"Well, you shouldn't, Bob, if the rest doesn't do it."

"Of course not. It's no use to be a detective, unless the job is done right and professional. I believe in throwin' some style into anything like this. 'Tain't often, you know, Tom, when a feller gets a real genuine case like this one. Why, plenty er boys might make believe they had cases, but they'd be baby cases—only baby cases, Tom Flannery, when you'd compare 'em with this one—a real professional case."

"I don't blame you for bein' proud, Bob," said Tom, admiringly. "I only wish I had such a case."

"Why, you've got it now; you're on it with me, hain't you? Don't you be silly now, Tom. You'll get all you want before you get through with this case; an', when it's all published in the papers, your name will be printed with mine."

"Gewhittaker!" exclaimed Tom; "I didn't think of that before. Will our names really be printed, Bob?"

"Why, of course they will. Detectives' names are always printed, hain't they? You make me tired, Tom Flannery. I should think you'd know better. Don't make yourself so redickerlous by askin' any more questions like that. But just you tend to business, and you'll get all the glory you want—professional glory, too."

"It'll beat jumpin' off the Brooklyn Bridge, won't it?" said Tom.

"Well, if you ain't an idiot, Tom Flannery, I never saw one. To think of comparin' a detective with some fool that wants cheap notoriety like that! You just wait till you see your name in big letters in the papers along with mine. It'll be Bob Hunter and Tom Flannery."

Tom's eyes bulged out with pride at the prospect. He had never before realized so fully his own importance.



CHAPTER IX.

BOB ASSUMES A DISGUISE.

At the close of business hours, Felix Mortimer sauntered up Broadway with something of an air of triumph about him. His jaw was still swollen, and doubtless pained him not a little.

Another boy passed up Broadway at the same time, and only a little way behind Mortimer.

It was Bob Hunter, and he managed to keep the same distance between himself and young Mortimer, whom, in fact, he was "shadowing." Of course, Mortimer knew nothing of this. In fact, he did not know such a boy as Bob Hunter existed.

At the post office Felix Mortimer turned into Park Row. He stopped and read the bulletins at the Mail and Express office. Then he bought an evening paper, and, standing on the steps of the World office, looked it over hastily.

Now he moved on up Publishers' Row, passing the Times, the Tribune, and the Sun buildings, and walked along Chatham Street. Presently he emerged into the Bowery. Now he walked more rapidly than he had been doing, so that Bob had to quicken his pace to keep him in sight.

At the corner of Pell Street and the Bowery he met a young man who seemed to be waiting for him.

"I've been hanging round here for 'most half an hour," said he, as if displeased.

"I'm here on time," replied Felix; "just half past five. Come, let's have a glass of beer."

Peter Smartweed was the name of this young fellow, as Bob afterwards found out.

When Felix and his friend passed into the drinking saloon, Bob followed them as far as the door; then he turned back, and sought the disguise of a bootblack.

A young knight of the brush stood near by, with his blacking box slung over his shoulder. Bob arranged with him for the use of it for a few moments, promising to pay over to him all the proceeds he made thereby. He also exchanged his own hat for the cap the boy had on, and, with this head gear pulled down over the left side of his face, the appearance of Bob Hunter was much changed. His accustomed step, quick, firm, and expressive, was changed to that of the nerveless, aimless boy—a sort of shuffle.

Thus disguised, he approached Felix Mortimer and his companion, who were sitting at a table with a partially filled schooner of beer before each of them.

"Shine? shine, boss?" said Bob, in a strange voice.

No response was made by the convivial youths.

"Two for five!" continued Bob, persistently. "Two reg'lar patent leathers for only five cents!"

Peter looked at his boots. They were muddy. Then he argued with himself that Felix had paid for the beer, so it seemed to him that he could not even up the score in any less expensive way than by paying for the shines.

"Do you mean you will give us both a shine for five cents?" said Peter.

"Yes," drawled Bob, lazily.

"Well, see that they are good ones, now, or I'll not pay you a cent."

Bob commenced work on the shoes very leisurely. He seemed the embodiment of stupidity, and blundered along in every way possible to prolong the time.

"How would you like to climb down, Mort, and shine shoes for a living?" said Peter Smartweed, jokingly.

"Perhaps I wouldn't mind it if I was stupid as the kid fumbling around your shoes seems to be," replied Felix, in a more serious mood than his companion.



"Well, I think you looked even more stupid than this young Arab last night, when you lay upon the floor."

"Well, I guess you would have felt stupid, too, if you had got such a clip as I did," retorted Felix, as he nursed his swollen jaw with his hand.

"It was a stunning blow, for a fact. John L. Sullivan couldn't have done it neater. I didn't think, Mort, that that young countryman could hit such a clip, did you?"

"No, I didn't; and I'm mighty sure you don't realize now what a stinging blow he hit me. You talk about it as if it didn't amount to much. Well, all I've got to say is, I don't want to see you mauled so, but I wish you knew how good it felt to be floored the way I was."

"No, thank you," said Peter; "I don't want any of it. But you looked so comical, as you fell sprawling, that I couldn't help laughing. I believe I would have laughed if you had been killed."

Bob Hunter's ears were now wide open.

"I couldn't see anything to laugh about," said Felix, bitterly.

"That isn't very strange, either. You naturally wouldn't, under the circumstances," laughed young Smartweed.

"Come, now, let up," said Felix. "Your turn may come."

"I expect it will, if this young farmer ever gets after me."

"But you don't expect him to get out, do you?"

"I hadn't thought much about it. My part of the programme was to get him into old Gunwagner's den, and I did it without any accident."

Felix looked hard at his companion. He knew the last part of this sentence was a sarcastic thrust at him.

Bob grew excited, and found it difficult to restrain himself. He felt certain now that these two young villains were talking about his friend Herbert Randolph.

"No accident would have happened to me, either, if he hadn't hit me unawares," protested young Mortimer, with a bit of sourness about his manner. "I allow I could get away with him in a fair fight."

"Oh, no, you couldn't, Mort; he is too much for you. I could see that in a minute, by the way he handled himself."

Young Mortimer's face flushed. He didn't like the comparison.

"Well, he won't bother me again very soon," said he, vindictively.

"Didn't they tumble to anything crooked at the bank?" asked Peter, after a few moments' serious thought.

"No."

"I don't see why. The circumstances look suspicious."

"Well, they didn't suspect the truth."

"You're in luck, then, that is all I have to say."

"I shall be, you mean, when we get him out of the way."

"He seems to be pretty well out of your way now."

"But that won't last forever. He must be got out of New York, that's all. Old Gunwagner will not keep him round very long, you may be sure of that."

"You don't know how to shine a shoe," growled Smartweed to our young detective. "See the blacking you have put on the upper! Wipe it off, I say; at once, too."

Bob's blood boiled with indignation, and he was about to reply sharply, when he remembered that he was now acting the detective, and so he said:

"All right, boss; I'll fix it fer yer;" and he removed the superfluous blacking with great care. There was no longer any doubt in his mind about Herbert being a prisoner. He was satisfied that his friend was in the clutches of old Gunwagner, and he knew from the conversation that he was in danger of being lost forever to New York and to his friends.

The situation was an alarming one. Bob pictured vividly the worst possibilities of our hero's fate.

Presently, after young Smartweed had lighted a cigarette and taken a few puffs, he said, absentmindedly:

"So you are going to send him away from New York?"

"Of course, you don't s'pose we would be very safe with him here, do you?" replied Mortimer.

"Safe enough, so long as he is in old Gunwagner's cell. But what is to be done with him? Send him back to Vermont?"

"Not much; he won't go there unless he escapes."

"It's rough on the fellow, Mort, to run him off to sea, or to make him a prisoner in the bottom of a coal barge or canal boat. But that is what he is likely to get from that old shark," said Peter Smartweed, meaning Gunwagner.

"Don't you get soft hearted now," replied Felix, in a hard voice.

"I'm not soft hearted, Mort, and you know it, but I don't like this business, any way."

"What did you go into it for, then?"

"What do we do anything for? I thought, from what you said, that he was a coarse young countryman. But he don't seem like it. In fact I believe he is too nice a fellow to be ruined for life."

"Perhaps you'd better get him out then," said Mortimer, sarcastically.

"You talk like a fool," replied Smartweed, testily.

"So do you," retorted his companion, firing up; and he nursed his aching jaw as if to lend emphasis to his remarks. These explosions suddenly ended the discussion, and as soon as their shoes were polished, the two young villains left the saloon. Mortimer turned up the Bowery, and Smartweed passed into a side street leading towards Broadway.

Bob readily dropped his assumed character of bootblack, and quickly started in pursuit of Felix Mortimer.

The latter went directly home, where he remained for nearly an hour. At the end of this time, he emerged from the house, much to the young detective's relief. He had waited outside all this time, patiently watching for Felix's reappearance.

Though cold and hungry, Bob could not afford to give up the chase long enough even to get a bit of lunch. He had made wonderful progress so far in his detective work, and he felt, as he had a right to feel, highly elated over his discoveries.

Now he was shadowing young Mortimer again. Down the Bowery they went till they came to a side street in a disreputable locality. Here they turned towards the East River, and presently Felix Mortimer left the sidewalk and disappeared within the door of an old building.

"So this is Gunwagner's, is it?" said Bob to himself. "At least I s'pose 'tis, from what them fellers said—Gunwagner—yes, that's the name. Well, this may not be it, but I'm pretty sure it is," he continued, reasoning over the problem.

After fixing the house and its locality securely in his mind, and after having waited till he satisfied himself that Mortimer intended remaining there for a time, he made a lively trip to City Hall Park, where he joined young Flannery.

