe you would deceive me."

"No, I wouldn't," said Paul, promptly. "If you will trust me with another shirt, mother will make you an extra one to make up for the one I have lost."

"Certainly you shall have the extra shirt, but you needn't supply the place of the one lost."

"It is only fair that I should."

"That may be, and I am glad you made the offer, but the loss is of little importance to me. It was no fault of yours that you lost it, and you shall not suffer for it."

"You are very kind, sir," said Paul, gratefully.

"Only just, Paul."

Mr. Preston went to the bureau, and drew out another shirt, which he handed to Paul.

"Let me suggest, my young friend," he said, "that you ride home this time. It is late, and you might have another encounter with your friend. I should like to see him with the shirt on," and Mr. Preston laughed heartily at the thought.

Paul decided to follow his patron's advice. He had no idea of running any more risk in the matter. He accordingly walked to Fourth avenue and got on board the car.

It was nearly eleven o'clock when he reached home. As it was never his habit to stay out late, his mother had become alarmed at his long absence.

"What kept you so late, Paul?" she asked.

"I'll tell you, pretty soon, mother. Here's the shirt that is to serve as a pattern. Can you cut out the new shirts by it?"

Mrs. Hoffman examined it attentively.

"Yes," she said; "there will be no difficulty about that. Mr. Preston must be a pretty large man."

"Yes, he is big enough for an alderman; but he is very kind and considerate, and I like him. You shall judge for yourself when I tell you what happened this evening."

It will not be necessary to tell Paul's adventure over again. His mother listened with pardonable indignation against Mike Donovan and his companion.

"I hope you won't have anything to do with that bad boy, Paul," she said.

"I shan't, if I can help it," said Paul. "I didn't want to speak to him to-night, but I couldn't help myself. Oh, I forgot to say, when half the shirts are ready, I am to take them to Mr. Preston."

"I think I can make one a day."

"There is no need of working so steadily, mother. You will be well paid, you know."

"That is true; and for that reason I shall work more cheerfully. I wish I could get paid as well for all my work."

"Perhaps Mr. Preston will recommend you to his friends, and you can get more work that way."

"I wish I could."

"I will mention it to him, when I carry back the last half dozen."

"Is he going to send the cloth?"

"I nearly forgot that, too. I have an order on Barclay & Co. for the necessary amount of cloth. I can go up there to-morrow morning and get it."

"That will take you from your work, Paul."

"Well, I can close up for a couple of hours."

"I don't think that will be necessary. I will go up myself and present the order, and get them to send it home for me."

"Will they do that?"

"It is their custom. Or, if the bundle isn't too large. I can bring it home myself in the car."

"That's all right, then. And now, mother, as it's past eleven o'clock, I think we may as well both go to bed."

The next day Paul went as usual to his business, and Mrs. Hoffman, after clearing away the breakfast, put on her bonnet and shawl, and prepared to go for the materials for the shirts.

The retail store of Barclay & Co. is of great size, and ranks among the most important in New York. It was not so well filled when Mrs. Hoffman entered as it would be later. She was directed to the proper counter, where she presented the order, signed by Mr. Preston. As he was a customer of long standing, there was no difficulty about filling the order. A bundle was made up, which, as it contained the materials for twelve shirts, necessarily was of considerable size.

"Here is your bundle, ma'am," said the clerk.

Mrs. Hoffman's strength was slender, and she did not feel able to carry the heavy bundle offered her. Even if she took the car, she would be obliged to carry it a portion of the way, and she felt that it would overtask her strength.

"Don't you send bundles?" she asked.

"Sometimes," said the clerk, looking superciliously at the modest attire of the poor widow, and mentally deciding that she was not entitled to much consideration. Had she been richly dressed, he would have been very obsequious, and insisted on sending home the smallest parcel. But there are many who have two rules of conduct, one for the rich, and quite a different one for the poor, and among these was the clerk who was attending upon Mrs. Hoffman.

"Then," said Mrs. Hoffman, "I should like to have you send this."

"It's a great deal of trouble to send everything," said the clerk, impertinently.

"This bundle is too heavy for me to carry," said the widow, deprecatingly.

"I suppose we can send it," said the clerk, ill-naturedly, "if you insist upon it."

Meanwhile, though he had not observed it, his employer had approached, and heard the last part of the colloquy. He was considered by some as a hard man, but there was one thing he always required of those in his employ; that was to treat all purchasers with uniform courtesy, whatever their circumstances.

"Are you objecting to sending this lady's bundle?" said Mr. Barclay, sternly.

The clerk looked up in confusion.

"I told her we would send it," he stammered.

"I have heard what passed. You have been deficient in politeness. If this happens again, you leave my employ."

"I will take your address," said the clerk, in a subdued tone.

Mrs. Hoffman gave it, and left the store, thankful for the interference of the great merchant who had given his clerk a lesson which the latter, as he valued his situation, found it advisable to bear in mind.



CHAPTER XII

THE BARREL THIEF

While Mike Donovan was engaged in his contest with Paul, his companion had quietly walked off with the shirt. It mattered very little to him which party conquered, as long as he carried off the spoils. His conduct in the premises was quite as unsatisfactory to Mike as it was to Paul. When Mike found himself in danger of being overpowered, he appealed to his companion for assistance, and was incensed to see him coolly disregarding the appeal, and selfishly appropriating the booty.

"The mane thafe!" he exclaimed after the fight was over, and he was compelled to retreat. "He let me be bate, and wouldn't lift his finger to help me. I'd like to put a head on him, I would."

Just at that moment Mike felt quite as angry with his friend, Jerry McGaverty, as with his late opponent.

"The shirt's mine, fair," he said to himself, "and I'll make Jerry give it to me."

But Jerry had disappeared, and Mike didn't know where to look for him. In fact, he had entered a dark alleyway, and, taking the shirt from the paper in which it was wrapped, proceeded to examine his prize.

The unusual size struck him.

"By the powers," he muttered, "it's big enough for me great-grandfather and all his children. I wouldn't like to pay for the cloth it tuck to make it. But I'll wear it, anyway."

Jerry was not particular as to an exact fit. His nether garments were several sizes too large for him, and the shirt would complete his costume appropriately. He certainly did need a new shirt, for the one he had on was the only article of the kind he possessed, and was so far gone that its best days, if it ever had any, appeared to date back to a remote antiquity. It had been bought cheap in Baxter street, its previous history being unknown.

Jerry decided to make the change at once. The alley afforded a convenient place for making the transfer. He accordingly pulled off the ragged shirt he wore and put on the article he had purloined from Paul. The sleeves were too long, but he turned up the cuffs, and the ample body he tucked inside his pants.

"It fits me too much," soliloquized Jerry, as he surveyed himself after the exchange. "I could let out the half of it, and have enough left for meself. Anyhow, it's clane, and it came chape enough."

He came out of the alley, leaving his old shirt behind him. Even if it had been worth carrying away, Jerry saw no use in possessing more than one shirt. It was his habit to wear one until it was ready to drop off from him, and then get another if he could. There is a practical convenience in this arrangement, though there are also objections which will readily occur to the reader.

On the whole, though the shirt fitted him too much, as he expressed it, he regarded himself complacently.

The superabundant material gave the impression of liberal expenditure and easy circumstances, since a large shirt naturally costs more than a small one. So Jerry, as he walked along the Bowery, assumed a jaunty air, precisely such as some of my readers may when they have a new suit to display. His new shirt was quite conspicuous, since he was encumbered neither with vest nor coat.

Mike, feeling sore over his defeat, met Jerry the next morning on Chatham street. His quick eye detected the improved state of his friend's apparel, and his indignation rose, as he reflected that Jerry had pocketed the profits while the hard knocks had been his.

"Jerry!" he called out.

Jerry did not see fit to heed the call. He was sensible that Mike had something to complain of, and he was in no hurry to meet his reproaches.

"Jerry McGaverty!" called Mike, coming near.

"Oh, it's you, Mike, is it?" answered Jerry, unable longer to keep up the pretense of not hearing.

"Yes, it's me," said Mike. "What made you leave me for last night?"

"I didn't want to interfere betwane two gintlemen," said Jerry, with a grin. "Did you mash him, Mike?"

"No," said Mike, sullenly, "he mashed me. Why didn't you help me?"

"I thought you was bating him, so, as I had some business to attind to, I went away."

"You went away wid the shirt."

"Yes, I took it by mistake. Ain't it an illigant fit?"

"It's big enough for two of you."

"Maybe I'll grow to it in time," said Jerry.

"And how much are you goin' to give me for my share?" demanded Mike.

"Say that ag'in," said Jerry.

Mike repeated it.

"I thought maybe I didn't hear straight. It ain't yours at all. Didn't I take it?"

"You wouldn't have got it if I hadn't fit with Paul."

"That ain't nothin' to me," said Jerry. "The shirt's mine, and I'll kape it."

Mike felt strongly tempted to "put a head on" Jerry, whatever that may mean; but, as Jerry was a head taller already, the attempt did not seem quite prudent. He indulged in some forcible remarks, which, however, did not disturb Jerry's equanimity.

