"He's like Sam," thought Henry. "If Mr. Hamilton finds out that he is in debt, he won't stand much chance of having his wages raised. I'm glad I've got something ahead. It makes me feel independent. I hope I shall make something on my borrowed money."

So Henry and Sam have both made investments. It remains to be seen how they will come out.



CHAPTER XII.

HOW SAM SUCCEEDED.

Sam did not tell Henry of his purchase of a lottery ticket, being well aware that his roommate would not approve such an investment.

"I'll wait till the lottery is drawn, and then if I get a prize I'll tell him about it. He can't say anything, then."

Such were Sam's thoughts. He knew, of course, that he might draw a blank; but he did not take much account of that. He lived in a dream of wealth till the day when the result was to be made known. On a certain day the lucky numbers were to be published in the Herald, and for this issue Sam was anxiously waiting.

The number of his ticket was 7,567.

"Seven is a lucky number," said the acquaintance who induced him to buy. "Your number begins and ends with a seven. It's likely to draw something."

Sam listened to this prediction with complacency. He did not reflect upon the absurdity of one number being luckier than another, and congratulated himself that he had been so fortunate as to get a number containing two sevens.

Sam was not usually an early riser. As a general thing he lay in bed as late as he dared to; but on the particular morning which was to terminate his suspense he jumped out of bed at half-past five o'clock.

"What are you going to do, Sam?" inquired Henry, opening his eyes.

"I'm going to get up," answered Sam.

"What's up? Do you have to go to work earlier than usual?"

"No, that isn't it," answered Sam, evasively. "I'm tired of lying abed."

"Rather strange!" thought Henry. "Can it be possible that Sam is turning over a new leaf?"

He did not give much credence to this, but concluded that Sam had a particular reason, which he would learn in due time.

Sam dressed hastily, and walked round to the Herald office, and purchased a copy of the paper, which he unfolded eagerly. He did not immediately find the list of lucky numbers, but at length his eye rested on them. He looked eagerly through the long list, hoping to see number 7,567 in it, but in vain. A prize of fifty dollars was drawn by 7,562; but that was the nearest approach to good fortune.

Poor Sam! His heart sank within him. He had been dreaming golden dreams of fortune for a week past, but now he was brought down to the cold and barren reality. All his money was gone except a dollar, on which he must live for two days and a half, till his weekly wages were due.

"It's a shame!" muttered Sam, in bitter disappointment. "I was sure my ticket would win something. Wasn't there two sevens in it? I believe they cheated."

It was too early yet for breakfast, and he sauntered about idle and purposeless. Suddenly he came upon the young man upon whose advice he had purchased his ticket. He, too, had a Herald in his hand, but was not looking particularly elated.

"He hasn't got anything, either," thought Sam, shrewdly.

Just then he caught sight of Sam.

"Did you draw a prize?" he asked.

"No, I did not," said Sam, gloomily. "I wish I hadn't bought a ticket. That ten dollars is just throwed away. I wish I had it back."

"Better luck next time."

"What good'll that do me?" inquired Sam. "I'm dead broke. I haven't got money enough to buy another ticket. Didn't you tell me I was sure to win with two sevens in my number?"

"I didn't say you were sure. I only said it was a lucky number."

"Well, I wish I had my money back, that's all. I've only got a dollar to last me till Saturday night."

"I ain't much better off myself, Sam; but it's no use giving up. Of course a feller can't be sure to win a big prize the first time. It's worth trying five or six times."

"Where's the money coming from? Ten dollars don't grow on every bush."

"Can't you borrow?"

"My credit ain't good."

"Then, save up till you have enough money."

"How am I to save when I only get five dollars a week?"

"Well, I am sorry for you, Sam; but I'm just as bad off as you are."

"Are you going to buy another ticket?"

"As soon as I can."

The two parted, and Sam began to reflect.

"Perhaps he is right. I couldn't expect to draw a prize the very first time. I wish I could get money enough to buy another ticket. Henry could lend me it as well as not; but I know he wouldn't. He'd just give me a lecture for buying a ticket at all. I wonder if there is any way."

There seemed to be none except to try Henry, and, small as the chance was, he decided to do it.

Henry was just thinking of getting up when Sam returned.

"Back so soon, Sam?" he said. "Have you had breakfast?"

"Not yet."

"I see you have the Herald there. What's the news?"

"I haven't looked to see."

"You don't generally buy a morning paper."

"No; but there was something I wanted to look at this morning."

"You haven't found another ring, and bought the Herald to see whether it's advertised?"

"No; I wish I could find something."

"Have you thought about putting part of your money in the savings-bank, Sam?"

"How can I, when it's all gone?"

"Twenty dollars gone in little more than a week!" exclaimed Henry, in genuine amazement.

"Yes," answered Sam, rather confused.

"What on earth did you do with it all?"

"I guess I must have spent about ten dollars going to the theater, and so on."

"What has become of the other ten dollars then?"

"I bought a lottery ticket," said Sam, little uncomfortably.

"Well, you were foolish!" said Henry. "What made you do it?"

"A friend of mine advised me to. He had one himself."

"He couldn't have been much of a friend of yours. I suppose you didn't draw anything?"

"No."

"I didn't expect you would."

"Other people did, though," said Sam, inclined to uphold the lottery system. "Do you see that long list of prizes?"

"I never knew anybody that drew a prize," said Henry, quietly, "though I've known a good many who bought tickets."

"Forbes tells me if I buy another ticket I'm pretty sure to get something."

"Then, you'd better not mind what Forbes says."

"Of course somebody must draw prizes," said Sam, obstinately.

"It's a poor way to get money, even if you could win one."

"I'd risk that. I'd like to buy another ticket."

Henry shrugged his shoulders.

"I don't think you are very wise, Sam. It is well you haven't any more money to throw away."

This was not promising, but Sam did not mean to give it up.

"Henry," he said, "I wish you'd lend me ten dollars."

"What for?"

"I want to buy one more ticket."

"I can't lend it."

"I should think you might. If I don't get anything this time I'll never buy again."

"I can't oblige you, Sam."

"You mean you won't," said Sam, sulkily.

"No; it happens to be true that I can't."

"Haven't you thirty-five dollars in the savings-bank?"

"I had."

"You haven't spent the money?"

"I have invested it."

"How?"

"I've given the book to my employer as security to pay interest on a loan."

Then, seeing that Sam's curiosity was aroused, he proceeded to explain that he had borrowed five hundred dollars of his employer to pay for a share in a mercantile venture.

"Do you think you'll make any money out of it?" asked Sam, eagerly.

"I hope to."

"About how much?"

"Perhaps I may make a hundred dollars."

"I wish I had that much."

"I suppose you would buy ten lottery tickets," suggested Henry, smiling.

Sam admitted he should invest a part that way.

"I prefer to invest my money in legitimate business," said Henry.

"I don't know about that," said Sam. "I might have drawn the twenty-thousand-dollar prize. That's better than a hundred dollars."

"So it is; but if I keep on I have a good deal better chance of getting up to twenty thousand dollars than you."

"I wish my boss would lend me five hundred dollars," said Sam.

"I wouldn't advise him to," said Henry, smiling. "Now let us go to breakfast."



CHAPTER XIII.

HENRY'S GOOD FORTUNE.

Three months passed. To Henry Martin they passed very satisfactorily. At his new rate of payment he was able to lay up two dollars a week without denying himself anything absolutely necessary to his comfort. At the end of this period, therefore, he had twenty-six dollars on deposit in a new savings-bank. Of his venture he had heard nothing. He remained perfectly easy about this, however, knowing that in due time he would hear from it. Mr. Hamilton, he observed, took more notice of him than formerly. He frequently greeted him, in passing through to his office, with a pleasant word or smile; and Henry felt justified in concluding that he was in favor with him.

It was after the interval of time already mentioned that he again received a summons to the counting-room.

Mr. Hamilton had a long paper before him closely filled with figures.

"Sit down. Henry," he said.

"Thank you, sir."

"You remember our conversation three months since, I suppose?"

"Yes, sir; perfectly."

"You consented to take a share in a venture was sending out to Rotterdam?"

"Yes, sir."

"I have just received a statement of it, and, you are interested, I have called you in to let you know how it has turned out."

"Thank you, sir," said Henry, eagerly.

"I find that, after deducting all expenses, your share of the profits will amount to one hundred dollars."

"One hundred dollars!" exclaimed Henry, in astonishment and delight.

"Yes. I think we have been very successful."

Henry felt flattered by that word "we." It seemed to associate him, humble office boy as he was, with the eminent merchant who employed him.

"That is better than the savings-bank, sir," said Henry.

"Yes, it is; but I ought to add that it is not always so sure. All ventures do not turn out so profitably. To return to your affairs I shall charge you interest on the five hundred dollars you borrowed of me, at the rate of seven per cent. You have had the use of the money for three months."

"Then the interest will amount to eight dollars and three quarters," said Henry, promptly.

"Quite right; you are very quick at reckoning," said Mr. Hamilton, looking pleased.

"That is not a difficult sum," answered Henry, modestly.

"I did not suppose you knew much about computing interest. You left school very young, did you not?"

"At twelve, sir."

"You had not studied interest then, had you?"

"No, sir; I have studied it since."

"At evening-school?"

"No, sir; I studied by myself in the evening."

"How long have you done that?"

"For two years."

"And you keep it up regularly?"

"Yes, sir; occasionally I take an evening for myself, but I average five evenings a week at studying."

"You are a remarkable boy," said the merchant, looking surprised.

"If you flatter me, sir, I may grow self-conceited," said Henry, smiling.

"You have some right to feel satisfied with yourself. Tell me what was your object in commencing this course of work."