"Well, Bob, have you struck anything?" said Tom, instantly, and with much more than a passing interest.

"Yes; I've struck it rich—reg'lar detective style, I tell you, Tom," said Bob, with pride and enthusiasm. And then he briefly related all his discoveries.

"Nobody could er worked the business like you, Bob," said Tom, admiringly.

"Well, I did throw a little style into it, I think myself," replied Bob. "But," he continued, "there's no time now for talking the matter over. We've got some work to do. I've got the place located, and I want you to go with me now, and see what we can do."

Within five minutes the two boys were on their way to Christopher Gunwagner's, and as they passed hurriedly along the streets they formed a hasty plan for immediate action—a plan cunningly devised for outwitting this miserable old fence and his villainous companions.



CHAPTER X.

SOMETHING ABOUT HERBERT RANDOLPH.

Had our young hero been more wary, he would not have so easily fallen a victim to the deceit of the genial stranger whom he met on the Bowery. He should have been more cautious, and less ready to assume friendly relations with a stranger. His lack of prudence in this respect was almost inexcusable, inasmuch as he had been warned by Bob Hunter to look out for himself. Moreover, his suspicions should have been excited by the two young fellows he saw on Wall Street, who appeared to be shadowing him.

But none of these prudential thoughts seemed to occur to young Randolph. In Vermont, he spoke to every one with a frank, open confidence. He had always done so from his earliest recollections. Others in his locality did the same. Unrestrained social intercourse was the universal custom of the people. Habit is a great power in one's life. It guided our hero on this fatal night, and he talked freely and confidentially with his new acquaintance.

"Have you ever been in one of these Bowery museums?" asked the genial young man, after they had chatted for a little time.

"No, I have not," replied Herbert, in a hesitating manner that implied his desire to enter.

This young man was the same one whose boots Bob Hunter blackened when he was acting the detective, otherwise Peter Smartweed.

The latter smiled at the readiness with which young Randolph caught at the bait.

"Well, you have missed a treat," said he, with assumed surprise.

"I suppose so," replied Herbert, feeling that his education had been neglected.

"They have some wonderful curiosities in some of these museums," continued the young confidence scamp.

"So I should think, from the looks of these pictures."

"But this is the poorest museum on the Bowery. There are some great curiosities in some of them, and a regular show."

"Have you been in all of them?" asked Herbert.

"Oh, yes, dozens of times. Why, I can go into one of the museums whenever I like, without paying a cent, and it is the best one in New York."

"Can you?" said Herbert, with surprise. "I wish I could go in free."

"I can fix that for you all right," said Peter, magnanimously. "I often take a friend in with me."

"And it doesn't cost you anything?"

"No, not a cent. If you like, we will stroll down the Bowery, and drop in for a little while. By the way, I remember now that a new curiosity, a three headed woman, is on exhibition there."

"A three headed woman!" exclaimed Herbert; "she must be a wonderful sight!"

"So she is. Come on, let's go and see her. It is not down very far. You have nothing to do, I suppose?"

"No, only to pass the time away for an hour or so."

"Very well, then, you can't pass it in any more agreeable way than this, I am sure."

"You are very kind," replied Herbert, as they moved off in the direction of the supposed museum. He had no thought of danger, as he walked along with his new friend, happy in anticipation of the pleasure before him. Could he, however, have realized that he was the victim of a shrewd confidence game, that every step he now took was bringing him nearer to the trap that had been set for him by cruel, unscrupulous villains, how his whole being would have revolted against the presence of the unprincipled fellow beside him, who was now coolly leading him on to his ruin.

Presently they turned up a side street, and soon stopped before a low, ugly building.



"The museum is on the next street," remarked young Smartweed, as he rang the bell three times. "We have to walk through this court, to reach it by the back passage."

Still Herbert's suspicions slumbered.

And now the catch to the door was pulled back, and our unfortunate hero and his companion passed in. The hallway was ominously dark. They groped their way forward till a second door was reached, and here the leader knocked three times, then paused for a moment and knocked once more. After a brief interval three more knocks precisely like the first were given, and then the door opened.

The two stepped quickly into the room, and Herbert's arms were instantly seized by some one from behind the door, and drawn backward by an effort to fasten the wrists together behind him. Quicker than thought, young Randolph wrested his arms from the grip that was upon them, and, turning like a flash, planted a solid blow upon the jaw of his assailant—a blow which sent him, with a terrified yell, sprawling to the floor.

Then it was that he recognized, in the prostrate figure, Felix Mortimer, and a sickening sense of the awful truth dawned upon him. He was trapped!

The genial friend whom he had met on the Bowery now showed his real character, and before Herbert could further defend himself, he was pounced upon by him and a villainous looking man with a scraggy red beard and most repulsive features. They threw a thick black cloth over his head, and, after binding his hands firmly together, thrust him into a dark vault, or pen, in the cellar.

Our hero realized now most fully his helpless and defenseless position—a position that placed him entirely at the mercy of his enemies; if mercy in any degree dwelt in the breasts of the cruel band of outlaws in whose den he was now a prisoner.



CHAPTER XI.

IMPRISONED AT THE FENCE.

"This is a fine beginning to a city career—short but brilliant," said young Randolph to himself, bitterly, as he mused upon his deplorable situation.

"Fool that I was! It's all plain enough to me now," he continued, after a half hour's deep thought, in which he traced back, step by step, his experiences since landing in the big city. "I ought to have recognized him at once—the villain! He is the very fellow I saw across the street with his pal, as I left the bank. I thought he looked familiar, but I've seen so many people in this great town that I'm not surprised at my miss. Mighty bad miss, though; one that has placed me in a box trap, and under ground at that."

Herbert was right in his conclusions. The fellow who had so cleverly played the confidence game upon him was the same one who awaited his appearance in Wall Street, and afterwards shadowed him up Broadway.

"This must all be the work of that young villain Mortimer," continued Herbert, still reasoning on the subject. "I ought to have been sharper; Bob told me to look out for him. If I had had any sense, I could have seen that he meant to be revenged upon me. I knew it, and yet I didn't want to admit, even to myself, that I was at all uneasy. He must have been the same one that pointed me out to this confidence fellow on Wall Street. He was probably made up with false side whiskers and mustache, so that I wouldn't recognize him.

"Well," said he, starting up suddenly from his reverie, "how is all this reasoning about how I came to get into this trap going to help me to get out of it? That is what I want to know;" and he commenced exploring his dark, damp cell, in search of some clew that would aid him in solving the problem.

He was not alarmed about his personal safety. Up to this time, happily, no such thought had entered his mind. He sanguinely looked upon his imprisonment as merely temporary.

In this opinion, however, he erred greatly. The same rural credulity that made him the victim of Peter Smartweed, now led him to suppose that the unscrupulous rascals who held him a prisoner would soon release him. He looked upon the matter as simply one of revenge on the part of Mortimer. He little realized his true situation, and did not even dream of the actual significance of his imprisonment. He therefore felt a sense of genuine consolation when he thought of the well deserved blow he had delivered upon his enemy's jaw; and several times, as he prowled around the cell, he laughed heartily, thinking of Mortimer's ridiculous appearance as he lay stretched upon the floor.

Herbert Randolph was full of human nature, and human nature of the best sort—warm blooded, natural, sensible. There was nothing pale and attenuated about him. He was full of spirits, was manly, kind and generous, and yet he could appreciate heartily a point honorably gained on the enemy. Thus instead of giving himself up to despair and grief, he tried to derive all the comfort possible out of his situation.

His cell was dark as night. He could not see his own hands, and the dampness and musty odor, often noticeable in old cellars, added much to his discomfort. He found that the cell was made of strong three inch slats, securely bolted to thick timbers. These strips, or slats, were about three inches apart. The door was made in the same manner, and was fastened with a padlock. Altogether his cell was more like a cage than anything else; however, it seemed designed to hold him securely against all efforts to escape from his captors.

The door, as previously stated, was fastened by a padlock. Herbert learned this by putting his hands through the slats, and carefully going over every part of the fastening arrangement.

This discovery gave him slight hopes. The lock he judged to be one of the ordinary cheap ones such as his father always used on his cornhouse and barn doors. Now he had on several occasions opened these locks by means of a stiff wire, properly bent. Therefore, should this lock prove to be one of the same kind, and should fortune place within his reach a suitable piece of wire, or even a nail of the right sort, he felt that he could make good his escape from this cell.

"But should I succeed in this," he very prudently reasoned, "would I be any better off? That heavy trap door is undoubtedly fastened down, and, so far as I know, that is the only means of exit; but—— What is that?" he suddenly said to himself, as he felt the cold shivers creep over him.

The sound continues. It seems like rasping or grating. Louder and more distinct it grows, as Herbert's imagination becomes more active.

Every sound to one in his situation, in that dark, lonesome cellar, could easily be interpreted to mean many forms of danger to him. But at length he reasons, from the irregular rasping, and from other slight evidences, that this noise is the gnawing of hungry rats.

What a frightful and alarming discovery this is to him! It strikes terror to his brave young heart, and makes cold beads of perspiration stand out upon his brow. And as these silent drops—the evidence of suffering—trickle down his face one by one, chilly and dispiriting, he grows sick to the very core.

Alone in a dark, damp cellar, with no means of defense—not even a stick, a knife, or any sort of implement to protect himself from the hordes of rats that now surround him.

This indeed is a night of terror to our young hero. He does not dare to throw himself upon the bench, lest he should sleep, and, sleeping, be attacked by these dreadful rats.