"I'll give you my old shirt, Mike," he said, "if you can find it. I left it in an alley near the Old Bowery."

"I don't want the dirty rag," said Mike, contemptuously.

Finally a compromise was effected, Jerry offering to help Mike on the next occasion, and leave the spoils in his hands.

I have to chronicle another adventure of Jerry's, in which he was less fortunate than he had been in the present case. He was a genuine vagabond, and lived by his wits, being too lazy to devote himself to any regular street employment, as boot blacking or selling newspapers. Occasionally he did a little work at each of these, but regular, persistent industry was out of his line. He was a drone by inclination, and a decided enemy to work. On the subject of honesty his principles were far from strict. If he could appropriate what did not belong to him he was ready to do so without scruple. This propensity had several times brought him into trouble, and he had more than once been sent to reside temporarily on Blackwell's Island, from which he had returned by no means improved.

Mike was not quite so much of a vagabond as his companion. He could work at times, though he did not like it, and once pursued the vocation of a bootblack for several months with fair success.

But Jerry's companionship was doing him no good, and it seemed likely that eventually he would become quite as shiftless as Jerry himself.

Jerry, having no breakfast, strolled down to one of the city markets. He frequently found an opportunity of stealing here, and was now in search of such a chance. He was a dexterous and experienced barrel thief, a term which it may be necessary to explain. Barrels, then, have a commercial value, and coopers will generally pay twenty-five cents for one in good condition. This is enough, in the eyes of many a young vagabond, to pay for the risk incurred in stealing one.

Jerry prowled round the market for some time, seeking a good opportunity to walk off with an apple or banana, or something eatable. But the guardians of the stands seemed unusually vigilant, and he was compelled to give up the attempt, as involving too great risk. Jerry was hungry, and hunger is an uncomfortable feeling. He began to wish he had remained satisfied with his old shirt, dirty as it was, and carried the new one to some of the Baxter street dealers, from whom he could perhaps have got fifty cents for it. Now, fifty cents would have paid for a breakfast and a couple of cigars, and those just now would have made Jerry happy.

"What a fool I was not to think of it!" he said. "The old shirt would do me, and I could buy a bully breakfast wid the money I'd get for this."

Just at this moment he espied an empty barrel—a barrel apparently quite new and in an unguarded position. He resolved to take it, but the affair must be managed slyly.

He lounged up to the barrel, and leaned upon it indolently. Then, in apparent unconsciousness, he began to turn it, gradually changing its position. If observed, he could easily deny all felonious intentions. This he kept up till he got round the corner, when, glancing around to see if he was observed, he quickly lifted it on his shoulder and marched off.

All this happened without his being observed by the owner of the barrel. But a policeman, who chanced to be going his rounds, had been a witness of Jerry's little game. He remained quiet till Jerry's intentions became evident, then walked quietly up and put his hand on his shoulder.

"Put down that barrel!" he said, authoritatively.

Jerry had been indulging in visions of the breakfast he would get with the twenty-five cents he expected to obtain for the barrel, and the interruption was not an agreeable one. But he determined to brazen it out if possible.

"What for will I put it down?" he said.

"Because you have stolen it, that's why."

"No," said Jerry, "I'm carrying it round to my boss. It's his."

"Where do you work?"

"In Fourth street," said Jerry, at random.

"What number?"

"No. 136."

"Then your boss will have to get some one in your place, for you will have to come with me."

"What for?"

"I saw you steal the barrel. You're a barrel thief, and this isn't the first time you've been caught at it. Carry back the barrel to the place you took it from and then come with me."

Jerry tried to beg off, but without avail.

At that moment Mike Donovan lounged up. When he saw his friend in custody, he felt a degree of satisfaction, remembering the trick Jerry had played on him.

"Where are you goin', Jerry?" he asked, with a grin, as he passed him. "Did ye buy that barrel to kape your shirt in?"

Jerry scowled but thought it best not to answer, lest his unlawful possession of the shirt might also be discovered, and lead to a longer sentence.

"He's goin' down to the island to show his new shirt," thought Mike, with a grin. "Maybe he'll set the fashion there."

Mike was right. Jerry was sent to the island for two months, there introducing Mr. Preston's shirt to company little dreamed of by its original proprietor.



CHAPTER XIII

OUT OF BUSINESS

The next day Mrs. Hoffman commenced work upon Mr. Preston's shirts. She worked with much more cheerfulness now that she was sure of obtaining a liberal price for her labor. As the shirts were of extra size, she found herself unable to finish one in a day, as she had formerly done, but had no difficulty in making four in a week. This, however, gave her five dollars weekly, instead of a dollar and a half as formerly. Now, five dollars may not seem a very large sum to some of my young readers, but to Mrs. Hoffman it seemed excellent compensation for a week's work.

"If I could only earn as much every week," she said to Paul on Saturday evening, "I should feel quite rich."

"Your work will last three weeks, mother, and perhaps at the end of that time some of Mr. Preston's friends may wish to employ you."

"I hope they will."

"How much do you think I have made?" continued Paul.

"Six dollars."

"Seven dollars and a half."

"So between us we have earned over twelve dollars."

"I wish I could earn something," said little Jimmy, looking up from his drawing.

"There's time enough for that, Jimmy. You are going to be a great artist one of these days."

"Do you really think I shall?" asked the little boy, wistfully.

"I think there is a good chance of it. Let me see what you are drawing."

The picture upon which Jimmy was at work represented a farmer standing upright in a cart, drawn by a sturdy, large-framed horse. The copy bore a close resemblance to the original, even in the most difficult portions—the face and expression, both in the man and the horse, being carefully reproduced.

"This is wonderful, Jimmy," exclaimed Paul, in real surprise. "Didn't you find it hard to get the man's face just right?"

"Rather hard," said Jimmy; "I had to be careful, but I like best the parts where I have to take the most pains."

"I wish I could afford to hire a teacher for you," said Paul. "Perhaps, if mother and I keep on earning so much money, we shall be able to some time."

By the middle of the next week six of the shirts were finished, and Paul, as had been agreed upon, carried them up to Mr. Preston. He was fortunate enough to find him at home.

"I hope they will suit you," said Paul.

"I can see that the sewing is excellent," said Mr. Preston, examining them. "As to the fit, I can tell better after I have tried one on."

"Mother made them just like the one you sent; but if there is anything wrong, she will, of course, be ready to alter them."

"If they are just like the pattern, they will be sure to suit me."

"And now, my young friend," he added, "let me know how you are getting on in your own business."

"I am making a dollar a day, sometimes a little more."

"That is very good."

"Yes, sir; but it won't last long."

"I believe you told me that the stand belonged to some one else."

"Yes, sir; I am only tending it in his sickness; but he is getting better, and when he gets about again, I shall be thrown out of business."

"But you don't look like one who would remain idle long."

"No, sir; I shall be certain to find something to do, if it is only blacking boots."

"Have you ever been in that business?"

"I've tried about everything," said Paul, laughing.

"I suppose you wouldn't enjoy boot-blacking much?"

"No, sir; but I would rather do that than be earning nothing."

"You are quite right there, and I am glad you have no false shame in the matter. There are plenty who have. For instance, a stout, broad-shouldered young fellow applied to me thus morning for a clerkship. He said he had come to the city in search of employment, and had nearly expended all his money without finding anything to do. I told him I couldn't give him a clerkship, but was in want of a porter. I offered him the place at two dollars per day. He drew back, and said he should not be willing to accept a porter's place."

"He was very foolish," said Paul.

"So I thought. I told him that if such were his feelings, I could not help him. Perhaps he may regret his refusal, when he is reduced to his last penny. By the way, whenever you have to give up your stand, you may come to me, and I will see what I can do for you."

"Thank you, sir."

"And now, about these shirts; I believe I agreed to pay a dollar and a quarter each."

"Yes, sir."

"As they are of extra size, I think I ought to pay twelve shillings, instead of ten."

"My mother thinks herself well paid at ten shillings."

"There must be a great deal of work about one. Twelve shillings are none too much," and Mr. Preston placed nine dollars in Paul's hand.

"Thank you," said Paul, gratefully. "My mother will consider herself very lucky."

When Mrs. Hoffman received from Paul a dollar and a half more than she anticipated, she felt in unusually good spirits. She had regretted the loss of her former poorly paid work, but it appeared that her seeming misfortune had only prepared the way for greater prosperity. The trouble was that it would not last. Still, it would tide over the dull time, and when this job was over, she might be able to resume her old employment. At any rate, while the future seemed uncertain, she did not feel like increasing her expenditures on account of her increased earnings, but laid carefully away three-quarters of her receipts to use hereafter in case of need.

Meanwhile, Paul continued to take care of George Barry's business. He had been obliged to renew the stock, his large sales having materially reduced it. Twice a week he went up to see his principal to report sales. George Barry could not conceal the surprise he felt at Paul's success.

"I never thought you would do so well," he said. "You beat me."

"I suppose it's because I like it," said Paul. "Then, as I get only half the profits, I have to work the harder to make fair wages."

"It is fortunate for my son that he found you to take his place," said Mrs. Barry. "He could not afford to lose all the income from his business."