"I picked up at a bookstore on Nassau Street an old book containing the lives of some men who rose from obscurity; and I found that many of them studied by themselves in early life, being unable to attend school. It seemed to me that education was necessary to success, and, as I had nothing else to depend upon, I began to work evenings."

"Did you not find it irksome? Were you not tempted sometimes to give it up?"

"Just at first; but afterward I got to enjoy it."

Here Mr. Hamilton asked Henry a few questions, with a view of testing his knowledge both as to extent and accuracy; and the result was so satisfactory as more and more to prepossess him in favor of the boy.

He returned to business.

"It appears," he said, "that, interest deducted, you have ninety-one dollars and a quarter to your credit with me. You are at liberty to draw it, if you wish."

"What would you advise me to do, Mr. Hamilton?" asked Henry.

"You had better leave it in my hands for such use as I may think likely to prove profitable. I shall dispatch a vessel to Marseilles in a week. Would you like to take a share in this venture?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then, I will assign six hundred dollars to you. Five you may continue to borrow of me. One is your own."

"Not quite, sir. You remember the interest."

"That need not be charged till the end of the year. I will still retain the savings-bank book you left with me as a guaranty. Is that satisfactory?"

"Entirely so, sir."

"Have you been able to save up anything lately?"

"Yes, sir; I have twenty-six dollars on depost in another bank."

"Very good. You are, then, provided for in any case of emergency."

Henry went back to work.

His reflections, as may be imagined, were very pleasant. He figured up what he was worth, and it stood thus:

Six-penny Savings Bank.................... $35 00

Second bank account....................... 26 00

Proceeds of venture (net)................. 91 25 ———- $152 25

Thus he figured up a grand total of one hundred and fifty-two dollars and twenty-five cents, making a gain in three months of one hundred and seventeen dollars and twenty-five cents.

"Why, at this rate," thought Henry, "I shall soon be rich."

Of course, he owed a large part of this sum to the favor of his employer; but this, again, was earned by his fidelity and economy—two qualities which I wish were more common among boys of his age.

Returning to his room he looked for his savings-bank book, but to his dismay it was nowhere to be found.

"Where can it be?" he asked himself, perplexed. "Perhaps Sam has seen it."

But Sam had not yet returned from the store, though it was past his usual time.

"It is very strange," thought Henry. "I am sure it was at the bottom of my trunk. Can the trunk have been opened?"



CHAPTER XIV.

THE SAVINGS BANK BOOK.

During the three months, which to Henry brought good fortune, Sam had grown no richer. Indeed, just at this time he was very "hard up." He had applied to Henry for a loan, but as he was already indebted to his more prudent roommate, the latter declined to lend.

"I think you are mean, Henry," said Sam, in disappointment.

"I can't help it, Sam. You can live on five dollars a week just as well as I can."

"You've got a lot of money in the bank," said Sam, reproachfully.

"Because I am more prudent than you."

"I thought you were a friend of mine."

"So I am; but I cannot encourage your extravagance. It wouldn't be a friendly thing to do."

"Oh, it's easy enough for you to find excuses; you don't want to lend, that's all."

"I don't want to give, for that is what it would amount to."

Sam saw that it would be of no use to persist in his request, and he went out sulkily.

That day he found a bunch of keys in the street. This was not a very valuable discovery, and he was tempted at first to throw them down again, when an idea struck him. He dropped the keys into his pocket, and when his lunch hour came, instead of going to a restaurant, as usual, he hurried back to his boarding-house.

The landlady met him as he was going upstairs.

"Have you lost your place?" she asked, suspiciously; for in this case Sam would probably be unable to pay his weekly rent.

"Oh, no," said Sam. "I left something at home, that's all."

He entered his room, and carefully locked the door behind him.

Then he got down on his knees, and, one after the other, he tried the lock of Henry's trunk with the keys he had found. The fifth opened it.

Sam blushed with shame, as he saw the inside of the trunk, with its contents neatly arranged. In spite of his faults he had some honorable feelings, and he felt that he was engaged in a contemptible business. He was violating the confidence of his friend and roommate, who had been uniformly kind to him, though he had declined to lend him money latterly. Sam admitted to himself that in this refusal he was justified, for he knew very well that there was very little chance of repayment.

Sam hoped to find some money in the trunk; but in this hope he was destined to be disappointed. Henry was in the habit of making a weekly deposit in the savings-bank, and therefore he had no surplus stock of money. But at the bottom of his trunk was his savings-bank book. Sam opened it, and his eyes sparkled when he counted up the deposits, and found that they amounted to twenty-six dollars.

"I didn't think Henry had so much money," he said to himself.

He thrust the book into his pocket, and hurriedly locked the trunk. He went downstairs, and hastened to the bank, which, unlike the Sixpenny Savings Bank, was located downtown, and not far from the City Hall. Henry had selected it on account of its nearness.

Sam entered the banking house, and went to the window of the paying clerk. He had accompanied Henry to the bank more than once, and knew just where to go.

"How much do you want?" asked the clerk, in a business-like tone.

"Twenty dollars," replied Sam, who had made up his mind not to take the whole. This was not due to any particular consideration, but on the way he had read the rules of the bank, and ascertained that a week's notice would be necessary before the whole account could be withdrawn.

The clerk filled an order for twenty dollars, and pushed it over to Sam.

"Sign that," he said.

Sam hastily signed the name of "Henry Martin," and passed it back.

The clerk went to a large book, and compared the signature with the one recorded therein. Now, there was a considerable difference between Sam's and Henry's handwriting, and he detected it at once.

"You are not Henry Martin," he said, on his return.

Sam was astonished at this discovery, but was too much alarmed to deny it.

"No, sir," he said.

"What is your name?"

"Sam Barker."

"What made you sign the name of Henry Martin?" asked the bank officer, suspiciously.

"He is my roommate."

"Did he ask you to draw this money for him?"

"Yes," answered Sam.

"He ought to have known that we would not pay it except upon his written order."

"He thought it would do just as well if I signed his name," said Sam, growing bolder.

"Then, he was mistaken."

"Can't you give me the money, then?"

"No, he must come himself."

"All right!" said Sam. "I'll tell him."

He spoke so naturally that the clerk was inclined to think his suspicions were needless, and that Sam was really an authorized agent of the real depositor. But when he got into the street, Sam's vexation found vent.

"Everything goes against me," he grumbled. "It hasn't done me a bit of good taking this book. I shall only have the trouble of putting it back again. I can't do it now, for I must go back to the store, without my lunch, too."

He counted upon replacing the book before it was missed; but Henry reached home first, and discovered his loss, as related in the preceding chapter.



CHAPTER XV.

SAM IS FOUND OUT.

Henry was not a little disturbed at the disappearance of his bank-book. He felt confident that he had laid it away in his trunk, and in that case it must have been stolen. But who possessed a key to the trunk? Could it be Sam? Henry recalled Sam's application for a loan, and he feared that it was really he. He determined to make inquiries as soon as his roommate came home.

He had scarcely formed this determination when Sam entered.

"You are home early, Henry," he said.

"No; it is you who are late."

"I didn't get out quite as soon as usual."

"I wonder whether he has missed the bankbook," thought Sam. "If he'd only go out, I'd put it back where I took it from."

Sam was soon informed as to the bank-book being missed.

"I can't find my bank-book anywhere, Sam," said Henry, looking searchingly at his companion.

"Can't you? Where did you put it?" asked Sam, trying to look unconcerned.

"In my trunk."

"Then it must be there now."

"It is not. I have looked carefully."

"Then, you didn't put it there. You must be mistaken."

"No, I am not."

"You may have dropped it out of your pocket on the way from the bank."

"No; I remember distinctly putting it in my trunk."

Sam shrugged his shoulders.

"I suppose you know best; but if you put it there, it must be there now."

"Unless it has been taken from my trunk," said Henry, significantly.

"Just so," said Sam, readily. "Perhaps the landlady has taken it, or Bridget, the chambermaid."

"I don't think they have."

"Will you lose the money if you don't find the book?"

"No; I can report my loss at the bank, and they will give me a new one."

"Then you're all right."

"I don't like the idea of my book being taken. The same one who took the old book may take the new one."

"Well, I haven't got any bank-book to worry about," said Sam. "Are you going out to supper?"

"Yes. Then, you don't know anything about my book?"

"I! Of course not!" answered Sam. "What should I know of it?"

"I don't know. Come, then, we'll go to supper."

Sam saw that he was suspected, and he knew that he deserved it, but he did not want Henry to ascertain definitely that such was the fact, He wanted to return the book as soon as he could without observation, but for this he must wait a while.

When supper was over, they took a walk of half an hour, and then Henry started to return to his room.

"I'll stay out a little longer," said Sam.

"Are you going to the theater?" asked Henry.

"Not unless you lend me the money," said Sam. "I'm hard up myself."

"You generally are."

"Of course I am. How can I help it on such a mean salary?"

"I don't know what to think," said Henry to himself. "If Sam has the book he hasn't drawn any money on it, or he would go to the theater. Perhaps he is innocent."

Sam stayed out late. He did not go to the theater, being, as he said, short of money, but he lounged away the evening in billiard saloons, and it was a quarter past eleven before he got back to his room. When he entered Henry was fast asleep. Sam congratulated himself upon this. He felt that now was his chance to return the book. He might have replaced it in the trunk, but as Henry had thoroughly searched it, he would at once suspect that it bad been replaced. Besides, Henry might wake up, and detect him in the act.

After some consideration, Sam put it into Henry's inside coat pocket, and then, undressing himself, went to bed.

"I've got clear of it now," he thought, "and whatever Henry suspects, he can't prove anything."

The next morning, as Henry was dressing, he chanced to put his hand in his coat pocket, and drew out the book.

"What's that?" asked Sam, who had been watching him.

"It's my savings-bank book," answered Henry.