Accordingly, he commenced walking back and forth in his cell, as a caged tiger walks hour after hour from one end to the other of his narrow confines.

"This will keep me awake," said he to himself, with an attempt to rouse his spirits; "and it will also keep the rats away."

After he had paced thus for a time, he heard steps above him, and instantly he called out for aid. He called again and again, but the inhuman ear of old Gunwagner was deaf to his imploring cries.

The sound of footsteps was soon lost, and all was still save the gnawing of the rats. Herbert listened quietly for a time, to study their movements. Soon he heard them scampering about in all parts of the cellar. From the noise they made he judged them to be very large; and they were certainly bold, for now they were running about in contemptuous disregard of young Randolph's presence. Occasionally he would yell at them, and kick vigorously upon the framework of his cell. By this means he kept them at a somewhat respectful distance.

And now his mind reverted again to the cause of his imprisonment. As the long, weary hours dragged by, he studied the matter with the utmost care, giving painstaking thought to the slightest details and the most trivial acts. His points were, consequently, well made. They were reasonable, logical, probable. The scheme broadened as he progressed. What he had supposed to be a mere matter of revenge now loomed up clearly and distinctly before him as a bold plot against himself—a piece of outrageous villainy that fairly appalled him.

He saw Felix Mortimer in his place in the bank; saw himself looked upon by Mr. Goldwin with suspicion and disgust. And this feeling, he knew, would extend to his daughter—bright, winsome Ray.

It was odd that Herbert should think of her in this connection, while in such mental agony. He had seen her but once, and then only for a minute. True, she was wonderfully pretty, and her manner was irresistibly attractive, but young Randolph was of a serious turn of mind. No, he was not one to become infatuated with any girl, however charming; he never had been, and, to use his own language, he did not propose to become so. But he could not help thinking of Ray in connection with this matter. He recalled how her sunny presence lighted up the bank that very afternoon, and in imagination he saw her bright, mischievous blue eyes, brimful of fun and merriment, as he handed her into her carriage.

"She did look sweet, confounded if she didn't," said Herbert to himself, forgetting for the time his sorrow; "sweet and pretty as a peach, and her cheeks had the same rich, delicate tint. Her hair—— Great Scott!" ejaculated young Randolph, suddenly awaking to what he had been saying. "Another evidence of my being a fool. I'd better have stayed on the farm," he continued, more or less severely.



"Well, I'm a prisoner," he said, sadly, after a thoughtful pause. "It doesn't matter much what I think or say. But, somehow or other, I wish I had never seen her," he continued, meditatively. "Now she will think of me only with contempt, just as her father will. Of course she will; it would be only natural."

Exhausted, weary, and even overburdened with oppressive thought, he sat down on the wooden bench in his cell. The rats still gnawed and frolicked, and prowled at will. Herbert listened to them for a moment; then he thought of his dear mother and father, of his home, his own comfortable bed.

A stray tear now stole down his cheeks, and then another. The poor boy was overcome, and he gave way to a sudden outburst of grief. Then he rested his head in his hand, and tried to think again. But his mind was wearied to exhaustion.

"My mother, my mother and father! Oh, how I wish I could see them! What would they do if they only knew where I am?"

He paused after this utterance; and now his thoughts suddenly ceased their weary wanderings. All was quiet, and the long measured breathing gave evidence that our young hero slept.



CHAPTER XII.

BOB'S BRILLIANT MOVE.

"But I say, Bob, I don't jest see how we are goin' to get into that den," said Tom Flannery, thoughtfully, as he and his companion hurried along towards old Gunwagner's.

"Don't you?" replied Bob, carelessly, as if the matter was of trivial importance.

"No, I don't. Do you, Bob?"

"Do you think, Tom Flannery, that a detective is goin' to tell all he knows—is goin' to give away the game before it's played?" said Bob, with feigned displeasure.

He asked this question to evade the one put to him.

"I thought they always told them as was in the secret, don't they?"

"Well, I must say you have some of the ignorantest ideas of any boy I ever see," said Bob, with assumed surprise.

Young Flannery looked sad, and made no reply.

"The trouble with you, Tom, is that you worry too much," continued the juvenile detective.

"I ain't worryin', Bob. What made you think that? I only wanted to know what's the racket, an' what I've got to do."

"Well, you s'pose I bro't you up here to do somethin', don't you?"

"Of course you did, Bob. But what is it? That's what I want to know."

"You ask more questions than any feller I ever see, Tom Flannery. Now you jest tell me what any detective would do, on a case like this one is, and tell me what he'd want you to do, an' then I'll tell you what I want you to do."

Tom looked grave, and tried hard to think.

The fact of the matter is that Bob himself hardly knew what step to take next, in order to carry out the plan he had formed. But his reputation was at stake. He thought he must make a good showing before Tom, though the matter of gaining an entrance to Gunwagner's was far from clear to him. He therefore wanted Tom's opinion, but it would not do to ask him for it, so he adopted this rather sharp device.

"Blamed if I can tell, Bob, what a detective would do," replied Tom. "You see I ain't no natural detective like you. But I should think he'd swoop down on the den and scoop it."

"And that's what you think a reg'lar detective would do?"

"Yes. I don't see nothin' else for him to do."

"Well, how would he do it?"

"I ain't no detective, Bob, so I don't know."

"I didn't s'pose you did know, Tom Flannery, so now I'll tell you," said Bob, who had seized upon his companion's suggestion. "A regular detective, if he was in my place, and had you to help him, would do jest what I'm going to do, and that is to send you into the den first, to see what you can find out."

"Send me in?" exclaimed Tom, incredulously.

"Yes, that's what I said, wasn't it?"

"And that's what a reg'lar detective would do?"

"Yes."

"And that's what you're goin' to do?"

"Yes, of course it is. Why wouldn't I do the same as any other detective? That's what I want to know."

"Of course you would, Bob, but I couldn't do nothin' if I should go in," said Tom, gently protesting against the proposed plan of action.

"You can do what I tell you to, can't you?"

"I don't know nothin' about it, any way, I tell you," replied Tom, showing more plainly his disinclination to obedience.

"Tom Flannery, I wouldn't er believed that you would back out this way," said Bob, with surprise.

"Well, I don't want to be a detective no way. I don't care nothin' about my name bein' in the paper."

"You hain't got no ambition. If you had, you'd show some spunk now. 'Tain't often a feller has a chance to get into a case like this one is."

"Well, I don't care if it ain't, that's what I say."

"I thought you wanted to be a detective, and couldn't wait, hardly, for me to work up the case."

"Well, I didn't think I'd have to climb into places like this old Gunwagner's. 'Tain't what I call bein' a detective no way."

"You make me tired, Tom Flannery. You get the foolishest notions into your head of any boy I ever see."

"Well, I don't care if I do. I know plenty detectives don't do nothin' like this. They jest dress up and play the gentleman, that's what they do."

"And that's the kind of a detective you want to be, is it?"

"Yes, it is; there ain't no danger about that kind of bein' a detective."

"Tom, you'd look great tryin' to be a gentleman, wouldn't you? I'd like to see you, Tom Flannery, a gentleman!" said Bob, derisively. "It makes me sick, such talk."

Tom was silent for a time. Evidently he thought there was some ground for Bob's remarks.

But an idea occurred to him now.

"Bob," said he, "if you like bein' this kind of a detective, why don't you go in yourself, instead of sendin' me? Now, answer me that, will you?"

"It wouldn't be reg'lar professional like, and then there wouldn't be no style about it."

Tom made no reply. In fact there seemed nothing further for him to say; Bob's answer left no chance for argument.

The two boys now stood opposite Gunwagner's. Presently a boy with a package in his hand approached the house, and, looking nervously about him, as if he feared he was watched, walked up the stoop and rang the bell three times. He did not see the two young detectives, as they were partially hidden by a big telegraph pole.

After a time the door opened, and he passed in. Bob noticed that it was very dark inside, and wondered why no light shone.

"I couldn't get in, nohow, if I wanted to," said Tom, trying to justify himself for his seeming cowardice.

"Does look so," assented Bob, absentmindedly.

"I wouldn't like to be a prisoner in there; would you, Bob?"

"No, of course I wouldn't."

"I wish we could get your chum out."

"I wish so, too; but you don't s'pose we can do it by standing here, do you?"

"No, but I don't know nothin' to do; do you, Bob?"

"If I told you what to do, you wouldn't do it."

"Well, I didn't see no sense in my goin' in there alone, nohow."

"I did, if you didn't. I wanted you to look round and see what you could find out, and post me, so when I went in I could do the grand act."

"I wouldn't a' got out to post you, Bob. They'd a' kept me—that's what they'd done."

The door now opened, and out came the same boy who but a few minutes before had entered the Gunwagner den. He looked cautiously about him, and then started down the street toward the East River. He was a small boy, of about twelve years of age, while our two detectives were several years his senior. From remarks dropped by Felix Mortimer and Peter Smartweed, Bob surmised that Gunwagner might keep a fence, and the suspicious manner of this small boy confirmed his belief.

"Here's our chance," whispered Bob, nervously. "You follow this boy up, and don't let him get away from you. I'll rush ahead and cut him off. Keep close to him, so we can corner him when I whistle three times."

"All right," said Tom, with his old show of enthusiasm, and each commenced the pursuit.

Between Allen and Orchard Streets the detectives closed in on the small boy. Bob had put himself fairly in front of him, and Tom followed close behind. The chief detective slackened his pace very perceptibly, and seemed to be trying to make out the number on the house before which he now halted.

"Can you tell me where old Gunwagner lives?" said he, addressing the small boy, who was now about to pass by.