"It is a good thing for both of us," said Paul. "I was looking for a job just when he fell sick."

"What had you been doing before?"

"I was in the prize-package business, but that got played out, and I was a gentleman at large, seeking for a light, genteel business that wouldn't require much capital."

"I shall be able to take my place pretty soon now," said the young man. "I might go to-morrow, but mother thinks it imprudent."

"Better get back your strength first, George," said his mother, "or you may fall sick again."

But her son was impatient of confinement and anxious to get to work again. So, two days afterward, about the middle of the forenoon, Paul was surprised by seeing George Barry get out of a Broadway omnibus, just in front of the stand.

"Can I sell you a necktie, Mr. Barry?" he asked, in a joke.

"I almost feel like a stranger," said Barry, "it's so long since I have been here."

"Do you feel strong enough to take charge now?" asked Paul.

"I am not so strong as I was, and the walk from our rooms would tire me; but I think if I rode both ways for the present I shall be able to get along."

"Then you won't need me any longer?"

"I would like to have you stay with me to-day. I don't know how I shall hold out."

"All right! I'll stop."

George Barry remained in attendance the rest of the day. He found that his strength had so far returned that he should be able to manage alone hereafter, and he told Paul so.

"I am glad you are well again, George," said Paul. "It must have been dull work staying at home sick."

"Yes, it was dull; but I felt more comfortable from knowing that you were taking my place. If I get sick again I will send for you."

"I hope you won't get sick; but if you do, I will do what I can to help you."

So the two parted on the best of terms. Each had been of service to the other, and neither had cause to complain.

"Well," said Paul to himself, "I am out of work again. What shall I go at next?"

It was six o'clock, and there was nothing to be done till the morrow. He went slowly homeward, revolving this subject in his mind. He knew that he need not remain idle. He could black boots, or sell newspapers, if nothing better offered, and he thought it quite possible that he might adopt the latter business, for a few days at least. He had not forgotten Mr. Preston's injunction to let him know when he got out of business; but, as the second half dozen shirts would be ready in three or four days, he preferred to wait till then, and not make a special call on Mr Preston. He had considerable independence of feeling, and didn't like to put himself in the position of one asking a favor, though he had no objection to accept one voluntarily offered.

"Well, mother," he said, entering his humble home, "I am out of business."

"Has George recovered, then?"

"Yes, he was at the stand to-day, but wanted me to stay with him till this evening."

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" said Jimmy.

"Sorry that George has got well? For shame, Jimmy!"

"No, I don't mean that, Paul. I am sorry you are out of work."

"I shall find plenty to do, Jimmy. Perhaps Mr. Stewart will take me in as senior partner, if I ask him."

"I don't think he will," said Jimmy, laughing.

"Then perhaps I can get a few scholars in drawing. Can't you recommend me?"

"I am afraid not, Paul, unless you have improved a good deal."



CHAPTER XIV

THE DIAMOND RING

Paul was up betimes the next morning. He had made up his mind for a few days, at least, to sell newspapers, and it was necessary in this business to begin the day early. He tool a dollar with him and invested a part of it in a stock of dailies. He posted himself in Printing House square, and began to look out for customers. Being an enterprising boy, he was sure to meet with fair success in any business which he undertook. So it happened that at ten o'clock he had sold out his stock of papers, and realized a profit of fifty cents.

It was getting late for morning papers, and there was nothing left to do till the issue of the first edition of the afternoon papers.

"I'll go down and see how George Barry is getting along," thought Paul.

He crossed Broadway and soon reached the familiar stand.

"How's business, George?" he inquired.

"Fair," said Barry. "I've sold four ties."

"How do you feel?"

"I'm not so strong as I was, yet. I get tired more easily. I don't think I shall stay in this business long."

"You don't? What will you do then?"

"I've got a chance in Philadelphia, or I shall have by the first of the month."

"What sort of a chance?"

"Mother got a letter yesterday from a cousin of hers who has a store on Chestnut street. He offers to take me as a clerk, and give me ten dollars a week at first, and more after a while."

"That's a good offer. I should like to get one like it."

"I'll tell you what, Paul, you'd better buy out my stand. You know how to sell ties, and can make money."

"There's only one objection, George."

"What's that?"

"I haven't got any capital."

"It don't need much."

"How much?"

"I'll sell out all my stock at cost price."

"How much do you think there is?"

"About twenty-five dollars' worth. Then there is the frame, which is worth, say ten dollars, making thirty-five in all. That isn't much."

"It's more than I've got. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll take it, and pay you five dollars down and the rest in one month."

"I would take your offer, Paul, but I need all the money how. It will be expensive moving to Philadelphia and I shall want all I can get."

"I wish I could buy you out," said Paul, thoughtfully.

"Can't you borrow the money?"

"How soon do you want to give up?"

"It's the seventeenth now. I should like to get rid of it by the twenty-second."

"I'll see what I can do. Just keep it for me till to-morrow."

"All right."

Paul walked home revolving in his mind this unexpected opportunity. He had made, as George Barry's agent, a dollar a day, though he received only half the profits. If he were himself the proprietor, and did equally well, he could make twelve dollars a week. The calculation almost took away his breath. Twelve dollars a week would make about fifty dollars a month. It would enable him to contribute more to the support of the family, and save up money besides. But the great problem was, how to raise the necessary money. If Paul had been a railroad corporation, he might have issued first mortgage bonds at a high rate of interest, payable in gold, and negotiated them through some leading banker. But he was not much versed in financial schemes, and therefore was at a loss. The only wealthy friend he had was Mr. Preston, and he did not like to apply to him till he had exhausted other ways and means.

"What makes you so sober, Paul?" asked his mother, as he entered the room. "You are home early."

"Yes, I sold all my papers, and thought I would take an early dinner, so as to be on hand in time for the first afternoon papers."

"Don't you feel well?"

"Tiptop; but I've had a good offer, and I'm thinking whether I can accept it."

"What sort of an offer?"

"George Barry wants to sell out his stand."

"How much does he ask?"

"Thirty-five dollars."

"Is it worth that?"

"Yes, it's worth all that, and more, too. If I had it I could make two dollars a day. But I haven't got thirty-five dollars."

"I can let you have nine, Paul. I had a little saved up, and I haven't touched the money Mr. Preston paid me for the shirts."

"I've got five myself, but that will only make fourteen."

"Won't he wait for the rest?"

"No, he's going to Philadelphia early next week, and wants the whole in cash."

"It would be a pity to lose such a good chance," said Mrs. Hoffman.

"That's what I think."

"You could soon save up the money on two dollars a day."

"I could pay for it in a month—I mean, all above the fourteen dollars we have."

"In a day or two I shall have finished the second half-dozen shirts, and then I suppose Mr. Preston will pay me nine dollars more. I could let you have six dollars of that."

"That would make twenty. Perhaps George Barry will take that. If he won't I don't know but I will venture to apply to Mr. Preston."

"He seems to take an interest in you. Perhaps he would trust you with the money."

"I could offer him a mortgage on the stock," said Paul.

"If he has occasion to foreclose, he will be well provided with neckties," said Mrs. Hoffman, smiling.

"None of which he could wear. I'll tell you what, mother, I should like to pick up a pocketbook in the street, containing, say, twenty or twenty-five dollars."

"That would be very convenient," said his mother; "but I think it will hardly do to depend on such good luck happening to you. By the way," she said, suddenly, "perhaps I can help you, after all. Don't you remember that gold ring I picked up in Central Park two years ago?"

"The one you advertised?"

"Yes. I advertised, or, rather, your father did; but we never found an owner for it."

"I remember it now, mother. Have you got the ring still?"

"I will get it."

Mrs. Hoffman went to her trunk, and, opening it, produced the ring referred to. It was a gold ring with a single stone of considerable size.

"I don't know how much it is worth," said Mrs. Hoffman; "but if the ring is a diamond, as I think it is, it must be worth as much as twenty dollars."

"Did you ever price it?"

"No, Paul; I have kept it, thinking that it would be something to fall back upon if we should ever be hard pressed. As long as we were able to get along without suffering, I thought I would keep it. Besides, I had another feeling. It might belong to some person who prized it very much, and the time might come when we could find the owner. However, that is not likely after so long a time. So, if you cannot raise the money in any other way, you may sell the ring."

"I might pawn it for thirty days, mother. By that time I should be able to redeem it with the profits of my business."

"I don't think you could get enough from a pawn-broker."

"I can try, at any rate; but first I will see George Barry, and find out whether he will take twenty dollars down, and the rest at the end of a month."

Paul wrapped up the ring in a piece of paper, and deposited it in his vest pocket. He waited till after dinner, and then went at once to the necktie stand, where he made the proposal to George Barry.

The young man shook his head.

"I'd like to oblige you, Paul," he said, "but I must have the money. I have an offer of thirty-two dollars, cash, from another party, and I must take up with it if I can't do any better. I'd rather sell out to you, but you know I have to consult my own interest."

"Of course, George, I can't complain of that."

"I think you will be able to borrow the money somewhere."

"Most of my friends are as poor as myself," said Paul. "Still, I think I shall be able to raise the money. Only wait for me two days."