"Where did you find it?"

"In my pocket."

"Then, you didn't put it in your trunk, after all?"

"Yes, I did."

"That's foolish. If you had, it wouldn't have got into your pocket."

Henry did not reply, but, examining the book, discovered to his satisfaction that no money had been withdrawn.

"You see you were wrong," said Sam.

"At any rate, I am glad to get the book back again," said Henry, quietly.

"I wonder if he suspects anything," thought Sam.

Henry did suspect, but he was determined to verify his suspicions before saying a word on the subject.

During the day he managed to get away from the store long enough to visit the savings-bank. He went at once to the desk where payments were made, and, showing his book, asked the clerk if he remembered whether any one had presented it the day before.

"Yes," was the answer. "A friend of yours wanted to draw out some money on your account; but of course we did not pay it without your order."

"I am glad you didn't."

"Then you did not send the boy who presented it?"

"No."

"I thought it might be so."

"How much did he want to draw?"

"Twenty dollars."

Henry looked serious. This certainly looked bad for Sam. He did not like to think that a boy to whom he had always been kind would so abuse his confidence.

"I shall take better care of my book in future," he said. "The boy had no authority from me to draw money."

"We saw that the signature was not correct, and refused to honor the draft."

Henry made a deposit of two dollars, increasing the amount to twenty-eight dollars, and then left the bank. On his way back to the store, he made up his mind that he would no longer room with Sam. Even if he increased his expenses, he could not consent to have for a roommate one who had made an attempt to defraud him.



CHAPTER XVI.

SAM LOSES HIS PLACE.

"Mr. Dalton wants you to go to the bank, and make a deposit," said William Budd, to Sam, on the forenoon of the same day.

"All right," said Sam.

"Be particularly careful, as the deposit is unusually large."

"Oh, yes, I'll be careful."

Sam received the checks and drafts, amounting to several thousand dollars, and started for the Fourth National Bank, on Nassau Street. When he had accomplished a part of the distance, he met an old acquaintance, whom he had known in his boot-blacking days.

"How are you, Sam?" said Tim Brady. "I haven't seen you for a long time."

"I'm all right, Tim. I haven't seen you, either. Where have you been?"

"To Boston," answered Tim, briefly.

"You have!" exclaimed Sam, interested. "How did you like it?"

"I don't like it as well as York."

"Why not? Ain't it a nice place?"

"'Tisn't half as big as York. Besides, there ain't half so much fun. There ain't no Old Bowery there, nor Tony Pastor's. I didn't know what to do with myself nights."

"What were you doing? Did you black boots?"

"No," answered Tim. "I was in a store on Dock Square."

"What sort of a store?"

"Clothing store."

"How did you get the place?"

"It is kept by a cousin of the old woman. He wrote that he'd take me if I'd come on. So I went; but I didn't like it."

"Where did you live?"

"With him. He had a house in Chelsea, just over the river, like Brooklyn is. I got my board and a dollar a week."

"That ain't much," said Sam.

"No, I should say not. I had to pay my way over the ferry out of it, too. It didn't leave me no money for cigars nor nothing."

"How long were you there?"

"About three months. I would not have stayed so long, only I couldn't get money to get back."

"You got it at last; or did you walk back?"

"Walk? I guess not. It's three or four hundred miles."

This was not quite exact, but near enough for a guess.

"How much did it cost you to come back?"

"Five dollars."

"That's a good deal. Where did you get so much?"

"I found it in the street one day," answered Tim, with a little hesitation.

"How long have you been back?"

"About a week. I've been looking round for you. Where do you hang out?"

"I've got a room of my own," answered Sam, with an air of importance.

"You have! You're in luck. What are you doin'?"

"I've got a place with Dalton & Co., on Pearl Street."

"What business?

"Merchant. He's awful rich. Just look at that!"

Sam displayed his bundle of checks.

"I don't see nothin' particular except some bits of paper."

"You don't know anything about business, Tim. Them's checks."

"Are they?"

"They're good for a lot of money. Here's a check for twelve hundred dollars, and there's others besides."

"That piece of paper worth twelve hundred dollars!" said Tim, incredulously.

"Yes."

"What are you going to do with it?"

"Take it to the bank."

"What bank?"

"Fourth National Bank."

Tim looked at Sam with respect. He must certainly occupy a responsible business position if he was trusted with such a large amount of money.

Sam, in putting back his checks, was careless enough to drop the twelve-hundred-dollar check. He hurried off, unconscious of his loss, and Tim quietly secured it. He ought to have restored it to Sam, as he easily might have done; but an idea struck him. He would instead carry it round to Mr. Dalton, and in all probability secure a reward for his honesty. This was sharp practice, and hardly consistent with friendship for Sam; but Tim was a boy not particularly scrupulous, who cared more for number one than for any friend. He went into a store near by, ascertained the number of Mr. Dalton's place of business, and hurried down there.

"Is the boss in?" he asked of William Budd, whom he first encountered.

"Yes."

"I'd like to see him."

"What for?"

"Important business," answered Tim.

Budd looked at him rather incredulously.

"If you want to apply for a place, it's no use. We've got a boy already."

"That ain't my business. I've picked up something in the street that belongs to Mr. Dalton, I'm thinkin'."

"What is it?"

"A check."

"Sam must have dropped it," thought William, instantly. "Let me see it," he said, aloud.

"I'll show it to the boss," said Tim, obstinately.

"Come on, then."

"Here is a boy, Mr. Dalton, who thinks he has found something belonging to you," said the young man.

Mr. Dalton looked up.

"What is it, my boy?" he said.

"It's a check," said Tim, and, taking off his ragged hat, he handed the paper to Mr. Dalton.

"It's Nesbitt's check for twelve hundred dollars!" exclaimed the merchant. "Where did you find it?"

"In Nassau Street."

"How could it be there, Mr. Budd?" asked Mr. Dalton.

"I sent Sam to the bank not long since. He must have dropped it. It is not the first time he has been careless."

"I am afraid we shall have to discharge him. How does he perform his duties generally?"

"Not very satisfactorily, sir."

"Send him to me as soon as he returns. Now, my boy, what is your name?"

"Tim Brady, sir."

"Did you know the value of this check?"

"Yes, sir; it's worth twelve hundred dollars."

"How did you know where to bring it?"

"I saw the name, and looked in the 'Directory' to find your place of business."

"You are a good and honest boy."

"Thank you, sir; I try to be," said Tim, meekly.

"You have done me a service. Here are ten dollars."

"Thank you, sir," said Tim, joyfully. "You're a gentleman."

Mr. Dalton smiled.

"Always keep honest. 'Honesty is the best policy.'"

"I think so myself, sir," said Tim.

Tim retired quite elated. From a corner nearly opposite he watched for Sam's return.

"He looks sober," said Tim to himself. "It's likely he'll get 'bounced.' I wonder will I stand a chance for his place."

"Sam," said William Budd, on his entrance, "Mr. Dalton wants to see you."

Sam looked startled. He had ascertained his loss, and was perplexed and troubled about it.

Mr. Dalton looked up as he entered.

"Have you been to the bank, Samuel?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Did you deposit all the checks given you?"

"I lost one check some way," stammered Sam.

"You must have been very careless," said his employer, in a tone of reproof.

"I don't think I was," said Sam.

"You must have been. Did you not know that you had charge of a large amount?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then, knowing this, you should have been particularly careful."

"I'll go back and look for it, sir."

"Fortunately there is no need of this, as it was picked up and brought here by an honest boy. It was a check for twelve hundred dollars."

"Then, you've got it again?" said Sam, relieved. "Shall I go round to the bank and carry it?"

"No, I shall not again trust you to go to the bank. Indeed, I am sorry to say that I cannot retain you in my employ."

"I hope you'll keep me," said Sam, alarmed.

"I cannot do it in justice to myself. Call Mr. Budd."

William Budd entered.

"Mr. Budd," said Mr. Dalton, "I think you told me you had a cousin who desired a place."

"Yes, sir."

"Tell him to come here to-morrow. I have discharged Sam."

"Thank you, sir."

"I do not forget, Sam," continued the merchant, "that you once rendered me a service in bringing home my little boy. I regret that I cannot keep you in my employ. To compensate you for the disappointment, I will give you twenty-five dollars, and you are at liberty to go at once if you desire it."

Sam's eyes sparkled with pleasure. He felt so rich that he cared little for the loss of his place.

"Thank you, sir," he said.

"I wish you good luck, Samuel," said Mr. Dalton, good-naturedly.

Again Sam thanked him, and left the store looking so cheerful that Tim, who was watching for his appearance, was quite bewildered.

"He seems glad he's 'bounced,'" thought Tim. "I'll go and ask him about it."



CHAPTER XVII.

TIM IS UNMASKED.

Before Sam had gone far Tim Brady managed to throw himself in his way.

"Where are you goin', now?" he asked. "Have you been to the bank?"

"Yes," answered Sam. "I lost one of them checks."

"You don't say!" said hypocritical Tim.

"It was the twelve-hundred-dollar one."

"What did the boss say? Did he blow you up?" inquired Tim, puzzled by Sam's cheerful manner.

"Yes; I'm 'bounced.'"

"You don't seem to care much," said Tim, watching him curiously.

"No, I don't. I'm tired of the old place."

"What are you goin' to do? Are you goin' back to boot blackin'?"

"No," answered Sam, scornfully; "I should say not."

"You ain't goin' to retire on a fortune, are you?"

"Look here, Tim," said Sam, displaying a roll of bills. "What do you say to that?"

"Did you save all that?" asked Tim, in great astonishment.

"No; Mr. Dalton just gave it to me."

"Give it to you when he 'bounced' you?"

"Yes; you see, I found his little boy in the street one day, and took him home. He give me a place for that, and now that I'm sacked he's give me this money."