The boy stopped suddenly, and the color as suddenly left his face.

Bob had purposely chosen this locality, close to a gaslight, so that he might note the effect of his question upon the boy. Now he gave the signal as agreed upon, and Tom instantly came up and took a position that made retreat for the lad impossible. The latter saw this, and burst into tears. Conscious of his own guilt, he needed no further accuser to condemn him.

"Don't take it so hard," said Bob; "you do the square thing, and we won't blow on you—will we, Tom?"

"No, we won't," replied the latter.

"We saw you when you went into Gunwagner's—saw the package in your hand, and know the whole game," continued Bob. "Now, if you will help us put up a job, why, we will let you off; but if you don't come down square and do the right thing, why, we will jest run you in, and you'll get a couple of years or more on the Island. Now what do you say?"

"What do you want me to do?" sobbed the small boy, trembling with fear.

"I want you to go back with us, and take me into Gunwagner's."

Tom was an interested listener, for he knew nothing about Bob's plans or purposes.

From further questionings, and many threats, our detectives found that a number of boys were in the habit of taking stolen goods to this miserable old fence. The number mixed up in the affair Bob did not learn, but he ascertained the fact that Felix Mortimer had often been seen there by this lad.

"Now me and Tom are doin' the detective business," said the chief; "and if you want to be a detective with us, you can join right in."

"I want to go home," sobbed the boy.

"Well, you can't, not now," said Bob, emphatically. "We hain't got no time for nonsense. You've either got to go along with me and Tom, and help us, or we will run you in. Now which will you do?"

The boy yielded to the eloquence of the chief detective, and accompanied him and Tom back to old Gunwagner's. The boldness of this move captured young Flannery's admiration.

"Now this is what I call bein' detectives, Bob," whispered he. "Gewhittaker, I didn't think, though, you could do it so grand. I don't believe nobody could beat you."

Bob nodded his approval of the compliment, and then addressed himself to the young lad.

"I want you," said he, "to take me in and say I'm a friend of yours who wants to sell somethin'. You needn't do nothin' more. Every detective puts up jobs like this, so 'tain't tellin' nothin' wrong."

Then, turning to his companion, he added:

"Now, Tom, if this boy ain't square, and he does anything so I get into Gunwagner's clutches, and can't get out, why I want you to go for an officer, and come and arrest this boy and the whole gang."

The lad trembled. "I won't do nothin'," he protested. "I'll do just what you want me to."

"All right; you do so, and you'll save yourself a visit to the Island. Now, when I am talking with old Gunwagner, if I tell you to come outside and get the package I left at the door, why, you come jest as if I did have it there, and you come right straight for Tom, and he will tell you what to do. And mind you be sure and don't close the outside door, for I want you to leave it so you and Tom can get in without ringing the bell, for that's the secret of the whole job."

The boy readily assented to Bob's conditions and commands, and then the chief gave his companion secret instructions, to be acted upon after he himself had gone into the very den of the old fence.



CHAPTER XIII.

A TERRIBLE FEAR.

It was towards morning when Herbert Randolph fell asleep on the night of his imprisonment. He had fought manfully to keep awake, dreading the consequences of slumber, but tired nature gave way at last, and our young hero slept, unconscious now of danger.

The rats that he so much feared still frolicked, and prowled, and gnawed, as they had done for hours. They climbed upon boxes and barrels, and made their way into every corner and crevice. Everything was inspected by them.

More inquisitive rats than these never infested the metropolis. Now they went in droves, and scampered from place to place like a flock of frightened sheep. Then they strayed apart and prowled for a time alone. An occasional fight came off by way of variety, and in these battles the vanquished, and perhaps their supporters, often squealed like so many young pigs.

Thus the carousal continued hour after hour, and that old Gunwagner cellar was for the time a diminutive bedlam. Our young hero, nevertheless, slept on and on, unconscious of this racket.

After a while the rats grew bolder. Their curiosity became greater, and then they began to investigate more carefully the state of things within the prison cell, and at length their attention was turned to the quiet sleeper.

Well bred rats are always cautious, and therefore are somewhat respectful, but the drove at old Gunwagner's did not show this desirable trait. In fact they were not unlike the old fence himself—daring, avaricious and discourteous. No better proof of this could be instanced than their disreputable treatment of our young hero.

Rats, as a rule, show a special fondness for leather. Undoubtedly it is palatable to them. But this fact would not justify them in the attempt they made to appropriate to themselves Herbert's boots. The propriety of such an act was most questionable, and no well mannered rats would have allowed themselves to become a party to such a raid. But as a matter of fact, and as Herbert learned to his sorrow, there were no well mannered rats at old Gunwagner's—none but a thieving, quarrelsome lot.

After a council of war had been held, and a great amount of reconnoitering had been done, it was decided that these rural boots could not be removed from their rightful owner in their present shape; therefore they fell vigorously to work to reduce them to a more movable condition.

When Herbert fell asleep, he was sitting on a bench with his feet upon the floor. He was still in this position, with his head resting in his hand, and his elbow supported by the side of his prison cell, when the rats made war on his boots. They gnawed and chipped away at them at a lively rate, and in a little time the uppers were entirely destroyed. The cotton linings, to be sure, were still intact, as these they did not trouble. Evidently cotton cloth was not a tempting diet for them.

Up to this time Herbert had not moved a muscle since he fell asleep, but now a troubled dream or something else, I know not what, disturbed him. Possibly it was the continued gnawing on his already shattered boots. It might, however, have been the fear of these dreadful rats, or the repulsive image of old Gunwagner, that haunted him and broke the soundness of his slumbers.

Presently he opened his eyes, drowsily, and his first half waking impression was the peculiar sensation at his feet. In another instant a full realization of the cause of this feeling darted into his mind, and with a pitiful cry of terror he bounded into the air like a frightened deer. And to add to the horror of his situation, in descending his right foot came down squarely upon one of the rats, which emitted a strange cry, a sort of squeal, that sent a thrill throughout every nerve of our hero's body.

A second leap brought him standing upon the bench upon which he had been sitting.

If ever a boy had good reason to be frightened, it was Herbert Randolph. His situation was one to drive men mad—in that dark, damp cellar, thus surrounded and beset by this countless horde of rats. The cold perspiration stood out upon him, and he trembled with an uncontrollable fear.

Something was wrong with his feet. He knew that, for his shoes now barely hung upon them. To what extent the rats had gone he dreaded to know. Already he could feel his feet smart and burn in a peculiar manner. Had they received poisonous bites, he asked himself? The mere suggestion of such a condition to one in his frightened state of mind was quite as bad, for the time, as actual wounds would have been.

A rat isn't very good company at any time. Under the most favorable conditions his presence has a tendency to send people upon chairs or the nearest table, and not infrequently they do this little act with a whoop that would do credit to a genuine frontier Indian. When, therefore, we consider this fact, it is not difficult to realize the alarming situation in which our young hero was, and but for the timely sound of footsteps overhead it is impossible to predict what might have been the result of this terrible mental strain on him.



The night had worn away, the old fence was again on the move, and Herbert's piercing cry brought him to the room over the cell. No sooner had our young friend heard this sound above his head than he appealed for help. So alarming were his cries that even old Gunwagner was at length moved to go to his assistance. He retraced his steps to the front of the house, and, taking a lighted lamp with him, passed down through the trap door, and then made his way into the rear cellar to Herbert's cell.

Never before in his life had the presence of a human being been so welcome as was that of Gunwagner to our frightened hero. What a relief to this oppressive darkness was that small lamp light, and how quickly it drove all the rats into their hiding places.

"What's all this row about?" growled the old fence.

"These rats," gasped Herbert, with a strange, wild look; "see, they have bitten me," pointing to his boots, or what remained of them.

Gunwagner's heart softened a trifle as he beheld the boy's sufferings, and saw how he had been assailed.

"Are you sure they have bit you?" said he, uneasily.

"Look! see!" replied Herbert, holding out the worst mutilated boot. He fully believed he had been bitten, though, as a matter of fact, he had not.

The old fence became alarmed, fearing the annoyance and possible danger that might follow; but when he had satisfied himself by a careful examination that young Randolph had sustained no injuries, he speedily changed back to his old hard manner again—a cold, cruel manner that showed no mercy.

Herbert begged to be released from his prison pen, but his pleadings were of no avail.

"Why are you treating me in this inhuman way?" asked he. "What have I done that I should be shut up here by you?"

Old Gunwagner looked hard at him, but made no reply.

"I know why it is," continued our hero, growing bold and defiant when he saw it was useless to plead for kindness; "I can see through the whole scheme now; but you mark my words, old man, you will suffer for this cruelty, and so will your friend Felix Mortimer."

These words came from the lips of the young prisoner with such terrible emphasis that old Gunwagner, hardened as he was in sin, grew pale, and trembled visibly for his own safety.



CHAPTER XIV.

BOB OUTWITS THE OLD FENCE.

Bob easily gained admittance to the den by the aid of his confederate. He found there old Gunwagner, Felix Mortimer, and another boy, who passed out just after the young detective entered. The old fence eyed Bob sharply, and perhaps somewhat suspiciously. The manner of the small boy was excited. He did not appear natural, and this alone was sufficient to attract the old man's attention.

It was a critical moment for Bob. He did not know that the boy would not turn against him. In fact, he half suspected he would, but nevertheless he was willing to take the chance in the interest of Herbert, and that he might do a skillful piece of detective work. Moreover, there was the danger of being recognized by Felix Mortimer, who had seen him twice that very day; once at the bank in the morning, and again in the afternoon when Bob played the role of bootblack.