"Yes, Paul, I'll wait that long. I'd like to sell out to you, if only because you have helped me when I was sick. But for you all that would have been lost time."

"Where there's a will there's a way, George," said Paul. "I'm bound to buy your stand and I will raise the money somehow."

Paul bought a few papers, for he did not like to lose the afternoon trade, and in an hour had sold them all off, realizing a profit of twenty cents. This made his profits for the day seventy cents.

"That isn't as well as I used to do," said Paul to himself, "but perhaps I can make something more by and by. I will go now and see what I can get for the ring."

As he had determined, he proceeded to a pawnbroker's shop which he had often passed. It was on Chatham street, and was kept by an old man, an Englishman by birth, who, though he lived meanly in a room behind his shop, was popularly supposed to have accumulated a considerable fortune.



CHAPTER XV

THE PAWNBROKER'S SHOP

Stuffed behind the counter, and on the shelves of the pawnbroker's shop, were articles in almost endless variety. All was fish that came to his net. He was willing to advance on anything that had a marketable value, and which promised to yield him, I was about to say, a fair profit. But a fair profit was far from satisfying the old man. He demanded an extortionate profit from those whom ill-fortune drove to his door for relief.

Eliakim Henderson, for that was his name, was a small man, with a bald head, scattering yellow whiskers, and foxlike eyes. Spiderlike he waited for the flies who flew of their own accord into his clutches, and took care not to let them go until he had levied a large tribute. When Paul entered the shop, there were three customers ahead of him. One was a young woman, whose pale face and sunken cheeks showed that she was waging an unequal conflict with disease. She was a seamstress by occupation, and had to work fifteen hours a day to earn the little that was barely sufficient to keep body and soul together. Confined in her close little room on the fourth floor, she scarcely dared to snatch time to look out of the window into the street beneath, lest she should not be able to complete her allotted task. A two days' sickness had compelled her to have recourse to Eliakim Henderson. She had under her arm a small bundle covered with an old copy of the Sun.

"What have you got there?" asked the old man, roughly. "Show it quick, for there's others waiting."

Meekly she unfolded a small shawl, somewhat faded from long use.

"What will you give me on that?" she asked, timidly.

"It isn't worth much."

"It cost five dollars."

"Then you got cheated. It never was worth half the money. What do you want on it?"

The seamstress intended to ask a dollar and a half, but after this depreciation she did not venture to name so high a figure.

"A dollar and a quarter," she said.

"A dollar and a quarter!" repeated the old man, shrilly. "Take it home with you. I don't want it."

"What will you give?" asked the poor girl, faintly.

"Fifty cents. Not a penny more."

"Fifty cents!" she repeated, in dismay, and was about to refold it. But the thought of her rent in arrears changed her half-formed intention.

"I'll take it, sir."

The money and ticket were handed her, and she went back to her miserable attic-room, coughing as she went.

"Now, ma'am," said Eliakim.

His new customer was an Irish woman, by no means consumptive in appearance, red of face and portly of figure.

"And what'll ye be givin' me for this?" she asked, displaying a pair of pantaloons.

"Are they yours, ma'am?" asked Eliakim, with a chuckle.

"It's not Bridget McCarty that wears the breeches," said that lady. "It's me husband's, and a dacent, respectable man he is, barrin' the drink, which turns his head. What'll ye give for 'em?"

"Name your price," said Eliakim, whose principle it was to insist upon his customers making the first offer.

"Twelve shillin's," said Bridget.

"Twelve shillings!" exclaimed Eliakim, holding up both hands. "That's all they cost when they were new."

"They cost every cint of five dollars," said Bridget. "They was made at one of the most fashionable shops in the city. Oh, they was an illigant pair when they was new."

"How many years ago was that?" asked the pawnbroker.

"Only six months, and they ain't been worn more'n a month."

"I'll give you fifty cents."

"Fifty cints!" repeated Mrs. McCarty, turning to the other customers, as if to call their attention to an offer so out of proportion to the valuable article she held in her hand. "Only fifty cints for these illigant breeches! Oh, it's you that's a hard man, that lives on the poor and the nady."

"You needn't take it. I should lose money on it, if you didn't redeem it."

"He says he'd lose money on it," said Mrs. McCarty. "And suppose he did, isn't he a-rollin' in gold?"

"I'm poor," said Eliakim; "almost as poor as you, because I'm too liberal to my customers."

"Hear till him!" said Mrs. McCarty. "He says he's liberal and only offers fifty cints for these illigant breeches."

"Will you take them or leave them?" demanded the pawnbroker, impatiently.

"You may give me the money," said Bridget; "and it's I that wonder how you can slape in your bed, when you are so hard on poor folks."

Mrs. McCarty departed with her money, and Eliakim fixed his sharp eyes on the next customer. It was a tall man, shabbily dressed, with a thin, melancholy-looking face, and the expression of one who had struggled with the world, and failed in the struggle.

"How much for this?" he asked, pointing to the violin, and speaking in a slow, deliberate tone, as if he did not feel at home in the language.

"What do you want for it?"

"Ten dollar," he answered.

"Ten dollars! You're crazy!" was the contemptuous comment of the pawnbroker.

"He is a very good violin," said the man. "If you would like to hear him," and he made a movement as if to play upon it.

"Never mind!" said Eliakim. "I haven't any time to hear it. If it were new it would be worth something; but it's old, and——"

"But you do not understand," interrupted the customer, eagerly. "It is worth much more than new. Do you see, it is by a famous maker? I would not sell him, but I am poor, and my Bettina needs bread. It hurts me very much to let him go. I will buy him back as soon as I can."

"I will give you two dollars, but I shall lose on it, unless you redeem it."

"Two dollar!" repeated the Italian. "Ocielo! it is nothing. But Bettina is at home without bread, poor little one! Will you not give three dollar?"

"Not a cent more."

"I will take it."

"There's your money and ticket."

And with these the poor Italian departed, giving one last lingering glance at his precious violin, as Eliakim took it roughly and deposited it upon a shelf behind him. But he thought of his little daughter at home, and the means of relief which he held in his hand, and a smile of joy lightened his melancholy features. The future might be dark and unpromising, but for three days, at any rate, she should not want bread.

Paul's turn came next.

"What have you got?" asked the pawnbroker.

Paul showed the ring.

Eliakim took it, and his small, beadlike eyes sparkled avariciously as he recognized the diamond, for his experience was such that he could form a tolerably correct estimate of its value. But he quickly suppressed all outward manifestations of interest, and said, indifferently, "What do you want for it?"

"I want twenty dollars," said Paul, boldly.

"Twenty dollars!" returned the pawnbroker. "That's a joke."

"No, it isn't," said Paul. "I want twenty dollars, and you can't have the ring for less."

"If you said twenty shillings, I might give it to you," said Eliakim; "but you must think I am a fool to give twenty dollars."

"That's cheap for a diamond ring," said Paul. "It's worth a good deal more."

The pawnbroker eyed Paul sharply. Did the boy know that it was a diamond ring? What chance was there of deceiving him as to its value? The old man, whose business made him a good judge, decided that the ring was not worth less than two hundred and fifty dollars, and if he could get it into his possession for a trifle, it would be a paying operation.

"You're mistaken, boy," he said. "It's not a diamond."

"What is it?"

"A very good imitation."

"How much is it worth?"

"I'll give you three dollars."

"That won't do. I want to raise twenty dollars, and if I can't get that, I'll keep the ring."

The pawnbroker saw that he had made a mistake. Paul was not as much in need of money as the majority of his customers. He would rather pay twenty dollars than lose the bargain, though it went against the grain to pay so much money. But after pronouncing the stone an imitation, how could he rise much above the offer he had already made? He resolved to approach it gradually. Surveying it more closely, he said:

"It is an excellent imitation. I will give you five dollars."

Paul was not without natural shrewdness, and this sudden advance convinced him that it was, after all, a real stone. He determined to get twenty dollars or carry the ring home.

"Five dollars won't do me any good," he said. "Give me back the ring."

"Five dollars is a good deal of money," said Eliakim.

"I'd rather have the ring."

"What is your lowest price?"

"Twenty dollars."

"I'll give you eight."

"Just now you said it was worth only three," said Paul, sharply.

"It is very fine gold. It is better than I thought. Here is the money."

"You're a little too fast," said Paul, coolly. "I haven't agreed to part with the ring for eight dollars, and I don't mean to. Twenty dollars is my lowest price."

"I'll give you ten," said the old man, whose eagerness increased with Paul's indifference.

"No, you won't. Give me back the ring."

"I might give eleven, but I should lose money."

"I don't want you to lose money, and I've concluded to keep the ring," said Paul, rightly inferring from the old man's eagerness that the ring was much more valuable than he had at first supposed.

But the old pawnbroker was fascinated by the sparkling bauble. He could not make up his mind to give it up. By fair means or foul he must possess it. He advanced his bid to twelve, fourteen, fifteen dollars, but Paul shook his head resolutely. He had made up his mind to carry it to Ball & Black's, or some other first-class jewelers, and ascertain whether it was a real diamond or not, and if so to obtain an estimate of its value.