"I say, Sam, you're in luck. How much is there?"

"Twenty-five dollars."

"You couldn't lend a feller five dollars?" said Tim, insinuatingly.

"Yes, I could," answered Sam, cooly; "but I won't."

"Why not?"

"I want it all myself."

"You might let me have a little," pleaded Tim.

"I'll give you a square meal," said Sam, "but I can't do no more. I'm goin' to Boston."

"What's put in into your head to go to Boston?"

"You have."

"Well, I hope you'll like it better than I do."

"Which way would you go?" asked Sam.

"Fall River line. They're got nice steamers."

"When do they go?"

"Five o'clock."

"All right. I'll go this afternoon."

"You'll be comin' back soon," said Tim.

"Maybe I will, but I want to see the place. I ain't never traveled much, and now I'm goin'."

"You'd better stay, and take me to Tony Pastor's to-night."

Sam shook his head.

"Oh, yes, you'd like me to spend all my money on you; but I don't see it."

"You needn't be so afraid. I've got some money, too," said Tim, nettled.

"You've got fifty cents, I s'pose."

"Does that look like fifty cents?"

Tim displayed the ten dollars he had received from Mr. Dalton for restoring the lost check.

Sam was astonished beyond measure.

"Where did you get that money?" he asked.

"It's some I had over when I failed,"

"And with all that money in your pocket you asked me for five dollars!" exclaimed Sam, with justifiable indignation.

"Why shouldn't I? Haven't you got more than I have?"

Tim began to see that he had made a mistake in proclaiming his riches; especially when Sam added that he might buy his own dinner—that he wasn't going to treat him.

"You promised you would," said Tim.

"I didn't know you had so much money. I thought you was hard up. You're a fraud."

"So are you," said Tim, resentfully.

"I don't want no more to do with you."

Tim was nettled. He wanted to be revenged, and his secret slipped out.

"You needn't feel so big," he said. "I got you 'bounced.'"

Here was much cause for astonishment.

"You got me 'bounced'?" repeated Sam, in surprise.

"Yes, I did. I found that check you dropped, and took it round to your boss. He give me this ten dollars, and 'bounced' you."

This was too much for Sam's equanimity. That a boy who had so injured him should try to wheedle money and a treat out of him struck him as so atrocious, that he felt action to be imperative. A sudden movement of the foot upset Tim; and Sam, without waiting to see how he relished his downfall, fled round a corner before Tim could retaliate.

"He's the meanest boy I ever knew!" thought our retreating hero. "He got me sacked, and then wanted me to treat him. I guess he won't ask me again."

Sam was still determined to go to Boston that afternoon. Before he went he wanted to say good-by to Henry Martin, and, as the boat would sail before business hours was over, he decided to go round to the store where he was employed.

Henry was just leaving the store on an errand when Sam came up. It was the first time they had met since Henry's discovery of Sam's attempt to appropriate his savings. He could hardly be expected to feel very friendly toward him.

"I'll walk along with you, Henry," said Sam; "I want to talk with you."

"And I want to talk with you," said Henry, coldly. "I've found out all about my bankbook."

"Have you?" replied Sam, disconcerted.

"Yes; I've found out that you opened my trunk and took it out, then went to the bank and tried to get twenty dollars on it. And all the while you were rooming with me, and pretending to be my friend."

Sam felt conscience-stricken. The enormity of his act flashed upon him. Still, he wanted to extenuate his conduct.

"It's true, Henry," he admitted, "and I ought to be ashamed of myself. But I didn't get any money, after all, and I returned the book to you."

"I know that; but it was only because they wouldn't let you have anything on it."

"Don't think too hard of me, Henry," said Sam.

"I can't help thinking hard of you. You wanted to rob me."

"I only wanted to borrow the money."

"Without my leave."

"I meant to return it to you as soon as I could. The fact is, Henry, I was awful hard up."

"That's your own fault. As for returning the money, I hope you don't think me quite such a fool as to believe that."

Sam was really disturbed. He saw that Henry was perfectly justified in being angry, and that his representation was the correct one.

"I'm very sorry I did it," he said. "I hope you'll forgive me."

"I'll forgive you, but we can no longer occupy the same room. I will move out and leave the room to you, or you can move out and leave the room to me."

"I'll move, Henry. That's what I came to speak to you about. I came to bid you good-by."

"There is no need of saying good-by. We shall see each other again."

"No, we shan't—for a good while, anyway. I'm just goin' to Boston."

"What?" exclaimed Henry in astonishment.

"I'm goin' on this afternoon."

"Why, Sam, what's up?"

Sam explained.

"I don't know whether it's a good plan," said Henry, when he had ended.

"Nor I," said Sam; "but I'm goin', anyway. If I don't like it, I'll come back somehow. Good-by!"

"Good-by, and good luck, Sam!" said Henry, offering his hand.

"Sam's a strange boy!" he said to himself, as he pursued his way alone. "It's hard to tell how he's coming out. I hope he'll get wiser as he grows older."



CHAPTER XVIII.

THE FALL RIVER BOAT.

When Sam left Henry, somehow he felt in lower spirits than before. He had become attached to his roommate in spite of the difference in character between them, and Henry's reproaches seemed to throw a new light upon his conduct. He felt it the more because he was about to leave him.

"I did treat him mean," he admitted to himself, his conscience touched, for the first time, perhaps, in years. "I'm glad they wouldn't let me have any of his money at the bank. I won't act so mean again."

It is not to be supposed that this repentant mood lasted long. As Sam neared the wharf from which the Fall River line of steamers left for Boston, his thoughts were on the journey he was about to take, and his spirits rose.

The steamer was moored alongside the wharf, perhaps halfway down. There was a confused mass of trunks, bales and baggage of various kinds on the pier waiting to be stowed away on board. It was early, but a few passengers were already on board, and others were passing over the gang plank at intervals. Sam thought he would go on board, too, and look about a little. He had never been on board one of these steamers, and was curious to see the accommodations. He went upstairs, and found himself in a long and elegantly furnished saloon, with lines of staterooms on either side. Three passengers were seated on sofas or in armchairs. Two were engaged in reading an afternoon paper, and the third, a girl of about fifteen, had her attention absorbed by a bird cage containing a canary.

She looked up as Sam passed, and asked pleasantly: "Is it almost time for the boat to start, sir?"

It was the first time Sam had been addressed as "sir," and he felt flattered.

"I guess not," he said. "There's only a few people on board. I don't think it'll start for an hour."

"I wish it would go soon," said the girl. "I am in a hurry to get home."

"Do you live in Boston?" asked Sam.

"Yes; I've been to visit my uncle in Brooklyn, and now I'm going back. Are you going to Boston, too?"

"Yes," answered Sam.

"Do you live there?"

"No; I never was there."

"I suppose you've got relations there?" said the young lady, in an inquiring tone.

"No; I'm going on to see if I can't get a place."

The young girl surveyed him with interest.

"Do you have to earn your own living?" she asked.

"Yes."

"You are young to do that."

"Oh, I've had to earn my living ever since I was eleven or twelve."

"You don't mean it. Why, what did you do?"

"I was clerk in a store on Pearl Street," said Sam, who did not care to mention his previous experience as a bootblack and newsboy.

"Well, I hope you'll get a good place. I've got a brother almost as old as you, but he'd never think he could earn his own living; his name is Frank."

"What's his last name?" asked Sam, bluntly.

"Stockton—I am Julia Stockton."

"My name is Sam Barker," said Sam, thinking such confidence ought to be requited.

"I've got a cousin Sam," Julia remarked, "but I never knew any one of the name of Barker before."

"Is that your bird?" inquired Sam, by way of prolonging the conversation.

"Yes; he sings sweetly, sometimes, but I guess he's frightened now. I'm glad he's with me, it isn't quite so lonely. I never traveled alone before. Are you used to traveling alone, Mr. Barker?"

"I never traveled much," answered Sam, trying to look dignified, on first being addressed as Mr. Barker; "but I don't mind being alone."

"That's because you're a boy. Boys can take care of themselves better than girls. Do you know what time we get to Boston?"

"No, I don't; but I'll inquire," said Sam. "Shall I find you here?"

"Oh, yes, I'll be here."

Sam went down below, and noticed that some were already procuring tickets at the captain's office. It struck him that he might as well obtain his. Accordingly he joined the line, and when his turn came inquired for a ticket.

"Fall River or Boston?" asked the man in charge.

"Boston."

"Five dollars."

"That's pretty steep," thought Sam. "I shall have only twenty dollars left."

A ticket was handed him, with 159 on it.

"What's that for?" asked Sam.

"It's the number of your berth."

"When will we get to Boston?"

"Between six and seven in the morning."

As Sam turned away he was accosted by a newsboy: "Papers, sir?"

An idea struck Sam. He would get a picture paper for his new acquaintance. It was probably the first mark of attention he had ever paid to a girl, but the idea pleased him, and he bought a Harper's Weekly, and carried it upstairs.

He found Miss Julia Stockton sitting where he had left her. She smiled pleasantly when she saw Sam.

"I bought you a picture paper," he said, feeling a little awkward. "I thought you might like to read it."

"Oh, thank you. You are very kind. Did you find out when we would reach Boston?"

"Yes, Miss Julia. We shall get there between six and seven in the morning."

"That's pretty early. I hope papa will be at the depot waiting."

"At the depot? Does the boat go into a depot?" asked Sam.

Julia laughed. "Oh, no," she said. "Did you think we went all the way by boat?"

"Yes, I thought so."

"We go the last fifty miles by cars—that is, from Fall River."

"All the better," said Sam. "That will give us a little variety."

Meanwhile, the passengers were pouring in, and the cabin was getting full.

"I guess I'll go out on deck," said Sam; "I want to see the boat start."