Old Gunwagner questioned him sharply. The small boy, however, told the story precisely in accordance with Bob's instructions. The young detective meanwhile hastily surveyed the room and its furnishings, and when he had discovered what he thought would serve his purpose, he turned to his confederate, and said:

"Well, I believe I'll let this man have the things I brought with me. You may go out and get them, and bring them in here."

"Why didn't you bring them in with you?" asked the fence, suavely.

"I didn't know as we could trade, so I thought I'd better leave 'em outside," answered Bob, carelessly.

When Tom saw the boy come out alone, he knew the part he was to act, and following out the directions of his chief, he and the confederate rushed into the dark passageway leading to the fence, and yelled "Fire" with all the power they could command. Before giving the alarm, however, they lighted a newspaper, and placed it near the outer door.

Bob had purposely made his way to a far corner of the room, so that, as a matter of fact, he was farther from the place of exit than either Mortimer or Gunwagner. This was part of his scheme.

When the cry of fire reached the old fence, he bounded to the door like a frightened deer. Throwing it open, his eyes instantly fell upon the great flames that shot up from the burning paper. The sight struck terror to him, and, with an agonized cry, he rushed down the hallway to the immediate scene of the conflagration, with Felix Mortimer not far behind him.

A gust of wind now blew in through the partially open door, and scattered the charred remains of the newspaper all about the feet of the fence. In a few seconds all traces of the fire were lost, and then the trick dawned upon the old man. He was furious with rage, and ran out into the street, to try and discover the perpetrators of the deed.

Tom and the confederate remained on the opposite side of the street till Gunwagner and Mortimer appeared at the door. Bob had instructed Tom to do this.

Both Gunwagner and Felix tumbled into this trap, which, by the way, was a skillful one for our detective to set. As soon as they caught sight of the two boys, they started after them in hot pursuit, but Tom and the young lad were excellent runners, and, having a good start of their pursuers, they kept well ahead of them.

Seeing, therefore, that the chase was a hopeless one, the old fence and Mortimer returned to the den. The former was almost desperately ugly. He growled and raved in a frightful manner, that quite alarmed our young detective.

"What has become of that new boy?" asked Felix, who was the first to think about him.

Gunwagner was so thoroughly agitated that up to this time he had not thought about Bob. At young Mortimer's reminder, however, he stopped suddenly in his ravings, and the color as quickly left his face. Then he hurried to where a box containing silver and other valuables were kept.

"It's here," he gasped, almost paralyzed with the fear that it had been stolen by the strange boy.

"Is anything else missing?" asked Felix.

Our young detective was at this minute doubled up in a large box that was stowed away under a sort of makeshift counter. He had hurriedly concealed himself in this manner during the absence of the fence and Felix.

"I'll look things over and see," said old Gunwagner, replying to Mortimer's question.

Bob thought the game was all up with him now. He felt much as Tom Flannery did. He, too, "didn't want to be a detective, no how."

"There's no show for me if this old tyrant gets his hands on to me," said Bob to himself, as he lay cramped up in that dirty box, hardly daring to breathe. "I didn't think about it comin' out this way; if I had, I would a' fixed things with Tom different. Now I suppose he's gone home, as I told him to, and I can't look for no help from him or nobody else."

The situation was a depressing one, and it grew more so as the mousing old fence came nearer and nearer to where our young detective lay. He searched high and low for traces of theft, and examined everything with careful scrutiny.

He was now close to Bob's hiding place.

"He must be hid away here somewhere," said Felix, with a very anxious look upon his face.

"What makes you think so?" asked the old man, as he noticed young Mortimer's anxiety.



No boy ever tried harder to suppress his breath than Bob Hunter did at this instant. "It's all up with me now," said he to himself. "They'll get me sure; but I'll die game."

"It looks suspicious to me, and that's why I think so," replied Felix, showing no little alarm.

"I don't see nothing suspicious about it, as long as nothing is missing."

"To be sure, but I believe he is the same boy that was in the bank today looking for this Randolph."

"And he is the boy that the old banker told you about?"

"Yes; the newsboy who said some foul play had overtaken Randolph."

The old fence looked exceedingly troubled.

"We must capture this young Arab," said he, emphatically, after a few moments' careful thought.

Bob's ears missed nothing. This conversation interested him through and through.

"Arab!" said he to himself. "If I don't get caught I'll show you whether I'm an Arab or not."

"Perhaps he is already in there," suggested Mortimer again.

"We will go down cellar and see," said the old man. "He might have gone down through that trap door while we was out."

"That's what I thought; and he and Randolph may already be hatching up some plan for escaping," said Felix.

Why old Gunwagner neglected to search the big box under the counter is inexplicable. Possibly the hand of destiny shielded the young detective, for he was on an errand of mercy.

The old man and Felix now descended the stairs into the cellar, and commenced their search for the strange boy who had so thoroughly alarmed them.



CHAPTER XV.

BOB AND HERBERT MEET.

"Well, I can't understand it," said Felix, as he and the old fence came up from the cellar. "He certainly isn't down there."

"No, he ain't here, that's sure," replied Gunwagner; "but if it was the newsboy, you can be sure he will show up again in a way not very good for us."

"So I think," assented Mortimer.

"Then we must capture him, that's all."

"I wish we could. You see he might go to old Goldwin again, and tell him he saw me here."

"Yes, or go to the police headquarters and raise a row," suggested Gunwagner, gloomily.

"I didn't think of that. Well, as you say, the only thing for us to do is to capture him and get him where he won't make trouble for us."

"The whole game will be lost, and we will be pulled by the police unless we do so."

"You might's well count your game lost, then," said Bob to himself, for he had now renewed hope of carrying through his scheme. But he was nearly paralyzed with pain, from the cramped and uncomfortable position in which he had remained so long. He felt, however, that he was doing a great detective act, so he bore up under his sufferings with heroic fortitude.

"Suppose the police should drop on us, and find Randolph in the cellar?" suggested young Mortimer.

The thought evidently alarmed old Gunwagner. His face and whole manner showed that it did.

"If they should do that, we would go to Sing Sing," returned he, grimly.

Felix Mortimer possessed an extremely cool nerve, but the words "Sing Sing" did not fall upon his ears like sweet music.

"I wish we could get him out of the way," said he, with manifest anxiety. "It must be done tomorrow."

"There's no time to lose, I feel sure. But what shall be done with him?"

"He must be put where he will never blow on us."

"Of course he must."

"It's a bad job—a dirty, bad job—that's what I call it. I only wish you'd kept away from me with your devilish scheme," said the old villain, petulantly.

"It's no time to talk about that now," returned Mortimer, coolly. "You are in for it as well as I, so we must work together."

"We must, must we?" hissed the old man, wickedly.

"Yes," said Mortimer, with a determined manner, that made the old outlaw cower and cringe. Felix Mortimer possessed the stronger character of the two, and, now he was aroused, Gunwagner was subservient to his will.

"Unless you show yourself a man now, I will leave you to fight it out alone," continued Felix. "I can take care of myself. Randolph is on your hands, and here the police will find him."

Low, profane mutterings from the old culprit's mouth now filled the air. He was cornered, and Mortimer had him at his mercy. Gunwagner saw this now, and commenced planning to get our young hero out of the way.

An exceedingly interesting conversation this proved to the young detective, who carefully gathered in every word.

"Something is liable to drop with you fellers before long," said he to himself. "This detective business is mighty excitin', if it's all like this is. I wonder what Tom Flannery would say now, if he could take this all in the same way I'm doin' it!"

"I s'pose we can run him off to sea," said Gunwagner, at length. "That's the only way I know of to get him out of the way."

"Then why not do that?" replied Mortimer.

"It will cost a lot of money."

"Better pay out the money than go to Sing Sing."

The old fence looked daggers at the author of this remark, but evidently thought it best to make no direct reply.

"I wish we could get him away tonight," continued young Mortimer, in a way that exasperated Gunwagner.

"Well, you're mighty liable to be accommodated," thought Bob, as a broad grin played over his face, despite the suffering he was enduring. "I'm goin' to take a hand in this business myself, and I'll try my best to help you fellers through with this job."

"No, it can't be done tonight," said the old fence, gruffly; "but I'll see what can be done tomorrow."

"Fix it so he will never get back here to New York again," said Mortimer, heartlessly.

"Of course; that's the only thing to do."

"Remember, there is no time to lose, for if we get tripped up here, the whole game will be up at the bank, and all our trouble will come to nothing."

"I understand that; but you have said nothing about the outlook at the bank."

"I have had no chance. Some one has been here all the evening."

"You have the chance now."

"So I have; but there is nothing to say yet. You don't expect me to rob a bank in one day, do you?"

"No, of course not; but what are the chances for carrying out the scheme?"

"Ah, ha!" said the young detective to himself; "bank robbing, is it? That's the scheme. Well, this detective business beats me. I guess nobody don't often get a more excitin' case than this one is—that's what I think."

After a little further discussion between the two crooks, Mortimer left the den and started for home. Bob suspected that he felt very happy to get away from there; and Bob was quite right, for, as a matter of fact, the young scoundrel had become so alarmed over the prospect, that he felt very uneasy about remaining a minute longer than was absolutely necessary. When he had gone, the old fence closed and bolted the doors, and then passed into a rear room, where he retired to his bed.

When all had been quiet for perhaps the space of fifteen or twenty minutes, the young detective crawled out of his box and straightened himself out. He had, however, been cramped up so long that this was not so easily done. But matters of so great moment were before him now, that he could not think of aches and pains. He learned about the location of the trap door, when the old fence and young Mortimer went into the cellar to look for him.