"I've changed my mind," he said. "I'll keep the ring. Just give it back to me."



CHAPTER XVI

THE JEWELER'S PRICE

But to give it back was not Eliakim's intention. Should he buy it at twenty dollars, he would make at least two hundred, and such bargains were not to be had every day. He decided to give Paul his price.

"I will give you twenty dollars," he said; "but it is more than the ring is worth."

"I have concluded not to take twenty dollars," said Paul. "You may give it back."

"You agreed to take twenty dollars," said Eliakim, angrily.

"That was when I first came in. You said you wouldn't give it."

"I have changed my mind."

"So have I," said Paul. "You had a chance to get it, but now it's too late."

Eliakim was deeply disappointed. Generally he had his own way with his customers, who, being in urgent need of money, were obliged to accept such terms as he chose to offer. But now the tables were turned, and Paul proved more than a match for him. He resolved to attempt intimidation.

"Boy, where did you get this ring?" he asked, in a significant tone.

"Honestly," said Paul. "That's all you need to know."

"I don't believe it," said the old man, harshly. "I believe you stole it."

"You may believe what you like, but you must give it back to me," said Paul, coolly.

"I've a great mind to call a policeman," said Eliakim.

"If you did," said Paul, "I'd tell him that you were anxious to get the ring, though you believed it to be stolen. Perhaps he might have something to say to you."

Eliakim perceived the force of Paul's argument, for in law the receiver of stolen goods is as bad as the thief, and there had been occasions when the pawnbroker had narrowly escaped punishment for thus indirectly conniving at theft.

"If you say you got it honestly, I'll buy it of you," he said, changing his tune. "What will you take?"

"I don't care about selling to-day," answered Paul.

"I'll give you twenty-five dollars."

"I can't sell without consulting my mother. It belongs to her."

Reluctantly Eliakim gave back the ring, finding his wiles of no effect.

"Bring your mother round to-morrow," he said. "I'll give you a better price than you will get anywhere else."

"All right," said Paul. "I'll tell her what you say."

The old pawnbroker followed Paul with wistful glances, vainly wishing that he had not at first depreciated the ring to such an extent, that his subsequent advances had evidently excited his customer's suspicion that it was more valuable than he supposed. He felt that he had lost it through not understanding the character of the boy with whom he had to deal.

"Well, Paul, what news of the ring?" asked Mrs. Hoffman, as he re-entered the room.

"I was offered twenty-five dollars for it," said Paul.

"Did you sell it?"

"No, mother."

"Why not?" asked Jimmy. "Twenty-five dollars is a lot of money."

"I know it," said Paul; "but the ring is worth a great deal more."

"What makes you think so, Paul?"

"Because the offer was made by a pawnbroker, who never pays quarter what an article is worth. I am sure the ring is worth a hundred dollars."

"Yes, I am sure it is worth all that."

"A hundred dollars!" repeated Jimmy, awestruck at the magnitude of the sum.

"What shall we do about it, Paul?" asked his mother. "A hundred dollars will do us more good than the ring."

"I know that, mother. What I propose is, to carry it to Ball & Black's, or Tiffany's, and sell it for whatever they say it is worth. They are first-class houses, and we can depend upon fair treatment."

"Your advice is good, Paul. I think we will follow it. When will you go?"

"I will go at once. I have nothing else to do, and I would like to find out as soon as I can how much it will bring. Old Henderson wanted me to think, at first, that it was only imitation, and offered me twenty shillings on it. He's an old cheat. When he found that I wasn't to be humbugged, he raised his offer by degrees to twenty-five dollars. That was what made me suspect its value."

"If you get a hundred dollars, Paul," said Jimmy, "you can buy out the stand."

"That depends on whether mother will lend me the money," said Paul. "You know it's hers. She may not be willing to lend without security."

"I am so unaccustomed to being a capitalist," said Mrs. Hoffman, smiling, "that I shan't know how to sustain the character. I don't think I shall be afraid to trust you, Paul."

Once more, with the ring carefully wrapped in a paper and deposited in his pocketbook, Paul started uptown. Tiffany, whose fame as a jeweler is world-wide, was located on Broadway. He had not yet removed to his present magnificent store on Union Square.

Paul knew the store, but had never entered it. Now, as he entered, he was struck with astonishment at the sight of the immense and costly stock, unrivaled by any similar establishment, not only in the United States, but in Europe. Our hero walked up to the counter, and stood beside a richly-dressed lady who was bargaining for a costly bracelet. He had to wait ten minutes while the lady was making her choice from a number submitted to her for inspection. Finally she selected one, and paid for it. The clerk, now being at leisure, turned to our hero and asked:—

"Well, young man, what can I do for you?"

"I have a ring which I should like to show you. I want to know how much it is worth."

"Very well. Let me see it."

When Paul produced the diamond ring, the clerk, who had long been in the business, and perceived its value at once, started in surprise.

"This is a very valuable ring," he said.

"So I thought," said Paul. "How much is it worth?"

"Do you mean how much should we ask for it?"

"No; how much would you give for it?"

"Probably two hundred and fifty dollars." Paul was quite startled on finding the ring so much more valuable than he had supposed. He had thought it might possibly be worth a hundred dollars; but he had not imagined any rings were worth as much as the sum named.

"Will you buy it of me?" he asked.

The clerk regarded Paul attentively, and, as he thought, a little suspiciously.

"Does the ring belong to you?" he asked.

"No, to my mother."

"Where did she buy it?"

"She didn't buy it at all. She found it one day at Central Park. It belongs to her now. She advertised for an owner, and examined the papers to see if it was advertised as lost, but could hear nothing of the one to whom it belonged."

"How long ago was this?"

"Two years ago."

"I will show this ring to Mr. Tiffany," said the clerk.

"Very well."

Paul took a seat and waited.

Soon Mr. Tiffany came up.

"Are you the boy who brought in the ring?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

"You say your mother found it two years ago in Central Park?"

"Yes, sir."

"It is a valuable ring. I should be willing to buy it for two hundred and fifty dollars, if I were quite certain that you had a right to dispose of it."

"I have told you the truth, Mr. Tiffany," said Paul, a little nettled at having his word doubted.

"That may be, but there is still a possibility that the original owner may turn up."

"Won't you buy it, then?" asked Paul, disappointed, for, if he were unable to dispose of the ring, he would have to look elsewhere for the means of buying out Barry's street stand.

"I don't say that; but I should want a guaranty of indemnity against loss, in case the person who lost it should present a claim."

"In that case," said Paul, "I would give you back the money you paid me."

Mr. Tiffany smiled.

"But suppose the money were all spent," he suggested. "I suppose you are intending to use the money?"

"I am going to start in business with it," said Paul, "and I hope to add to it."

"Every one thinks so who goes into business; but some get disappointed. You see, my young friend, that I should incur a risk. Remember, I don't know you. I judge from your appearance that you are honest; but appearances are sometimes deceitful."

"Then I suppose you won't buy it?" said Paul, who saw the force of this remark.

"If you can bring here any responsible gentleman who knows you, and is willing to guarantee me against loss in the event of the owner's being found I will buy the ring for two hundred and fifty dollars."

Paul brightened up. He thought at once of Mr. Preston, and, from the friendly interest which that gentleman appeared to take in him, he judged that he would not refuse him this service.

"I think I can do that," he said. "Do you know Mr. Andrew Preston? He is a wealthy gentleman, who lives on Madison avenue, between Thirty-fourth and Thirty-fifth streets."

"Not personally. I know him by reputation."

"Will he be satisfactory?"

"Entirely so."

"He knows me well," said Paul. "I think he will be willing to stand security for me. I will come back in a day or two."

Paul took the ring, and left the store. He determined to call that evening on Mr. Preston, and ask the favor indicated.



CHAPTER XVII

MR. FELIX MONTGOMERY

Paul had an errand farther uptown, and, on leaving Tiffany's walked up as far as Twenty-third street. Feeling rather tired, he got on board a University place car to return. They had accomplished, perhaps, half the distance, when, to his surprise, George Barry entered the car.

"How do you happen to be here, at this time, Barry?" he asked. "I thought you were attending to business."

"I closed up for a couple of hours, having an errand at home. Where have you been?"

"To Tiffany's."

"What, the jewelers?"

"Yes."

"To buy a diamond ring, I suppose," said Barry, jocosely.

"No—not to buy, but to sell one."

"You are joking," said his companion, incredulously.

"No, I am not. The ring belongs to my mother. I am trying to raise money enough on it to buy you out."

"I didn't know your mother was rich enough to indulge in such expensive jewelry."

"She isn't, and that's the reason I am trying to sell it."

"I mean, I didn't think she was ever rich enough."

"I'll explain it," said Paul. "The ring was found some time since in Central Park. As no owner has ever appeared, though we advertised it, we consider that it belongs to us."

"How much is it worth?"

"Mr. Tiffany offered two hundred and fifty dollars for it."

Barry uttered an exclamation of surprise.

"Well, that is what I call luck. Of course, you accepted it."

"I intend to do so; but I must bring some gentleman who will guarantee that I am all right and have the right to sell it."

"Can you do that?"