"I should like to, ever so much."

"Come with me, then. I'll take care of you," said Sam, manfully. "Let me carry your cage. It's too heavy for you."

So the two went out on deck together.



CHAPTER XIX.

MUTUAL CONFIDENCES.

The reader who has followed Sam's fortunes closely may wonder how a boy so shabbily dressed as Sam, could be treated as an equal by a young lady of good family. This leads me to explain that about a month before Sam had been presented with a neat suit of clothes, originally made for a nephew of his employer, but which had proved too small. Thus it happened that, with the exception of his hat, which was rather the worse for wear, our hero presented quite a respectable appearance.

Julia Stockton remained outside with Sam till the boat rounded the Battery, and for three-quarters of an hour longer. Sam was very well qualified to answer her numerous questions about the different places they passed.

"What is that island?" asked Julia.

"That is Blackwell's Island," answered Sam.

"Is that where the penitentiary is?" she inquired, with interest.

"Yes, it is that long stone building."

"How gloomy it is!" said Julia, with a shudder. "How can people be so wicked as to need to go to such a place?"

Sam winced. He knew very well that he had done things, or, at any rate, planned them, which would have entitled him to a place in the prison they were now passing.

"How ashamed I should be if I were ever sent there, and Julia should know it!" he thought.

"What makes you look so sober?" asked Julia.

"I was pitying the poor people who are confined there."

"It must be horrid, but I suppose it can't be helped. I don't see how anybody can want to steal."

Sam thought he could understand. It was not so long since he himself had tried to appropriate the property of another; but he only determined that this should not happen again. He could not consent to forfeit the good opinion of Julia Stockton, and the class to which she belonged. A new ambition began to stir in Sam's soul—the ambition to lead a thoroughly respectable life, and to rise to some creditable position.

"I will turn over a new leaf, I really will," he said to himself. "I'll be a very different boy from what I have been."

They remained outside a while longer, till the steamer had passed through the channel into the broader waters of the Sound, and then re-entered the cabin. The gong for supper had already sounded.

"Won't you go down to supper?" asked Sam.

"Yes, I think I will. You will come, too?"

"Yes, I will go, too," answered Sam, feeling complimented by the invitation.

As they were approaching the stairs, Julia dropped a scarf from her neck. It was picked up by a gentleman, who handed it to Sam, with the remark, "Your sister has dropped her scarf."

"He takes you for my sister," said Sam, turning to Julia with evident pleasure.

"I am afraid you wouldn't own me for a sister," said Julia, smiling coquettishly.

"I should be proud to have such a sister," said Sam, earnestly.

"Would you, really?"

"Yes, I would."

"I am afraid you only say so to compliment me."

"I mean it; but I am sure you would not want me for a brother."

"I don't know," said Julia, with a roguish glance. "Do you always behave well?"

"I am afraid I don't always."

"Nor I either," returned Julia, in a burst of confidence. "I used to play tricks on my governess sometimes."

"I don't think that is so very wicked," said Sam. "Won't you tell me about some of them?"

"After supper I will; but I wouldn't like to have anybody else hear."

They sat down to the table side by side, and made a satisfactory repast. Sam tried to pay for Julia's, but here the young lady was firm. She insisted on paying her own bill, as indeed propriety required.

When the supper was over, they returned to the saloon.



CHAPTER XX.

TOO LATE FOR THE TRAIN.

A stateroom had been engaged for Julia, but Sam did not feel justified in paying a dollar extra for such a luxury, when he was already entitled to a comfortable berth.

"Do you know when we reach Fall River?" asked the young lady.

"About half-past four in the morning, and the cars start by five."

"That's awful early!" exclaimed Julia, in dismay. "How shall I wake up in time?"

"The gong will sound," answered Sam; "but if that don't wake you, I'll pound on your door."

"I wish you would. What should I do if I were left?"

"You could wait for the next train."

"But I should not have you to go with me, Sam—Mr. Barker, I mean."

"I wish you would call me Sam. I like it better than Mr. Barker."

"Then I will," said Julia, frankly. "It does seem stiff to call you Mr. Barker."

"If you should be too late for the first train, I will wait, too," said Sam, answering what she had said before.

"Will you? I should like that; but won't it put you out?"

"Oh, no," said Sam, laughing; "there isn't any very important business to call me early to Boston. I had just as lieve wait as not."

"But you won't have to. I am sure the gong will wake me up. But you'll come to the door, and go into the cars with me."

"Oh, yes, I'll be on hand."

"Then, good-night, Sam. I hope you'll have a good sleep."

"I shall sleep like a top; I always do. Good-night, Julia."

So they parted.

"He seems to be a real nice boy, and very polite," thought Julia. "I should feel very lonely without him."

"She's a tiptop girl," thought Sam. "I never saw one I liked so well before."

Sam had never had a sister, and his acquaintance with girls had been exceedingly limited. This was necessarily the case in the rough street life he had led in New York. Julia was a new revelation to him. He was quite too young to be in love, but he certainly liked Julia very much, and thought how pleasant it would be to have such a sister.

"She says she's got a brother," thought Sam. "I wonder what sort of a boy he is, and whether he will like me? I suppose I never shall see him though, or Julia either, after we get to Boston."

This thought was rather disheartening, and made Sam feel sober. But he brightened up at the thought that he should be in the same city, and should, therefore, have some chance of meeting his pretty traveling acquaintance.

The berth Sam was to occupy was on one side of the dining-room. The tables were now cleared, and there was nothing to prevent his retiring. He took off his shoes and his coat, and, without undressing himself any further, got into the berth. It was not long before he was asleep. He did not wake until morning, and then not voluntarily. On opening his eyes he saw one of the attendants on the boat at his bedside.

"You must sleep pretty sound," said the attendant.

"Did you wake me up?" asked Sam.

"Yes; but I had hard work to do it."

"Is it time to get up?"

"I should think it was. Didn't you hear the gong?"

"No."

"It sounded loud enough. Well, you'd better hurry, or you'll be too late for the cars."

This roused Sam. He thought of Julia, and jumped out of the birth. He quickly put on his coat and shoes, and went up two flights of stairs to the saloon, on either side of which were the staterooms.

He went to Julia's—No. 11—near the forward end of the boat, and found the door shut.

He knocked, but was not immediately answered.

"Julia must have overslept herself, too," he thought.

He knocked again, and presently he heard her ask, in the tone of one just waking up, "Who's there?"

"It's I—it's Sam," he answered. "Are you dressed?"

"No. What time is it?"

"It's very late. Didn't you hear the gong?"

"No; is it morning?"

"The cars are almost ready to start."

"Oh, dear; what shall I do?" exclaimed Julia, in dismay.

"Dress as quick as you can, and we may be in time."

After the lapse of five minutes the door opened, and the young lady appeared.

"I'm so sorry, Sam," she said, excusing herself. "Shall we be in time?"

"We'll go down and see," said Sam.

They went below, and out over the gangway, but were only just in time to see the long train speeding on its way.

"We are left!" said Julia, mournfully.

"Well," said Sam, philosophically, "it can't be helped, can it?"

"Shall we have to stay here all day?" inquired the young lady, alarmed.

"Oh, no; there is another train at half-past six, but it is a slower train than this."

"When will it reach Boston?"

"At nine o'clock. I asked the steward just now. It won't make very much difference. We'll get to the city pretty early."

"Father will be down to the depot, and when he doesn't see me he'll think I am not coming. Then how am I to get home?"

"I'll be with you," said Sam, valiantly. "I'll see that you get home all right."

"Will you?" said Julia, brightly. "Then I don't mind so much. How stupid I was not to wake up!"

"I didn't wake up either. One of the men woke me up. I ran up as quick as I could, but it was too late."

"I got very tired yesterday," said Julia, apologetically. "That was what made me sleep so sound. When did you say the next train went?"

"At six-thirty."

"What shall we do till then?"

"You can lie down if you want to, and I will call you in time."

"I don't dare to," said Julia. "Besides, I don't feel sleepy now."

They decided to sit down and while away the time, and were not at a loss for topics of conversation. At half-past six they had taken their places in the cars, in the full anticipation of a pleasant journey.



CHAPTER XXI.

ARRIVED IN BOSTON.

At nine o'clock the train entered the Old Colony depot. As they entered, Julia began to show signs of uneasiness.

"I am afraid there will be no one here to meet me," she said.

"Then I'll see you safe home," said Sam, rather hoping that it would be necessary for him to do so.

They got out of the cars and walked slowly along, Julia scanning every face anxiously, in the hope of seeing her father or brother. But she could see no familiar face.

"They must have been at the first train, and gone home," she said, in disappointment.

"Have a carriage, sir?" asked the hackman.

"I guess you'd better take one," said Sam.

"Will you ride, too? I should be afraid to go alone."

"Yes, I will go, too," answered Sam.

"Any baggage?" asked the hackman.

"I've got a trunk," said Julia; "I got it checked."

"Give me the check, and I'll see to it."

"Shall I?" asked Julia, appealing to Sam.

"Yes, it'll be all right. How much will you charge?"

"Where do you want to be carried?"

"No.—-, Mount Vernon Street," answered Julia.

"I guess that's about right," said Sam, agreeably surprised with the smallness of the charge in comparison with the extortionate demands of New York hackmen. He considered it only gallant to offer to pay the hack fare, and was glad it would not be too heavy a tax on his scanty resources.

The trunk was soon secured, and Sam and Julia entered the hack.

"It seems so good to be in dear old Boston again," said Julia, with a young girl's warmth of feeling.

"I suppose it does," said Sam, "but I never was here. I don't think the streets are as wide as they are in New York."

"Oh, we've got some wide streets," said. Julia, jealous of the fair fame of her native city. "This isn't the best part of Boston, by any means. Wait till you see the common."