On his hands and knees Bob cautiously proceeded, searching on either side of him for the door. It was so dark that he could see nothing, and as the room was filled with chairs, old boxes, and so on, he found it no easy matter to navigate under such circumstances, especially as he knew that the slightest noise would prove fatal to his scheme.

At length his hand rested upon the fastening of the trap door, and to his horror he found it locked. If the room had seemed dark before to the young detective, it was now most oppressively black. What to do, which way to turn, he did not know. The doors leading to the street were locked, he had no keys about him, and no means of producing a light.

"This is the worst go I've struck yet," said Bob to himself, as he meditated over his situation. "Jest as I thought everything was all fixed, this blamed old lock knocks me out. Well, I've pulled through pretty good so far, and I won't give it up yet. I may strike an idea," he continued, undismayed, and then commenced prowling stealthily about the room, in search of something—anything that would serve his purpose.

He thought if he could find the key to the hall door he would try to make his escape from the building; and, once out, he could get matches, and whatever else he needed to aid him in carrying out his scheme to a grand success. But he was no more fortunate in this effort than he had been in hunting for the key to the trap door.

He searched, too, every nook and corner for a match, but failed utterly to find one, or anything to keep his courage good. The situation began to look alarming to him. He was now as much a prisoner as Herbert Randolph.

"I wonder what Tom Flannery would do if he was in my place?" mused the young detective, as he sat upon the floor, somewhat depressed in spirits. "I think he'd just lay down and bawl and throw up the whole game, that's what Tom Flannery would do. But I ain't goin' to throw up no game till it's lost, not ef Bob Hunter knows himself. There ain't but one thing to do now, and that's to go into old Gunwagner's bedroom, and take them keys outer his pocket, that's what I think. Ef he was to wake up, tho', and catch me at it—well, I guess I wouldn't be in the detective business no more. But—what's that noise?" said he to himself, suddenly becoming aware of a strange sound.

Our young detective felt a cold chill creep over him. His first thought was that the old fence was coming into his presence, and would of course capture him and punish him most inhumanly. But as the slight noise continued, and Gunwagner did not appear, Bob took courage, and listened keenly for developments. Presently the sound came nearer, and now a gleam of light shone up through a crack in the floor.

"Can it be Vermont?" said Bob to himself, hardly believing his own eyes.

Still nearer came the light.

"He is climbing the stairs, as sure's I'm alive," said Bob, almost overcome with joy.

In the trap door was a small knot hole, about an inch and a half in diameter. Through this opening the light now shone distinctly, and it was most welcome to the eyes of our young detective. A pressure was now brought to bear upon the door from the under side, but it only yielded so far as the fastening would allow.

"Is that you, Vermont?" whispered Bob through the knot hole.

No answer was given.

Herbert Randolph had never considered himself in any degree superstitious. But what could this be but Bob Hunter's spirit?

"Don't be afraid," said the young detective, who imagined Herbert would find it difficult to realize that he was there. "It's Bob Hunter. I ain't got no card with me, or I'd send it down to you."

This remark sounded so much like Bob that young Randolph no longer doubted his own senses.

"Bob Hunter!" exclaimed he. "How in the world came you here, and what are you doing?"

"Yes, it's me, Vermont. But don't stop to ask no questions now. I'm here to help you get out, but this blamed old door is locked, and I hain't got no key, nor no light, nor nothin'."

After exchanging a few words, Herbert took from his pocket a piece of paper. This he made into a taper, which he lighted and passed up through the knot hole to Bob. With this the latter lighted the gas; and now he felt that he was in a position to be of some service to his friend.

A careful search failed to reveal any keys. Then the two boys discussed the situation, and presently Herbert passed a bent nail to the young detective, and instructed him how to operate on the lock, which speedily yielded to the boy's efforts. In another instant the trap door was thrown up, and, by a most unfortunate blunder, it fell back with a tremendous crash.

Herbert, however, emerged quickly from his cold, damp prison, with a look of consternation pictured upon his face. Both he and Bob knew that old Gunwagner would be upon them in less than a minute, and they hastily prepared to defend themselves.



CHAPTER XVI.

THE OLD FENCE IN A TRAP.

"What shall we do?" said Bob, with no little alarm, as Herbert Randolph climbed up through the old trap door.

"We must defend ourselves," replied the young Vermonter, with characteristic firmness.

"There ain't no way to escape, is there?"

"No, I suppose not, if the hall door is locked."

"It is, and I can't find no key."

"Have you looked since the gas was lighted?"

"Yes, and 'tain't there nowhere."

"Where do you imagine it is?"

"I guess the old duffer has it in his pocket, the same as he has the key to the trap door."

"Well, there is no time to lose. Old Gunwagner will be down upon us in an instant."

"Do you think he will bring a revolver with him?" asked Bob, somewhat nervously.

"Very likely he will."

"I guess we'd better climb down cellar, then, and pretty lively, too."

"No, we won't," replied Herbert, decidedly. "I have had all of that prison I want. We will fight it out here."

"All right, then, I'll shut this door down, or we might get thrown down cellar in the fight."

"So we might, and—— Ah, here he comes!" said young Randolph, detecting the sound of footsteps, as old Gunwagner approached.



"Stand in front of the counter, so that he will see you when he opens the door, and——"

"But the revolver!" interrupted Bob.

He had now entirely relinquished the leadership, for in Herbert Randolph he recognized his superior.

"I was going to tell you about that," replied our hero. "If you see a revolver in his hand, you must drop behind the counter as quickly as possible."

"Yes, and I won't waste no time about it, either."

"No, you'd better not," said the young Vermonter; and he had barely time to dart behind the door, when old Gunwagner placed his hand upon the latch, and burst into the room. His eye fell upon Bob Hunter, who stood directly in front of him, but about two thirds of the way across the room.

The old fence recognized him instantly, and with a fiendish shout made for the lad, as if he meant annihilation. He had not proceeded far, however, when young Randolph bounded from behind the door, and fell upon his shoulders, bearing him to the floor.

A yell of terror escaped from the old villain, that told clearly of his alarm. He had not thought of Herbert until now. He was at a loss to know what caused the noise, when the trap door slipped back with such a resounding crash.

But when his eyes fell upon Bob Hunter, he readily jumped at the conclusion that he alone had caused the rumpus. Now, however, he was stunned at this unexpected assault from the rear. When Herbert and the old man fell to the floor, Bob Hunter was quickly at his friend's side, ready to take a hand in the struggle, if needed.

While old Gunwagner was a cruel, heartless man, he nevertheless lacked genuine courage. Like the majority of men of his class, he was a coward at heart. He therefore readily gave up the struggle, when surprised by Herbert Randolph.

"It's your turn now, old man," said our young hero, triumphantly. "Last night you pounced upon me, and seemed to like it. Now perhaps you will enjoy this!"

A coarse oath, characteristic of the old villain, was the reply.

"You may as well submit decently. You are in our power now, and if you behave yourself, you will save us the necessity of compelling you to obey."

The old fence grated his teeth, and looked the very incarnation of all that was evil. The wicked spirit that shone in his face would have afforded a rare study for a painter. He made a movement of his right hand, as if to reach back to his hip pocket. A movement of this sort, under such circumstances, is considered suggestive of firearms.

Bob did not wait to see whether he was reaching for a revolver or some other ugly weapon, but instantly fell upon this hand, and secured it. The other hand was in Herbert's firm grasp, so it was useless for the old fence to struggle further.

"My turn has come now to get square with you, you cruel old sinner," said Herbert. "I begged of you to take me out of that foul cellar and away from those dreadful rats, but you showed no mercy."

Gunwagner made no reply.

"Yes, and he was goin' to send you off on some kind of a ship tomorrow, so you would never get back to New York no more," said Bob.

"Send me off on a ship!" exclaimed our hero, with a shudder. He had not until now even imagined the full purpose of his enemies.

"Yes, that's what they said tonight, him and that Mortimer feller."

"And you heard this?"

"Yes, when I was in that box under the counter there," replied Bob, with enthusiasm; "and they talked about bank robbin', too."

At this revelation old Gunwagner seemed to give up all hope. The hardness of his face melted into an expression of pain, and he trembled with fear, like the frightened thing that he was. He had been outwitted by the young detective.

"Richard Goldwin's bank, I suppose," replied young Randolph, almost dazed at the audacity of the villains.

"Yes, that was their game in getting you out of the way."

"I didn't think of that before."

"Well, you hain't been in New York very long, and so you don't know the way they do things here—them that is bad, like this gang."

"How did you find out where I was, and how in the world did you manage to get in here without being seen?"

"Well, you see, I was a detective," said Bob, with a show of pride.

"A detective!" exclaimed the young Vermonter, looking at his friend with the innocent wonder of a country boy.

"Yes, but I hain't got no time to tell you about it now. We must be movin', you see."

"So we must," replied Herbert.

Doubtless old Gunwagner, too, would have liked much to hear Bob relate how he discovered his friend's prison. But even this small satisfaction was denied him.

"What's the first move?" said Bob.

"I have been thinking about that," replied our hero.

"Of course, we must have him arrested."

"Certainly we must."

"Oh, no, don't, don't!" pleaded the old man, speaking for the first time.

"It is too late to plead now," said young Randolph. "You should have thought of this before committing the evil that you have done."

"But I am an old man, and he led me into it."

"Who?"

"Mortimer, Felix Mortimer. If it hadn't been for him, I wouldn't er done it."

"Oh, that don't go with us," said Bob. "I heard the whole story tonight. You was into the game with him, and now you're trapped you wanter squeal, that's what you do. But it won't do you no good. You are a bad lot from way back—gettin' boys to steal things for you!"