"I think so! I am going to ask Mr. Preston. I think he will do me that favor."

"Then there's a fair chance of your buying me out."

"Yes. I guess I can settle the whole thing up to-morrow."

"Have you got the ring with you?"

"Yes."

"I should like to see it, if you have no objection."

Paul drew it from his pocket, and passed it over to Barry.

"It's a handsome one, but who would think such a little thing could be worth two hundred and fifty dollars?"

"I'd rather have the money than the ring."

"So would I."

On the right of Paul sat a man of about forty, well-dressed and respectable in appearance, with a heavy gold chain ostentatiously depending from his watch pocket, and with the air of a substantial citizen. He listened to the conversation between Barry and Paul with evident interest, and when Barry had returned the ring, he said:

"Young gentleman, would you be kind enough to let me look at your ring? I am myself in business as a jeweler in Syracuse, and so feel an interest in examining it."

"Certainly, sir," said Paul, the stranger's explanation of his motives inspiring him with perfect confidence.

The jeweler from Syracuse took the ring in his hands and appeared to examine it carefully.

"This is a handsome ring," he said, "and one of great value. How much were you offered for it at Tiffany's?"

"Two hundred and fifty dollars."

"It is worth more."

"Yes, I suppose so," said Paul; "but he has to sell it, and make a profit."

"He could do that, and yet make a profit. I will pay you two hundred and seventy-five dollars, myself—that is, on one condition."

"I don't object to getting twenty-five dollars more," said Paul. "What is the condition?"

"I have an order from a gentleman for a diamond ring for a young lady—an engagement ring, in short. If this suits him, as I think it will, I will pay you what I said. I can easily get three hundred and twenty-five from him."

"How are you going to find out whether it will suit him?"

"Easily. He is stopping at the same hotel with me."

"What hotel is that?"

"Lovejoy's. If you can spare the time and will come with me now, we can arrange matters at once. By the way, you can refer me to some responsible citizen, who will guarantee you. Not, of course, that I have any doubts, but we business men are forced to be cautious."

Paul mentioned Mr. Preston's name.

"Quite satisfactory," answered the jeweler. "I know Mr. Preston personally, and as I am pressed for time, I will accept his name without calling upon him. What is your name?"

"Paul Hoffman."

"I will note it down."

The gentleman from Syracuse drew out a memorandum book, in which he entered Paul's name.

"When you see Mr. Preston, just mention my name; Felix Montgomery."

"I will do so."

"Say, if you please, that I would have called upon him, but, coming to the city strictly on business, was too hurried to do so."

This also Paul promised, and counted himself fortunate in falling in with a friend, or, at all events, acquaintance of Mr. Preston, since he was likely to make twenty-five dollars more than he would otherwise have done.

When he got out of the car at the Astor House, the stranger said:

"It will be half an hour before I can reach Lovejoy's, as I have a business call to make first. Can you call there, say, in three-quarters of an hour?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very well, then, I will expect you. Inquire for me at the desk, and ask the servant to conduct you to my room—you remember my name?"

"Yes, sir—Mr. Felix Montgomery."

"Quite right. Good-by, then, till we meet."

Mr. Felix Montgomery went into the Astor House, and remained about five minutes. He then came out on the steps, and, looking about him to see if Paul was anywhere near, descended the steps, and walked across to Lovejoy's Hotel. Going up to the desk, he inquired:

"Can you accommodate me with a room?"

"Yes, sir; please enter your name."

The stranger entered his name with a flourish, as Felix Montgomery, Syracuse.

"Room No. 237," said the clerk; "will you go up now?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Any luggage?"

"My trunk will be brought from the St. Nicholas in the course of the afternoon."

"We require payment in advance where there is no luggage."

"Very well. I will pay for one day. I am not sure but I shall get through my business in time to go away to-morrow."

Here the servant appeared to conduct Mr. Montgomery to his room.

"By the way," he said, turning back, as if it were an afterthought, "I directed a boy to call here for me in about half an hour. When he comes you may send him up to my room."

"Very well, sir."

Mr. Montgomery followed the servant upstairs to room No. 237. It was rather high up, but he seemed well pleased that this was the case.

"Hope you won't get tired of climbing, sir," said the servant.

"No—I've got pretty good wind."

"Most gentlemen complain of going up so far."

"It makes little difference to me."

At length they reached the room, and Mr. Montgomery entered.

"This will answer very well," he said, with a hasty glance about him. "When my trunk comes, I want it sent up."

"Yes, sir."

"I believe that is all; you can go."

The servant retired and Mr. Felix Montgomery sat down upon the bed.

"My little plot seems likely to succeed," he said to himself. "I've been out of luck lately, but this boy's ring will give me a lift. He can't suspect anything. He'll be sure to come."

Probably the reader has already suspected that Mr. Felix Montgomery was not a jeweler from Syracuse, nor had he any claim to the name under which he at present figured. He was a noted confidence man, who lived by preying upon the community. His appearance was in his favor, and it was his practice to assume the dress and air of a respectable middle-aged citizen, as in the present instance. The sight of the diamond ring had excited his cupidity, and he had instantly formed the design of getting possession of it, if possible. Thus far, his plan promised success.

Meanwhile, Paul loitered away the time in the City Hall Park for half an hour or more. He did not care to go home until his negotiation was complete, and he could report the ring sold, and carry home the money.

"Won't mother be astonished," he thought, "at the price I got for the ring? I'm in luck this morning."

When the stipulated time had passed, Paul rose from the bench on which he was seated, and walked to Lovejoy's Hotel, not far distant.

"Has Mr. Felix Montgomery a room here?" he asked.

"Yes," answered the clerk. "Did you wish to see him?"

"Yes, sir."

"He mentioned that a boy would call by appointment. Here, James, show this boy up to No. 237—Mr. Montgomery's room."

A hotel servant appeared, and Paul followed him up several flights of stairs till they stood before No. 237.

"This is the room, sir," said James. "Wait a minute, and I'll knock."

In answer to the knock, Mr. Montgomery himself opened the door.

"Come in," he said to Paul; "I was expecting you."

So Paul, not suspecting treachery, entered No. 237.



CHAPTER XVIII

A CLEVER THIEF

"Take a seat," said Mr. Montgomery. "My friend will be in directly. Meanwhile will you let me look at the ring once more?"

Paul took it from his pocket, and handed it to the jeweler from Syracuse, as he supposed him to be.

Mr. Montgomery took it to the window, and appeared to be examining it carefully.

He stood with his back to Paul, but this did not excite suspicion on the part of our hero.

"I am quite sure," he said, still standing with his back to Paul, "that this will please my friend. From the instructions he gave me, it is precisely what he wanted."

While uttering these words, he had drawn a sponge and a vial of chloroform from his side pocket. He saturated the former from the vial, and then, turning quickly, seized Paul, too much taken by surprise to make immediate resistance, and applied the sponge to his nose. When he realized that foul play was meditated, he began to struggle, but he was in a firm grasp, and the chloroform was already beginning to do its work. His head began to swim, and he was speedily in a state of insensibility. When this was accomplished, Mr. Felix Montgomery, eyeing the insensible boy with satisfaction, put on his hat, walked quickly to the door, which he locked on the outside, and made his way rapidly downstairs. Leaving the key at the desk, he left the hotel and disappeared.

Meanwhile Paul slowly recovered consciousness. As he came to himself, he looked about him bewildered, not at first comprehending where he was. All at once it flashed upon him, and he jumped up eagerly and rushed to the door. He tried in vain to open it.

"I am regularly trapped!" he thought, with a feeling of mingled anger and vexation. "What a fool I was to let myself be swindled so easily! I wonder how long I have been lying here insensible?"

Paul was not a boy to give up easily. He meant to get back the ring if it was a possible thing. The first thing was, of course, to get out of his present confinement. He was not used to hotel arrangements and never thought of the bell, but, as the only thing he could think of, began to pound upon the door. But it so happened that at this time there were no servants on that floor, and his appeals for help were not heard. Every moment that he had to wait seemed at least five, for no doubt the man who had swindled him was improving the time to escape to a place of safety. Finding that his blows upon the door produced no effect, he began to jump up and down upon the floor, making, in his heavy boots, a considerable noise.

The room directly under No. 237 was occupied by an old gentleman of a very nervous and irascible temper, Mr. Samuel Piper, a country merchant, who, having occasion to be in the city on business for a few days, had put up at Lovejoy's Hotel. He had fatigued himself by some business calls, and was now taking a little rest upon the bed, when he was aroused from half-sleep by the pounding overhead.

"I wish people would have the decency to keep quiet," he said to himself, peevishly. "How can I rest with such a confounded racket going on above!"

He lay back, thinking the noise would cease, but Paul, finding the knocking on the door ineffectual, began to jump up and down, as I have already said. Of course this noise was heard distinctly in the room below.

"This is getting intolerable!" exclaimed Mr. Piper, becoming more and more excited. "The man ought to be indicted as a common nuisance. How they can allow such goings-on in a respectable hotel, I can't understand. I should think the fellow was splitting wood upstairs."