"Shall we pass it?"

"I don't know," said Julia; "I guess we shall."

They did, in fact, go through a side street to Tremont, and drove alongside of the common.

"What do you think of that?" asked Julia, triumphantly.

"Is that the common?"

"Yes; isn't it pretty?"

"It's small," answered Sam. "Is it the biggest park you have got?"

"Isn't it big enough?" retorted Julia.

"It's nothing to Central Park."

"Perhaps it isn't quite as large," admitted Julia, reluctantly; "but it's got bigger trees, and then there's the frog pond. There isn't any frog pond in Central Park."

"There's a lake there."

"And then there's the Old Elm, too," continued Julia, "It was standing hundreds of years before America was discovered."

"I don't see how that can be known," said Sam, shrewdly. "Who said so?"

"It's an Indian tradition, I suppose."

"Where is it? I should like to see it."

It was pointed out; but it's appearance neither contradicted nor confirmed Julia's assertion in regard to its antiquity.

"What is that big building on the hill?" asked Sam.

"Oh, that's the State House. You can go up to the dome and see the view from there. It's grand."

"Isn't Bunker Hill monument round here somewhere?" asked Sam.

"It over in Charlestown, only about two miles off."

"I must go over there some time. I knew a boy that went up there."

"What was his name?"

The boy referred to by Sam was a bootblack named Terry O'Brien—a name which Sam conveniently forgot when questioned by Julia, as he was anxious to have her think that he had moved in good society in New York.

Mount Vernon Street was now close at hand. The hack stopped before a nice-looking swell-front house, such as used to be in favor with Bostonians, and Julia exclaimed, joyfully: "There's mother looking out of the window!"

Sam descended and helped Julia out.

"Now mind," said Julia, "you're coming in. I want to introduce you to mother."

She took out her purse to pay the driver.

"Let me attend to that," said Sam.

"No," said Julia, decidedly, "mother wouldn't like to have me. The carriage was got on my account, and I ought to pay for it."

The hackman was paid, and Julia and Sam walked up the front steps.



CHAPTER XXII.

FIRST EXPERIENCES IN BOSTON.

"Mamma," said Julia, after the first greeting was over, "this young gentleman is Mr. Sam Barker, who has been very polite to me."

"I am much indebted to you, Mr. Barker," said Mrs. Stockton, cordially extending her hand, "for your kindness to my daughter."

"Oh, it's nothing," said Sam, embarrassed. "I didn't do anything."

"I met him on the boat, mamma, and he saw me on the train, and when there was nobody to meet me he came home with me in the hack."

"Your father was at the depot on the arrival of the first train," said Mrs. Stockton. "As you did not come then, he concluded you did not start yesterday afternoon. He was surprised that you did not telegraph him."

"I did come, mamma; but, would you believe it, I slept so sound I didn't hear the gong, nor Sam either. Did you, Sam?"

"We both slept pretty sound," said Sam.

"Well, Julia, I am glad you got through without accident. Have you had any breakfast?"

"Not a mouthful, mamma. I'm as hungry as a bear."

"I will have some sent up at once. Mr. Barker, I hope you will join my daughter at breakfast."

"Thank you," said Sam, not without satisfaction, for he certainly did feel frightfully hungry.

A substantial breakfast was brought up, and, unromantic as it may seem, both Sam and Julia made great havoc among the eatables.

"I don't think I ever felt so hungry in the whole course of my life," said Julia. "Did you, Sam?"

"I never did, either," said Sam, with his mouth full.

"My dear," said Mrs. Stockton, "Mr. Barker will think you very familiar. It is not the custom to use a gentleman's first name on such short acquaintance."

"I feel as if I had known Sam ever so long. He asked me to call him by his first name."

Mrs. Stockton smiled. Considering Sam's youth, she did not think it necessary to press the matter.

"Is this your first visit to Boston, Mr. Barker?" she inquired.

"Yes, ma'am."

"I hope you will like it."

"I think I shall, ma'am."

"Are you a New Yorker?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I know something of New York. In what part of the city do you live?"

Sam was rather embarrassed. He did not like to mention the unfashionable street where he had lodged.

"I boarded downtown," he answered, indefinitely; "to be near my business."

"You are young to have been in business."

"I was a clerk in a Pearl Street store," said Sam.

"Are you visiting Boston on business?"

"Yes, ma'am. I shall try to find a place here."

"I hope you may succeed."

"Thank you, ma'am."

By this time breakfast was over, and Sam rose.

"I think I'll be going," he said.

Julia did not seek to detain him. The fact was, that after her absence there were quite a number of things she wanted to do, among others to unpack her trunk.

"What hotel are you going to stop at?" she inquired.

"I haven't made up my mind," answered Sam, embarrassed. He well knew that it would be very foolish for him to engage board at a first-class hotel.

"Parker's is a good hotel," suggested Julia. "It's on School Street, not far from here."

"I would recommend a boarding-house," said Mrs. Stockton. "The Parker House is expensive, and, if Mr. Barker is going to stay for some time he may wish to get along more economically."

"I think I shall," said Sam.

"Be sure and call again," said Julia, extending her hand.

"We shall be glad to see you again, Mr. Barker," said Mrs. Stockton, cordially. "Mr. Stockton will wish to thank you for your attention to Julia."

Sam thanked her, and went out into the street. He had enjoyed a good breakfast, and been cordially received by a lady who evidently stood high socially; and these circumstances contributed to put him in good spirits.

"I like Boston," he thought. "The people take more notice of a fellow than they do in New York."

Sam was generalizing upon his very limited experience, and perhaps might be led hereafter to change his views.

"Julia spoke of Parker's Hotel," he said to himself. "I guess I'll inquire where it is, and take a look at it."

"Where is Parker's Hotel?" he asked of a boy who overtook him near the State House.

"It's on School Street. I'm going as far as Tremont Street myself, and you can come along with me," answered the boy.

"Thank you," said Sam. "I am a stranger in Boston, and don't know my way."

"Are you going to stop at Parker's?"

"I don't think I shall; I am afraid they will charge too much."

"It's pretty high-priced," said his new acquaintance.

"Do you know what they charge for a room?"

"A dollar and a half and two dollars a day—that is, for the common rooms."

"That's too much for me."

"Then you've got your meals to pay for besides."

"I shall try to find a boarding-house," said Sam. "Do you know of any?"

"There's an acquaintance of mine, a clerk, who boards on Harrison Avenue."

"Where is that?".

"Not far from Washington Street—up near the Boston and Albany depot."

"Is it near the depot where I came in from New York?"

"How did you come?"

"By the Fall River line."

"Then it isn't far away. I'll give you the number if you want it."

"I wish you would."

"Here's Tremont Street," said the guide, "and that is the Parker House."

"Thank you," said Sam.

He went into the hotel, and, ascending a short staircase, found himself in the office. On one side was a writing-room, on the other a reading-room.

"It looks like a good hotel," thought Sam. "I should like it if I could afford to stay here."

Sam went into the reading-room, and saw lying on a chair a file of a New York paper. It seemed in this strange place like a familiar friend. He was reading the local news, when some one addressed him in a nasal voice: "I say, yeou, do yeou live round here?"



CHAPTER XXIII.

SAM FINDS A ROOMMATE.

Looking up, Sam's glance rested on a young man, of rustic dress and manners, which made him seem quite out of place in a fashionable hotel.

"No," answered Sam. "I am a stranger in Boston. I came from New York."

"You don't say! It's an all-fired big city, isn't it?" said the countryman.

"It is very large," said Sam, patronizingly.

"I live in the country," said the other—quite needlessly, so Sam thought—"up in New Hampshire. I've come down here to get a job."

"So have I," responded Sam, with new interest in his companion.

"Are you boardin' here?" asked the countryman.

"No; I am going to try to find a boarding-place. The prices are too steep here."

"Let me go with you," said the young man, eagerly.

Sam thought, on the whole, it would be pleasanter to have company, and accepted this proposal.

They bought a copy of the Boston Herald and picked out a list of boarding-houses which appeared to come within their means. Among these were two on Harrison Avenue. One of these was the very house which had already been mentioned to Sam by his boy acquaintance of the morning.

"Do you know your way round the city?" asked Sam of his companion.

"A little," said the other.

"Do you know how to go to Harrison Avenue?"

"Yes, I know that."

"Is it far?"

"Not very far. We can walk easy enough."

"That's all right, then. Let us go."

The two set out on their expedition, walking up Washington Street as far as Essex, and, turning there, soon entered Harrison Avenue. They beguiled the time on the way by conversation.

"What, was you calc'latin' to find to do?" asked the countryman.

"I was clerk in a store in New York," said Sam; "I'd like to get into a store here."

"So should I."

Sam privately thought him too countrified in appearance for the position he desired, but did not say so.

"Have you had any experience?" he asked, curiously.

"Oh, yes; I used to drive the wagon for a grocery store, to hum."

Sam privately doubted whether this experience would be of any particular value to his new acquaintance. However, he had not much faith in his own qualifications, and this concerned him more.

"What's your name?" inquired Sam.

"Abner Blodgett," was the reply. "What's yours?"

"Sam Barker."

"You don't say! There's a doctor in our town by the name of Barker; any relation?"

"I guess not. I never heard of a doctor in our family."

Presently they reached the number indicated. Sam rang the bell.

"You are looking for a boarding-place," he explained. "We saw your advertisement in the Herald."

"Walk in," said the servant. "I'll tell Mrs. Campbell."

Mrs. Campbell presently appeared; a shrewd-looking Scotch lady, but kindly in expression.

"You are looking for a boarding place, gentlemen?" she inquired.

"Yes, ma'am."