This was a revelation to young Randolph, as he did not know until now that old Gunwagner kept a fence.

"Don't have me arrested, boys," whined the old villain, now trying to work on their sympathy. "It would kill me. I am so old."

"Do you expect sympathy from me, after your heartless treatment?" said Herbert.

"He made me do it," was the reply, referring to Mortimer.

"Nonsense, you could have taken me out of that old cellar if you had wanted to do so."

"Yes, and do you think you would er showed me any sympathy, if you'd got me into your clutches alone?" put in Bob.

"I wouldn't have been hard on you."

"No, you wouldn't," said the young detective, sarcastically. "Your talk tonight, when I was hid away, sounded as if you wouldn't er been hard on me—oh, no, you wouldn't. I could tell that from the way you plunged at me just now, when you came through that door with your war paint on."



CHAPTER XVII.

BOB GOES FOR AN OFFICER.

Old Gunwagner saw quite clearly that any further effort to play upon the boys' sympathy was useless.

The first shock of his surprise was over, and now the subtle cunning of his nature began to reassert itself.

"Boys, you have the advantage of me at present," said he, softly. "But I can't see how it will pay you to act foolish."

"What do you mean?" asked Herbert.

"I mean that it will pay you a good deal better to make terms with me."

"How so?"

"Would you like to be rich?" was the reply.

"I suppose every American wants to be rich, and I guess we are no exception, are we, Bob?"

"I should think we ain't," replied the latter.

"So I thought," said the old fence, "and it's in my power to make you rich."

The boys were listening to subtle, dangerous words.

"How can you do that?" said Bob, growing interested.

"There are a number of ways that I might do it. In the first place, I could give both of you all the money you will ever need, and still be rich myself."

"But a man isn't likely to give away so much," said Herbert.

"You must have a payin' business," observed the young detective.

"Of course I must, and that is the point I am coming at. You boys have shown yourselves keen lads, and I always like to help such boys along, for I was poor once myself. Now my proposition is this: I'll give you both a show in the business here with me."

"No, sir, thank you, we do not care to go into a dishonest business like this," said Herbert, emphatically, speaking for both Bob and himself.

"Not if you could each make ten thousand a year, clean money?"

"No; not if we could make ten times that," replied our hero.

"You could have a good time on ten thousand a year—boys of your age."

"Not on stolen money."

"It wouldn't be on stolen money."

"It looks very much like it, when you buy stolen goods."

"Yes, and fix up a job for bank robbin'," added Bob.

"Well, suppose it does look so, why couldn't you enjoy the money just as much?"

"Because it wouldn't be right for us to have it," returned our hero.

"Boys, you are not so old as I am. I've seen a good deal of life. Money is money, and it don't matter where it comes from, it will buy just as much."

"It will not always buy one his liberty," replied young Randolph, coolly.

This remark came close home to the old fence, and disconcerted him for a minute. Presently, however, he rallied, and said:

"Do you think one has his liberty, as you call it, when he is poor—so poor that he can have no luxuries?"

"To be sure he does. Why not?"

"You will change your mind some day, and perhaps it will be too late."

"I hope I shall never change my mind in favor of dishonesty and crime."

"Do you know that a boy's chance to get rich hardly ever comes to him but once in his life?" continued old Gunwagner, undaunted.

"No, and I don't believe it is so, either."

"Another evidence of your inexperience. When you get older, you will look back and see what I tell you is true; and if you miss this chance you will never get another one like it."

"We don't want another one like it, so it's no use to talk about it any more."

"That's so," said Bob; "he hain't got no interest in us; I can see through his trick."

"You are mistaken, young man. If you don't want to go into the business here yourselves, I'll give you an interest in it, if you will do nothing to injure it. You see, you know about the business here now, and if you should give it away to the police, why it would hurt it, don't you understand?"

"Yes, we understand it too well, but do not want an interest in it," said Herbert.

"It would pay you well," persisted the old fence; "say about seven to ten thousand dollars each every year, and you needn't come anear it—just take your dividends every week, and that's all."

"Well, we don't want no such dividends," said Bob; "nor we couldn't get 'em if we did want 'em, that's all."

"You are mistaken again, for if you think the business don't pay as well as I say, why I can show you the money."

"Got it with you?" said Bob.

This question pleased the old fence, and gave him renewed courage. He thought now that perhaps there was yet hope for him.

"I have it in the house," said he.

"In cash?"

"Yes, and I can get it if you want to see it."

"Don't see how you're goin' to get it, the way you are fixed now," continued Bob.

"Well, if you will not let me go for it, I can tell you where to find it."

"Can you? Well, where is it?"

"It is in my bedroom, in the further end of the house. You will find it in the thick wallet, under my pillow."

"Well, we will take your word for it, seein' we don't need the money for anything, and wouldn't take it nohow," said the young detective, who divined the purpose of the old fence.

"But if you don't get it, how can I make you boys a present? You will not allow me to go for it," said the fence, fearing his scheme had failed him.

"We don't want no present, so don't worry yourself about that."

"We prefer taking you with us, rather than the present," said Herbert.

"Old man," continued Bob, "your game didn't work. All you wanted was to get me out of the way so you could er layed Vermont out. But it warn't no go. You was too anxious to give away money. I could see all the time what you was aimin' at."

The old fence protested against this interpretation of his motives, but the boys were too keen for him. Young Bob Hunter had been knocking about the streets of New York too long to be very easily taken in by this old Gunwagner. His wits had been sharpened to a high degree in his long struggle for bread, and his knowledge of human nature was as superior to that of Herbert Randolph as the latter's general education was superior to Bob's.



Finding it impossible to work upon the sympathy of the boys, that buying them off was out of the question, and that the scheme to outwit them had proved a flat failure, Gunwagner now turned to the last weapon which he could hope to use with any possible effect.

"So you have made up your mind to take me with you?" said he, looking hard at Herbert.

"Yes," replied the latter, firmly.

"You will make the biggest mistake of your life, if you attempt such an outrage."

"An outrage! Is that what you call it, when a detective takes a bird like you in?" said Bob Hunter, in his characteristic manner.

The old fence looked fiercely at him.

"My friends are all around here, and I can raise a dozen of them before you could get me half a block away."

"We do not feel uneasy about your so called friends," said young Randolph. "But if you prefer it, we will send for an officer, and let him take you."

"If your friends go back on you the way Mortimer done tonight, when he told you he would look out for himself, and let you fight it out alone, why, then I guess me and Vermont needn't bother much about your gang."

Further intimidation was tried by Gunwagner, but all to no purpose, for now the boys were in the act of fastening together the wrists of the old fence, and binding them securely to a chair. When this had been done, so that they no longer felt any insecurity, they took from his pocket the keys to both doors leading to the street, and Bob Hunter started for an officer. Young Randolph remained with the prisoner, because he was stronger than Bob, and therefore would be the better able to handle him, should he by any means get his hands loose.

Now every hope had failed the old man. He saw nothing but Sing Sing before him. His evil purpose had at last recoiled upon him, and he was a prisoner in the hands of one who but a few hours before had begged of him for mercy.

While waiting for the return of Bob with the officer, Herbert asked Gunwagner if the money he had made in crooked and unlawful ways had brought him happiness. He made no audible reply, but sat with his head bent low. An answer, however, was conveyed to our young hero by a silent tear that made its way slowly down the wrinkled and aged face of the old man, whose life had been worse than wasted, for it had been an evil one.



CHAPTER XVIII.

TOM FLANNERY IS HUNGRY.

It was past midnight when Herbert Randolph and Bob Hunter reached their room. The old fence had meanwhile been taken to the station house by an officer. Both boys were sleepy and well nigh exhausted, so they immediately sought rest.

Bob, however, was up at his usual hour in the morning, and off to look after his paper trade. Business proved good with him on this occasion—unusually good—so that his profits amounted to quite a nice little sum. He therefore planned to give Herbert a good warm breakfast, something better than it had been their custom to eat.

Presently Tom Flannery appeared.

"You here, Bob?" said the latter, with surprise. "I thought you was done for, sure."

"What made you think that, Tom?"

"Why, because you didn't show up."

"You didn't wait for me, did you?"

"Didn't I? Well, I should think I did, till near twelve o'clock, too, when I was so near froze I couldn't stay no longer; and Bob, I thought it was all up with you."

"Why, Tom, you hadn't oughter staid. I told you to go home after you lit the fire."

"I know you did, Bob, but I didn't feel like goin' home and leavin' you alone in that den. You see I thought you might need me."

"Tom, you've got more sand than I thought you had. I wish I coulder fixed it so you coulder been on the inside too."

"I wish you could, Bob. Was it excitin'?"

"Excitin'! Well, wasn't it, though! I never saw anything like it. But I say, Tom, that was a great go. You done it splendid."

"What's that, Bob?"

"Why, the fire act. I don't believe nobody could beat that."

Tom enjoyed this praise hugely.

"I wouldn't like to a' been in your place, Bob," said he, "when you was in that dark room, nor when old Gunwagner and that other feller was huntin' for you."

"No, I thought you wouldn't, Tom, and I didn't want to be there neither."

"'Twas a big detective job, wasn't it, Bob?"

"Well, 'twas a pretty fair one, I guess."

"And you got it all up yourself," continued Tom, admiringly. "I wish I could do things the way you do, Bob."

"Well, you see, Tom, you hain't had so much experience as what I have, but you'll come out all right, and make a big detective, I know you will."