He took his cane, and, standing on the bed, struck it furiously against the ceiling, intending it as signal to the man above to desist. But Paul, catching the response, began to jump more furiously than ever, finding that he had attracted attention.

Mr. Piper became enraged.

"The man must be a lunatic or overcome by drink," he exclaimed. "I can't and I won't stand it."

But the noise kept on.

Mr. Piper put on his shoes and his coat, and, seizing his cane, emerged upon the landing. He espied a female servant just coming upstairs.

"Here, you Bridget, or Nancy, or whatever your name is," he roared, "there's a lunatic upstairs, making a tremendous row in the room over mine. If you don't stop him I'll leave the hotel. Hear him now!"

Bridget let fall her duster in fright.

"Is it a crazy man?" she asked.

"Of course he must be. I want you to go up and stop him."

"Is it me that would go near a crazy man?" exclaimed Bridget, horror-struck; "I wouldn't do it for a million dollars; no, I wouldn't."

"I insist upon your going up," said Mr. Piper, irritably. "He must be stopped. Do you think I am going to stand such an infernal thumping over my head?"

"I wouldn't do it if you'd go down on your knees to me," said Bridget, fervently.

"Come along, I'll go with you."

But the terrified girl would not budge.

"Then you go down and tell your master there's a madman up here. If you don't, I will."

This Bridget consented to do; and, going downstairs, gave a not very coherent account of the disturbance. Three male servants came back with her.

"Is that the man?" asked the first, pointing to Mr. Piper, who certainly looked half wild with irritation.

"Yes," said Bridget, stupidly.

Immediately Mr. Piper found himself pinioned on either side by a stout servant.

"What have you been kickin' up a row for?" demanded the first.

"Let me alone, or I'll have the law take care of you," screamed the outraged man. "Can't you hear the fellow that's making the racket?"

Paul, tired with thumping, had desisted for a moment, but now had recommenced with increased energy. The sounds could be distinctly heard on the floor below.

"Excuse me, sir. I made a mistake," said the first speaker, releasing his hold. "We'll go up and see what's the matter."

So the party went upstairs, followed at a distance by Bridget, who, influenced alike by fear and curiosity, did not know whether to go up or retreat.

The sounds were easily traced to room No. 237. In front of this, therefore, the party congregated.

"What's the matter in there?" asked James, the first servant, putting his lips to the keyhole.

"Yes," chimed in Mr. Piper, irritably; "what do you mean by such an infernal hubbub?"

"Open the door, and let me out," returned Paul, eagerly.

The party looked at each other in surprise. They did not expect to find the desperate maniac a boy.

"Perhaps there's more than one of them," suggested the second servant, prudently.

"Why don't you come out yourself?" asked James. "I am locked in."

The door was opened with a passkey and Paul confronted the party.

"Now, young man, what do you mean by making such a disturbance?" demanded Mr. Piper, excitably. "My room is just below, and I expected every minute you would come through."

"I am sorry if I disturbed you, sir," said Paul, politely; "but it was the only way I could attract attention."

"How came you locked up here?"

"Yes," chimed in James, suspiciously, "how came you locked up here?"

"I was drugged with chloroform, and locked in," said Paul.

"Who did it?"

"Mr. Felix Montgomery; or that's what he called himself. I came here by appointment to meet him."

"What did he do that for?"

"He has carried off a diamond ring which I came up here to sell him."

"A very improbable story," said Mr. Piper, suspiciously. "What should such a boy have to do with a diamond ring?"

Nothing is easier than to impart suspicion. Men are prone to believe evil of each other; and Paul was destined to realize this. The hotel servants, ignorant and suspicious, caught the suggestion.

"It's likely he's a' thafe," said Bridget, from a safe distance.

"If I were," said Paul, coolly, "I shouldn't be apt to call your attention by such a noise. I can prove to you that I am telling the truth. I stopped at the office, and the bookkeeper sent a servant to show me up here."

"If this is true," said Mr. Piper, "why, when you found yourself locked in, didn't you ring the bell, instead of making such a confounded racket? My nerves won't get over it for a week."

"I didn't think of the bell," said Paul; "I am not much used to hotels."

"What will we do with him?" asked James, looking to Mr. Piper for counsel.

"You'd better take him downstairs, and see if his story is correct," said the nervous gentleman, with returning good sense.

"I'll do it," said James, to whom the very obvious suggestion seemed marked by extraordinary wisdom, and he grasped Paul roughly by the arm.

"You needn't hold me," said our hero, shaking off the grasp. "I haven't any intention of running away. I want to find out, if I can, what has become of the man that swindled me."

James looked doubtfully at Mr. Piper.

"I don't think he means to run away," said that gentleman. "I begin to think his story is correct. And hark you, my young friend, if you ever get locked up in a hotel room again, just see if there is a bell before you make such a confounded racket."

"Yes, sir, I will," said Paul, half-smiling; "but I'll take care not to get locked up again. It won't be easy for anybody to play that trick on me again."

The party filed downstairs to the office and Paul told his story to the bookkeeper.

"Have you seen Mr. Montgomery go out?" asked our hero.

"Yes, he went out half an hour ago, or perhaps more. He left his key at the desk, but said nothing. He seemed to be in a hurry."

"You didn't notice in what direction he went?"

"No."

Of course no attempt was made to detain Paul. There could be no case against him. He went out of the hotel, and looked up and down Broadway in a state of indecision. He did not mean to sit down passively and submit to the swindle. But he had no idea in what direction to search for Mr. Felix Montgomery.



CHAPTER XIX

PAUL DELIBERATES

Paul stood in the street irresolute. He looked hopelessly up and down Broadway, but of course the jeweler from Syracuse was not to be seen. Seeking for him in a city containing hundreds of streets and millions of inhabitants was about as discouraging as hunting for a needle in a haystack. But difficult as it was, Paul was by no means ready to give up the search. Indeed, besides the regret he felt at the loss, he was mortified at having been so easily outwitted.

"He's taken me in just as if I was a country boy," thought Paul. "I dare say he's laughing at me now. I'd like to get even with him."

Finally he decided to go to Tiffany's, and ask them to detain any one who might bring in the ring and offer it for sale. He at once acted upon this thought, and, hailing a Broadway stage, for no time was to be lost, soon reached his destination. Entering the store, he walked up to the counter and addressed the clerk to whom he had before shown the ring.

"Do you remember my offering you a diamond ring for sale this morning?" he asked.

"Yes, I remember it very well. Have you got it with you?"

"No, it has been stolen from me."

"Indeed! How was that?" asked the clerk, with interest.

"I met in the cars a well-dressed man, who called himself a jeweler from Syracuse. He examined the ring, and offered me more than Mr. Tiffany, but asked me to bring it to him at Lovejoy's Hotel. When I got there, he drugged me with chloroform, and when I recovered he was gone."

"You have been unlucky. There are plenty of such swindlers about. You should have been careful about displaying the ring before strangers."

"I was showing it to a friend."

"Have you notified the police?"

"Not yet. I came here to let you know, because I thought the thief might bring it in here to sell."

"Very likely. Give me a description of him."

Paul described Mr. Felix Montgomery to the best of his ability.

"I think I should know him from your description. I will speak to Mr. Tiffany, and he will no doubt give orders to detain any person who may offer the ring for sale."

"Thank you."

"If you will give me your address, we will notify you in case the ring is brought in."

Paul left his address, and went out of the store, feeling that he had taken one step toward the recovery of his treasure. He next visited the police headquarters, and left a detailed description of the man who had relieved him of the ring and of the circumstances attending the robbery. Then he went home.

His mother looked up as he entered.

"Well, Paul?" she said, inquiringly.

"I've got bad news, mother," he said.

"What is it? Tell me quick!" she said, nervously.

"The ring has been stolen from me."

"How did it happen, Paul?"

"First, I must tell you how much the ring is worth. I went up to Tiffany's, and showed the ring to Mr. Tiffany himself. He told me that he would give me two hundred and fifty dollars for it, if I would satisfy him that I had a right to sell it."

"Two hundred and fifty dollars!" repeated Mrs. Hoffman, in amazement.

"Yes, the diamond is very large and pure."

"Two hundred and fifty dollars would be a great help to us."

"Yes, mother, that is what makes me feel so bad about being swindled out of it."

"Tell me how it happened. Is there no chance of recovering it?"

"A little. I shall do what I can. I have already notified the police, and Mr. Tiffany."

"You have not told me yet how you lost it."

When Paul had told the story, his mother asked, "Did you mention it in the cars that you had offered it at Tiffany's?"

"Yes, and I mentioned his offer."

"Perhaps the thief would be cautious about going there, for that very reason. He might think the ring would be recognized."

"He would go to a large place, thinking that so valuable a ring would be more readily purchased there."

"He might go to Ball & Black's."

"That is true."

"It would be well to give notice there also."

"I will go up there at once. I only wish I could meet Mr. Felix Montgomery; I don't think he would find it so easy to outreach me a second time."

"Take some dinner first, Paul."

"Then I must hurry it down, mother; I don't want to run the risk of getting too late to Ball & Black's. I can't help thinking what a splendid thing it would be if we had the two hundred and fifty dollars. I would buy out Barry's stand, and I would get a sewing-machine for you, and we could live much more comfortably. It makes me mad to think I let that villain take me in so! He must think me jolly green."