"I have one single room and one double one. For the single room I have eight dollars a week; for the double one fourteen, that is, seven dollars for each gentleman. Do you two gentlemen wish to room together?"

"Yes," answered Blodgett, immediately; "if you are willing," he added aside, to Sam.

"Let us look at the rooms," said Sam, "and then we can tell better."

"Walk up this way, gentlemen," said Mrs. Campbell.

She led the way first to the double room. It was a square room, the second floor back, and looked quite neat and comfortable. Sam liked the appearance of it, and so apparently did Abner Blodgett.

"Ain't it scrumptious, though?" he said, admiringly. "We ain't got many rooms like that to hum."

"I suppose you are from the country, sir?" said Mrs. Campbell, with a good-natured smile.

"Yes," said Blodgett, "I'm from New Hampshire; away up near Mount Washington."

"Let me see the single room," requested Sam.

The single room was shown; but it was, of course, much smaller, and the furniture was inferior.

"We'd better take the big room together," said Abner.

Sam hesitated a moment. He was not very particular, but he did not altogether fancy the appearance of Mr. Blodgett.

"How much do you charge for the large room for a single person?" he asked.

"I couldn't take less than eleven dollars," said the landlady.

It was, of course, impossible for Sam to pay any such sum, and he reluctantly agreed to occupy the room jointly with Mr. Blodgett.

"When will you move in?" asked Mrs. Campbell.

"To-day," said Sam.

"I must ask you to pay something in advance, to secure the room, gentlemen."

Sam had no luggage beyond a small bundle, and he answered at once, "I'll pay a week in advance."

"Thank you, sir."

Sam handed the landlady ten dollars and received in return three.

"I'll pay you to-morrow," said Blodgett. "I've got to get the money from my cousin."

"I'll wait till to-morrow to oblige you," said the landlady, "but no longer."

"Oh, I'll have the money then," said Abner, confidently.

"Will you be here to dinner, gentlemen?"

"When do you have dinner?"

"At six o'clock. We used to have it in the middle of the day, but it was inconvenient to some of our boarders, and we changed it."

"We have dinner to hum, where I live, at noon," said Abner.

"We have lunch at half-past twelve, if you choose to come."

"I guess we will," said Abner. "We'll go out and take a walk, Mr. Barker, and come back in time."

"Just as you say," answered Sam.

After a walk they returned to lunch. Sam was usually possessed of a good appetite, but he stared in astonishment when he saw Blodgett eat. That young man appeared to have fasted for a week, and ate accordingly.

"What's the matter with you, Mr. Barker? You don't eat nothin'," he said.

"I had a late breakfast," said Sam. "I guess you'll get your money's worth."

"I mean to. Seven dollars is an awful lot to pay for board. Up to hum they don't charge but three."

"Then I wish they'd open a branch boarding-house here."

"Suppose we go over to Bunker Hill?" said Sam, after lunch. "I want to see the monument."

"Just as you say," said Abner.

"We can ask the way."

"There's some cars go over that way, I've heerd," said Abner.

As they were walking down Washington Street a young man, rather flashily attired, stopped Blodgett, whom he appeared to recognize.

"What's in the wind now?" he asked. "Who have you got in tow?"

"It's my friend, Mr. Barker."

"How do you do, Mr. Barker?" said the young man, who appeared very much amused about something.

"How's your father, the deacon?" he inquired of Blodgett, and laughed again.

"Pretty smart," said Blodgett.

"Just give him my respects when you write, will you?"

"I won't forget,"

The new acquaintance winked, and went his way. Sam was rather surprised at his manner, and also at the fact of his countrified companion being apparently on intimate terms with a person so different in appearance.

"Who is that?" he asked.

"That's a young man from our town," said Mr. Blodgett. "He's been living in Boston for five or six years. He's got a good place in Milk Street."

"What sort of a fellow is he?"

"You don't say nothin' about it," said Abner, looking about him as if fearing to be overheard; "but I'm afraid he's a fast young man."

"Shouldn't wonder," said Sam.

"I've heard that he plays cards!" added Abner, in a horrified whisper.

"Very likely," said Sam, amused.

He had had some suspicions of his companion, occasioned by the apparent good understanding between him and the young man they had met, but this remark dissipated them. He felt amused by the verdancy of Abner Blodgett, and anticipated a good deal of entertainment from his remarks.

They took the horse cars to Bunker Hill; Sam paid the fare both ways, as his companion did not expect to have any money till tomorrow. He did not relish lending, his own stock of money being so scanty; but Abner was so confident of being in funds the next day that he did not refuse. He was interested in the view from the summit of the monument, and spent an additional hour in exploring Charlestown. When the two got back to Boston they found the afternoon well advanced and the dinner hour near.



CHAPTER XXIV.

AN UNPLEASANT SURPRISE.

After dinner Sam and his roommate took a walk. As they passed the Boston theater, Abner proposed going in; but Sam knew very well that the expense of both tickets would come upon him, and declined.

"I am tired," he said; "I've been walking about all day, and, besides, I got up very early in the morning. I would rather go home and go to bed."

"Lend me a dollar, and I'll go," said Abner. "I don't feel sleepy."

"Not much," answered Sam. "When you've got your money, it will be time enough to go to the theater; but if you haven't got any more than I have, you'd better not go to the theater much."

The reader may be surprised at such sensible advice proceeding from Sam; but he had begun to feel the responsibilities of life more keenly than ever before. For the first time, too, he saw how foolish he had been in the past, and felt an eager desire to win a respectable position. He was sanguine and hopeful, and felt that it was not too late to turn over a new leaf.

"All right," said Abner. "I can wait till another evening, but I thought I'd like to go to the theater, seein' as I never went there."

"Never went to the theater!" exclaimed Sam, with a gratifying sense of superiority. "I've been ever so many times in New York."

"I've been to the circus," said Abner. "There was one come round last summer to our place. Is the theater any like the circus?"

"No," said Sam; "but the circus is pretty good. I like to see it myself. You miss a good many things by living in the country."

"Did you ever live in the country?" inquired Abner.

"A good many years ago," answered Sam. "The fact is, I was born there, but I got tired of it and went to New York."

Presently fatigue overpowered Sam, and he announced his intention of returning to the boarding-house, and going to bed.

"I won't go yet," said Abner. "I'll be along pretty soon."

Sam did not lie awake long after once getting into bed. The early hour at which he had risen on the boat, and the miles he had traveled during the day were too much for him, and he sank into a dreamless sleep.

At eleven o'clock Abner Blodgett opened the door and softly entered.

He approached the bed on tiptoe, fearing to wake Sam.

"Poor fool!" he muttered, smiling disagreeably; "he thinks I am a verdant rustic, while I am able to turn him round my little finger. There's nothing about city life that I don't know. I can give him points and discount him as far as that goes, even if he has been living in New York for years. Fast asleep!" he continued, listening to Sam's regular breathing. "No danger of his waking up till morning. I may as well see what money he's got."

He coolly felt in Sam's pocket, and drew out his pocket-book, eagerly examining the contents.

"Only ten dollars and a half!" he muttered, in disappointment. "That hardly pays me for my trouble. However, it's better than nothing. Let me see if there is anything more."

But this appeared to be all the money Sam possessed, and he put it in his pocket, grumbling.

"I guess it'll be safe for me to go to bed, and sleep till near morning," Abner said to himself. "The boy sleeps soundly, and he won't be awake till six or seven."

He proved to be correct. Sam slept like a log, and was not conscious when, at a quarter of six, Abner hurriedly dressed, and left the house with all of poor Sam's available funds.

"It's a pity he payed for his board in advance," thought Abner. "I would have got seven dollars more. It's money thrown away."

Abner hoped to get out of the house without being seen by any one, but he was destined to be disappointed.

As he was slipping out of the front door the landlady herself came downstairs.

"You are going out early, Mr. Blodgett," she remarked, in some surprise.

"Yes, ma'am," said Abner. "I'm used to gettin' up early in the country. I'm goin' to take a walk before breakfast."

"Your young friend thought he wouldn't go out with you?"

"He got pretty tired yesterday. He's sound asleep."

"There's something about that man I don't like," thought Mrs. Campbell. "I don't believe he's so verdant as he pretends to be. He must pay me something on account to-day, or I won't keep him."

"Good-by old woman!" muttered Abner, as he closed the door, and entered the street. "I don't care about seeing you or your house again. I shall get my breakfast somewhere else."

Mr. Blodgett walked rapidly till he reached a shabby-looking brick tenement house not far from Dover Street. This he entered with a pass-key, and going up to a room which he generally occupied, proceeded to change his clothes for others more comfortable to city style. This alone changed his appearance greatly; but not satisfied with this, he took from a bureau drawer a black silky mustache and carefully attached it to his upper lip. Then he looked complacency in the glass, and said, with a smile: "I think my young friend from New York won't recognize me now. If we meet, and he suspects anything, I can easily put him off the scent."

Sam woke up about seven o'clock. He opened his eyes, and looked about him in momentary bewilderment, not immediately remembering where he was. As recollection dawned upon him, he looked for Abner Blodgett, but nothing was to be seen of him. The appearance of the bed, however, showed that he had occupied it.

"He has got up," thought Sam. "I wonder if it is very late."

A church clock began to strike, and he counted the strokes.

"Seven o'clock!" he said. "Well, that isn't very late, but I may as well get up. I've slept like a top all night long. I suppose I was sound asleep when my roommate came to bed. I guess he's gone to take a walk before breakfast."

Sam jumped out of bed and began to dress. As he was drawing on his pants, he thrust his hand mechanically into his pocket to feel for his money. He did so without the faintest suspicion of his loss. When he discovered that his pocket-book was not in its usual place he grew anxious and hurriedly examined his other pockets.

But in vain!

Then he looked on the floor. Possibly it might have slipped out of his pocket and be lying on the carpet. Again his search was vain.