"Anybody might have been deceived, Paul. You mustn't blame yourself too much for that."

Leaving Paul on his way to Ball & Black's, we return to Mr. Felix Montgomery, as we shall continue to call him, though he had no right to the name. After stupefying Paul, as already described, he made his way downstairs, and, leaving his key at the desk, went out.

"I hope my young friend will enjoy himself upstairs," he chuckled to himself. "He's quite welcome to the use of the room till to-morrow morning. It's paid for in advance, and I don't think I shall find it convenient to stop there."

He took the ring from his vest pocket and glanced at it furtively.

"It's a beauty," he murmured, complacently. "I never saw a handsomer ring of the size. What was it the boy said he was offered for it? Two hundred and fifty dollars! That'll give me a lift, and it doesn't come any too soon. My money is pretty low."

He walked across the City Hall Park, and at Barclay street entered a University place car.

"Evenin' paper, mister?" said a ragged newsboy, whose garments were constructed on the most approved system of ventilation.

"What have you got?"

"Evenin' Post, Mail, Express!"

"Give me an Express. Here's ten cents."

"I haven't got but three cents change, mister."

"Never mind the change," said Mr. Montgomery, in a fit of temporary generosity, occasioned by his good luck.

"Thank you, sir," said the newsboy, regarding Mr. Montgomery as a philanthropist worthy of his veneration.

Felix Montgomery leaned back in his seat, and, with a benevolent smile, ran his eyes over the columns of the Express. Among the paragraphs which attracted his attention was one relating to a comrade, of similar profession, who had just been arrested in Albany while in the act of relieving a gentleman of his pocketbook.

"Jerry always was a bungler," said Mr. Montgomery, complacently, to himself. "He can't hold a candle to me. I flatter myself that I know how to manage a little affair, like this, for instance, as well as the next man. It'll take a sharp detective to lay hold of me."

It might have been thought that the manner in which he had gained possession of the ring would have troubled Mr. Montgomery, but it was many years since he had led an honest life. He had made a living by overreaching others, and his conscience had become so blunted as to occasion him little trouble. He appeared to think that the world owed him a living, and that he was quite justified in collecting the debt in any way he could.

About twenty minutes brought the car to Amity street and Mr. Montgomery signaled the conductor, and, the car being stopped, he got out.

He walked a few rods in a westerly direction, and paused before a three-story brick house, which appeared to have seen better days.

It was now used as a boarding, or rather lodging-house. The guests were not of a very high character, the landlady not being particular as long as her rent was paid regularly. Mr. Montgomery ascended the steps in a jaunty way, and, opening the door with a passkey, ascended the front staircase. He paused before a room on the third floor, and knocked in a peculiar manner.

The door was opened by a tall woman, in rather neglected attire.

"So you're back," she said.

"Yes, my dear, home again. As the poet says, 'There is no place like home.'"

"I should hope there wasn't," said Mrs. Montgomery, looking about her disdainfully. "A very delightful home it makes with such a charming prospect of the back yard. I've been moping here all day."

"You've found something to console you, I see," said her husband, glancing at the table, on which might be seen a bottle of brandy, half-emptied, and a glass.

"Yes," said Mrs. Montgomery; "I felt so bad I had to send out for something. It took every cent I had. And, by the way, Mrs. Flagg sent in her bill, this morning, for the last two weeks' board; she said she must have it."

"My dear," said Mr. Montgomery, "she shall have it."

"You don't mean to say you've got the money, Tony!" exclaimed his wife, in surprise.

"No, I haven't got the money; but I've got what's just as good."

"What have you got?"

"What do you say to this?" and Mr. Montgomery drew from his pocket the diamond ring, whose loss was so deeply felt by our hero.

"Is that genuine?" asked the lady.

"It's the real thing."

"What a beauty! Where did you get it?"

"It was kindly presented me by a young man of the tender age of fifteen or thereabouts, who had no further use for it."

"You did him out of it, that is. Tell me how you did it."

Mr. Montgomery told the story. His wife listened with interest and appreciation.

"That was a smart operation, Tony," she said.

"I should say it was, Maria."

"How much is the ring worth?"

"Two hundred and fifty dollars."

"Can you get that for it?"

"I can get that for it."

"Tony, you are a treasure."

"Have you just found that out, my dear?"



CHAPTER XX

THE THIEF IN DISGUISE

It will be inferred, from the preceding conversation, that Mrs. Montgomery was not likely to be shocked by the lack of honesty in her husband. Her conscience was as elastic as his; and she was perfectly willing to help him spend his unlawful gains.

"How soon are you going to sell the ring?" she asked.

"I should like to dispose of it at once, Maria."

"You will need to. Mrs. Flagg wants her bill paid at once."

"I quite understand the necessity of promptness, my dear. Only, you know, one has to be cautious about disposing of articles obtained in this way."

"You say you left the boy locked up. It seems to me, you'd better sell the ring before he has a chance to get out and interfere."

"I don't know but you're right, my dear. Well, we'll get ready."

"Do you want me to go with you?"

"Yes; it will disarm suspicion if you are with me. I think I'll go as a country parson."

"Country parsons are not apt to have diamond rings to dispose of."

"Very true, my dear. The remark does credit to your good judgment and penetration. But I know how to get over that."

"As how?"

"Be a little more particular about your speech, my dear. Remember, you are a minister's wife, and must use refined expressions. What is easier than to say that the ring was given me by a benevolent lady of my congregation, to dispose of for the benefit of the poor?"

"Well thought of, Tony. You've got a good head-piece."

"You're right, my dear. I don't like to indulge in self-praise, but I believe I know a thing or two. And now for the masquerade. Where are the duds?"

"In the black trunk."

"Then we'd better lose no time in putting them on."

Without describing the process of transformation in detail, it will be sufficient to say that the next twenty minutes wrought a decided change in the appearance of Mr. and Mrs. Felix Montgomery. The former was arrayed in a suit of canonical black, not of the latest cut. A white neckcloth was substituted for the more gaudy article worn by the jeweler from Syracuse, and a pair of silver-bowed spectacles, composed of plain glass, lent a scholarly air to his face. His hair was combed behind his ears, and, so far as appearance went, he quite looked the character of a clergyman from the rural districts.

"How will I do, my dear?" he asked, complacently.

"Tiptop," answered the lady. "How do I look?"

Mrs. Montgomery had put on a dress of sober tint, and scant circumference, contrasting in a marked manner with the mode then prevailing. A very plain collar encircled her neck. Her hands were incased in brown silk gloves, while her husband wore black kids. Her bonnet was exceedingly plain, and her whole costume was almost Quaker-like in its simplicity.

Her husband surveyed her with satisfaction.

"My dear," he said, "you are a fitting helpmeet for the Rev. Mr. Barnes, of Hayfield Centre. By Jove, you do me credit!"

"'By Jove' is not a proper expression for a man of your profession, Mr. Barnes," said the new minister's wife, with a smile.

"You are right, my dear. I must eschew profanity, and cultivate a decorous style of speech. Well, are we ready?"

"I am."

"Then let us set forth on our pilgrimage. We will imagine, Mrs. Barnes, that we are about to make some pastoral calls."

They emerged into the street. On the way downstairs they met Mrs. Flagg, the landlady, who bowed respectfully. She was somewhat puzzled, however, not knowing when they were let in.

"Good-morning, madam," said Mr. Barnes. "Are you the landlady of this establishment?"

"Yes, sir."

"I have been calling on one of your lodgers—Mr. Anthony Blodgett (this was the name by which Mr. Felix Montgomery was known in the house). He is a very worthy man."

Now, to tell the truth, Mrs. Flagg had not been particularly struck by the moral worth of her lodger, and this testimony led her to entertain doubts as to the discernment of her clerical visitor.

"You know him, then?"

"I know him as myself, madam. Have you never heard him mention the name of Rev. Mr. Barnes, of Hayfield Centre, Connecticut?"

"I can't say I have," answered the landlady.

"That is singular. We were always very intimate. We attended the same school as boys, and, in fact, were like Damon and Pythias."

Mrs. Flagg had never heard of Damon and Pythias, still she understood the comparison.

"You're in rather a different line now," she remarked, dryly.

"Yes, our positions are different. My friend dwells in the busy metropolis, while I pass a quiet, peaceful existence in a secluded country village, doing what good I can. But, my dear, we are perhaps detaining this worthy lady from her domestic avocations. I think we must be going."

"Very well, I am ready."

The first sound of her voice drew the attention of the landlady. Mrs. Felix Montgomery possessed a thin somewhat shrill, voice, which she was unable to conceal, and, looking attentively at her, Mrs. Flagg penetrated her disguise. Then, turning quickly to the gentleman, aided by her new discovery, she also recognized him.

"Well, I declare," said she, "if you didn't take me in beautifully."

Mr. Montgomery laughed heartily.

"You wouldn't know me, then?" he said.

"You're got up excellent," said Mrs. Flagg, with a slight disregard for grammar. "Is it a joke?"