Then, for the first time, suspicion of his roommate entered his mind. Sam was no stranger to the tricks and wiles of a large city, and he saw clearly now how he had been cheated.

"It's that skunk Abner Blodgett!" he exclaimed, indignantly. "He's regularly done me! I'll bet he's no more a countryman than I am. I just wish I had him here. I'd pound him."

Sam was indignant, but not discouraged. He did not give up his money for lost yet. He determined to seek Abner everywhere, and unmask him when found. If he did not recover his money it would not be for want of trying.

As he finished dressing the breakfast-bell rang and he went down to the dining-room.

Though he had lost his money he had not lost his appetite.

When he entered the dining-room he found himself first in the field.

"Good-morning, Mr. Barker," said the landlady. "You are early, but not so early as Mr. Blodgett. He left the house a little before six."

"Did you see him?" asked Sam, eagerly.

"Yes, and spoke with him."

"What did he say?"

"He said he was used to getting up early in the country, and was going out for a walk. Hasn't he returned?"

"No," answered Sam, "and I don't believe he will."

"What makes you say that?" asked the landlady, noticing a significance in his tone.

"I mean that he's gone off with all my money," said Sam, bluntly.

"You don't say so!" ejaculated the landlady. "Why, I thought he was more likely to be taken in himself. Wasn't he from the country?"

"That's what he said; but I don't believe it. I think he was in disguise."

"I thought he was an old friend of yours."

"I never saw him before yesterday. He came up to me in the Parker House yesterday morning."

"What wickedness there is in the world, I do declare! Did he take all your money?"

"Every cent," said Sam. "I'm glad I paid you a week in advance, or I should be badly off."

"I wouldn't have turned you out, Mr. Barker," said the landlady, kindly. "I have a hard time to get along myself, and it makes me sympathize with them that has had ill luck."

Good Mrs. Campbell was not quite grammatical, but she was kind-hearted, and that is better.

"Thank you," said Sam; "but all the same I'm glad you've got the seven dollars instead of Blodgett. I'm going to try to find him, and if I do I'll have the money back, unless he has spent it all."

"Be careful, Mr. Barker. He's stronger than you are, and he might do you some harm."

"I'll risk it," said Sam, who, with all his defects, was not wanting in courage. "I want nothing better than to come across him."



CHAPTER XXV.

IN PURSUIT OP A PLACE.

Sam was more angry than discouraged when he reflected upon the imposition which had been practiced upon him. His indignation was excited when he considered how his confidence had been betrayed. Presently it occurred to him that Abner had served him no worse than he intended to serve his roommate in New York. The thought made him ashamed.

"I didn't think I was acting so mean," he said to himself. "I am glad Henry didn't lose anything by me."

Another thought followed, and one which inspires confidence in Sam's reformation: "I'd rather have the money stolen from me than steal it from somebody else."

It was quite true that Sam's conscience had become more sensitive than formerly. His meeting with Julia Stockton on board the Fall River boat had kindled in him a new and honorable ambition to attain a respectable position in society. In a strange city, separated from his street acquaintances, it really seemed as if he stood some chance of realizing his hope, when he was met at the outset with this discouraging loss.

But Sam was not discouraged. He had been dependent upon his own resources for too many years to give up easily. Moreover, he was hopeful and sanguine by temperament, and determined to make the best of his position. There was this to encourage him. He had paid a week's board in advance, and therefore was sure of regular meals, and a comfortable lodging for six days to come. In that time he might get a situation.

"As you are alone, Mr. Barker," said Mrs. Campbell, "I am afraid I must put you into the single room. I may have opportunities to let this to two persons."

"All right," said Sam, "but I have only paid seven dollars. You said you should expect eight for the small room."

"No matter about that for this week," said the landlady. "You have been unfortunate, and I will take that into consideration."

"Thank you. When I'm a rich merchant I'll make it up to you."

"I hope you will become one, for your own sake," said Mrs. Campbell, smiling.

When breakfast was over, Sam strolled out into the streets. He felt that the sooner he got something to do the better. Certainly in his situation there was no time to lose. He had found out that the leading retail stores were on Washington Street, and it seemed to him a good plan to begin there.

The first he selected was a dry-goods store. He entered, and looked about him, inquiringly. A salesman asked him, briskly: "What can I show you to-day?"

"If you'll show me a situation where I can make a living, you'll oblige me," answered Sam.

"We don't keep such goods for sale," said the salesman, smiling.

"Then perhaps you give them away. Can I speak to the boss?"

"There he is," said the young man—"at the end of the store."

"What is his name?"

"Hunter."

Sam was not bashful. He went up to Mr. Hunter and called him by name.

"Can I speak to you on business?" he asked.

"What kind of business?"

"I want a place," said Sam, bluntly.

"We are not engaging any new clerks at present. Where do you live?"

"I have just come from New York."

"Did you have any experience there in the dry-goods line?"

"No, sir."

"Then you know nothing about it."

"Oh, yes, sir; I can tell calico from silk."

"That's more than I can always do," said Mr. Hunter, jocosely. "I took you for silk, and I find you to be calico."

"You've got me there," said Sam. "Then you can't give me anything to do?"

"I don't think it would be for my advantage to engage you. Do you think so?"

"I think it would be for mine," said Sam. "I guess I will look further."

"I am afraid I don't know much about business," thought Sam. "I wish I knew what I am fit for, and I'd go for it."

He kept on his way down Washington Street, and entered the next large store, where he repeated his request for a place. Here he was not so well treated.

"Clear out, you young loafer!" was the rude response.

"Thank you," said Sam, coolly. "You're extremely polite."

"I don't waste my politeness on such fellows as you," said the clerk, disagreeably.

"I wouldn't," retorted Sam. "You don't seem to have any to spare."

"I guess I don't stand much chance there," he considered. "I wouldn't want to be in the same store with that hog, anyway."

The next store was devoted to millinery. Just outside was a small piece of paper on which Sam read "Little Girl Wanted."

He went in. Those in charge of the store he found to be females.

"You've got a notice in the window for help," said Sam.

"Yes," was the reply. "Do you want it for your sister?"

"I think not," replied Sam. "I haven't any sister, to begin with."

"Then what is your business?"

"I want a place for myself."

"Did you read the notice? It says 'Little Girl Wanted.' Are you a little girl?"

"Not that I am aware of," said Sam; "but I can do a little girl's work."

"Perhaps you would not be willing to take a little girl's pay."

"How much is the pay?"

"Two dollars a week."

"Declined with thanks," said Sam, promptly. "I don't like to disappoint you, but that wouldn't pay for my wardrobe."

The lady smiled. "I'm sorry I can't do anything for you," she said, amused.

"So am I," said Sam.

Presently he discovered a sign, "Boy Wanted," and this inspired in him some hope. He entered, and made known his wishes.

"You are altogether too large," said a brisk-looking man, eying him rapidly. "We want a boy of twelve."

"Can't I do as much as a boy of twelve?" asked Sam.

"Probably you can. Do you reside with your parents?"

"No, sir."

"Where do you live?"

"I board on Harrison Avenue."

"How much do you pay for board?"

"Seven dollars a week."

"Have you any means of your own?"

"No."

"Then you don't want a situation with us. We give only three dollars a week."

By this time Sam began to feel a little despondent.

There were situations for small girls and small boys, but none for him.

"Why didn't I stay a small boy?" he reflected.

But, after all, it is a question whether three dollars would defray the expenses of even a small boy.

"Boston don't seem to be much of a business place, after all," thought Sam; but, perhaps, it was hardly fair to draw such a conclusion from his own failure to procure a situation. Sam made one or two more ineffectual applications, which did not tend to improve his spirits. As he came out of the last one, he saw, to his great joy, Julia Stockton passing by. She recognized him at the same moment.

"Good-morning, Mr. Barker," she said, frankly, holding out her hand. "Are you out shopping this morning?"

"It'll be some time before I go shopping," said Sam.

"Why so?"

"I had all my money stolen last night."

"You did! What a shame! Tell me all about it," said Julia, sympathizingly.

Sam told his story, the young lady showing her warm sympathy in her expressive face.

"How will you get along without money?" she asked.

"I must get a place right off," said Sam.

"If—if you wouldn't mind," said Julia, in an embarrassed tone, "I have five dollars that I have no use for. Won't you let me lend it to you?"

Sam, to his credit be it spoken, declined the tempting proposal.

"I am just as much obliged to you, Miss Julia," he said, "but I can get along somehow. I have got my board paid for a week in advance, and something will turn up in that time, I am sure."

"Won't you take it, then? I really don't need it," said Julia, earnestly.

"If I get very hard up, I'll remember your kind offer," said Sam.

"You'll be sure to do it, Sam?"

"Yes, I'll be sure."

"I must bid you good-morning now," said Julia. "I'm going into Loring's Library to get a new book. Here it is, close by. I am glad I met you."

"Thank you," said Sam.

"Don't forget to call at the house. Mamma will be glad to see you."

"I would feel more like calling, if I had a place," thought Sam, soberly. "She's a bully girl and no mistake, but I wouldn't like to take money from her. It's the first time I ever refused five dollars that I can remember."



CHAPTER XXVI.

ABNER BLODGETT AGAIN.

The next day in his wanderings Sam entered the Parker House. He had no definite object in view, but, feeling tired, thought he would sit down a few minutes in the reading-room.

"This is where that fellow roped me in," he thought. "I wish I could get hold of him."

After sitting for quarter of an hour, he strolled downstairs into the billiard room. He stood on the threshold for a moment, when a familiar voice struck his ear. His heart beat rapidly with excitement, for he recognized it as the voice of Abner Blodgett. He glanced eagerly about to find him, but he could see no one resembling the young man from the country who had victimized him.