Bob stopped talking to sell a paper, and after making change and pocketing his profit, he continued:

"Now, Tom, I tell you what 'tis: you and me and Herbert will eat breakfast together, when he comes down."

"When will he be down?" asked Tom, his hand dropping instinctively upon his empty stomach.

Tom Flannery was known among his crowd of street lads as the hungry boy. He was always ready to eat, and never seemed to get enough food to satisfy the cravings of his appetite. This invitation, therefore, was very welcome to him.

"It's 'bout time for him now," replied Bob, in answer to Tom's question.

"I wish he would come," said Tom, looking hungrier than usual.

"He is probably making up sleep," said the young detective.

"How much sleep has he got to make up, Bob?" asked Tom, seriously.

"I don't know exactly, but I guess pretty near a whole night."

"A whole night!" exclaimed Tom, dubiously. "He ain't goin' to make it all up this morning, is he, Bob?"

Tom's hand rested suggestively upon his stomach again.

"Shucks! Tom Flannery, if you ain't a idiot, I never saw one! To think Herbert Randolph would sleep all day! Didn't I tell you he would be right down?"

"So you did, Bob. I forgot that; but you see I wanted to be sure, cause I haven't had nothin' to eat yet today."

Bob looked at his companion with an air of disdain, and made no reply.

Tom, however, was not over sensitive, so he kept on talking about Bob's adventure at the fence. In the course of half an hour he got the whole story from the young detective. Bob not only told him his own adventures, but gave him all of Herbert's experience, which he had himself learned from our hero.

It was now about a quarter to nine. Tom looked suggestively at the big hands on the City Hall clock, but said nothing about young Randolph's non-appearance.

"I don't see what keeps him," said Bob, knowing full well what Tom was thinking about.

"Nor I don't either, Bob. I guess he won't be down very early."

"Well, there wasn't nothin' to bring him down early."

"But you expected him, didn't you, Bob?"

"Of course I did, Tom Flannery. Didn't I ask you to eat breakfast with me and him?"

"Yes, you did, Bob, and that was what I was thinking about."

"Well, what did you think about it?"

"I was wonderin' if you meant this mornin', or some other mornin'."

Tom had hardly finished this remark, when Herbert Randolph approached from the Broadway entrance and spoke to Bob.

"This is Tom Flannery, what helped me do the detective act," said the latter, by way of introduction. "You know I told you about him."

"Oh, yes, I remember, and I am glad to meet you, Tom Flannery," replied young Randolph, extending his hand to Tom.

"So am I glad to see you," said young Flannery; "me and Bob here have been waitin' for you more'n two hours."

"Oh, Tom Flannery!" exclaimed Bob. "What are you talkin' that way for? 'Tain't a quarter so much that we've been waitin', and you know it."

"Seems like 'twas a half a day to me, any way," protested Tom, with his hand again moving towards the seat of his digestion.

"The trouble is with Tom Flannery that he is always starvin'. I never see such a hungry boy," explained the young detective.

"I can't help it," answered Tom; "I like to eat."

Bob explained to Herbert that they had been waiting for him to join them for breakfast.

"I am sorry," said young Randolph, "but I ate my breakfast on the way down."

Tom Flannery was disheartened.

"Never mind, Tom," said Bob; "we will have the breakfast some other mornin'—you and me and Vermont."

When it was time for Mr. Goldwin to get down to business, our hero and the young detective started for the banking house.

A surprise awaited Felix Mortimer.



CHAPTER XIX.

THE RIVALS AT THE BANK.

"Do you s'pose we will find that Mortimer feller at the bank?" asked Bob, as he and young Randolph passed down Broadway towards Wall Street.

"Very likely we shall," responded our hero, absentmindedly.

"If he has heard of old Gunwagner's arrest, you bet he won't be there."

"The papers contained nothing about the arrest, did they?"

"No, not as I seen."

"Then the chances are that he is there."

"So I think. But what will you do, Vermont, if he is?"

"I don't know yet."

"You won't lick him, will you?"

"Oh, no, that wouldn't be a wise policy to pursue."

"But he deserves it."

"So he does, but I can't afford to lower myself by fighting."

"That's so, Vermont; but, all the same, I'd like to see you lay him out once—the way you did at Gunwagner's—he deserves it."

"He deserves to be punished, but I think the law will do that."

"'Tain't quick enough," said Bob, petulantly. "A feller gets all over his mad before he gets any satisfaction out of law."

"You are a comical chap, Bob," said Herbert; "but you have been one of the best friends I ever knew. If you had not come to my rescue, I should probably never have walked down this street again."

"Oh, that's all right," replied the young detective. "Don't say nothing about it."

The two boys had now reached the banking house of Richard Goldwin. Their conversation, therefore, terminated as they entered the bank.

Just as the door was opened to them, Mr. Goldwin came out of his private office, and his eyes fell upon Herbert and Bob.

"What do you mean, sir, by appearing in this bank again?" he asked, with a stern glance at young Randolph.

It must be remembered that he believed the story told to him by Felix Mortimer, and therefore looked upon Herbert with grave suspicions, or even contempt.

The banker's manner and implied insinuation wounded young Randolph's pride, and his cheeks became crimson.

"If you are not already prejudiced, I think, sir, I can explain to your entire satisfaction," said our young hero, with a native dignity well becoming his manliness.

"It's jest what I told you yesterday mornin'," put in Bob. "Foul play—that's what it was."

"I think I am not prejudiced to such an extent that I am incapable of dealing justly with you," replied Mr. Goldwin, giving no heed to Bob's remark.

"Thank you," said Herbert. "I am sure you are not, and if you will listen to me, I will explain everything."

"A mere explanation from you, however, will not convince me."

"It should do so," replied Herbert, still further wounded by this cold remark.

"Not at all, since you have deceived me once."

"I have never deceived you, sir," answered young Randolph, with spirit.

"Of course you would say so," returned the banker, coolly.

"Most certainly I would, sir, when I am telling you the truth."

"Have you any evidence to sustain your position?" asked Mr. Goldwin.

"Yes, sir," replied Herbert; "my friend here can testify that I have not deceived you. He knows the whole story—the plot from first to last."

Herbert Randolph's bold, straightforward manner impressed the banker favorably, and he now became less frigid towards him.

"There has evidently been deception somewhere," said Mr. Goldwin. "Why any one should plot against you, with a view to getting you out of this bank, I cannot understand."

"I think Bob Hunter here can make it plain to you. He knows the whole scheme."

"And it warn't no small scheme, neither," responded Bob. "It's lucky for you that we got on to it before it was too late."

"What do you mean by this insinuation, young man?"

"Well, if you want to know, I'll tell you. Perhaps you remember I was down here yesterday to see you, and I told you somethin' was wrong then—didn't I?"

"Yes."

"And you didn't believe it, but just talked against Herbert Randolph here."

"But I had good cause for doing so."

"Yes, if you think that stuff that Felix Mortimer give you was any cause, then you did have some; but he was jest lyin' to you, that's what he was doin', and I know it; and what's more, I can prove it," said Bob, boldly and bluntly.

"You are making a strong statement," replied the banker, somewhat bewildered.

"I know I am, but I couldn't say nothin' too strong about that Mortimer feller."

"Felix Mortimer is in my private office. Dare you come in and face him with these remarks?"

"You bet I dare—that's jest what I want to do."

"You shall do so, then," said the banker.

Herbert Randolph and Bob Hunter followed him, at his invitation, into his private room.



CHAPTER XX.

FELIX MORTIMER DISCOMFITED.

Felix Mortimer sat at a desk facing the door, and was writing when the banker and the two boys entered the room. He did not look up till Herbert and Bob had advanced several steps toward him, and stopped. But his eyes now met theirs, and he sprang to his feet like one suddenly surprised by a lurking enemy. Herbert and Bob stood there for a moment, boldly facing him. Not a word was spoken on either side.

The banker took a position where he could watch the effect of this strange meeting upon both parties. He saw the color fade from young Mortimer's face, and a look of unmistakable fear spread over it. In fact, his whole manner betrayed the alarm that now possessed him.

In strong contrast to the appearance of this young villain was Herbert Randolph's frank, truthful look. He had no cause for fear. The peculiar fire that shone in his eyes revealed a meaning that was at once impressive and determined. Before him stood one who had wronged him outrageously, stolen his position away from him, and blackened his character with ingenious falsehood.

Our hero thought of all this, and his blood boiled with manly indignation. Had he been alone with Mortimer, I fear the latter would have suffered then and there the penalty for his villainy. But discretion was now the sensible course for Herbert, and he wisely restrained himself from an unbecoming demonstration of hostility.

"Do you know these young men?" asked the banker, sharply, addressing young Mortimer.

"I know one of them, sir—that is, I saw him here the morning you advertised for a boy," replied Felix, commencing to rally.

"I recollect the fact. You refer to Herbert Randolph, I presume?"

"Yes, sir."

"I think you told me something about his getting another position, and this, you said, was probably the reason why he failed to continue working at this bank."

"Yes, sir," replied Mortimer, with bold effrontery.

"What have you to say to this young man's statement, Mr. Randolph?" said the banker.

Felix Mortimer's manner had already raised Mr. Goldwin's suspicions, but he wished to be doubly sure, and thus he proceeded carefully with the investigation.

"His statement is wholly false," was our hero's reply. "It was his miserable villainy that deprived me of my liberty, and kept me away from my work."

Mr. Goldwin looked puzzled.

"The plot thickens," said he. "Give me your story."

Herbert related how he had been victimized, telling the facts much as I have given them in the preceding chapters of this narrative.

"Tell him about the knock out," put in Bob, who evidently thought this one of the best parts of the story.

"What was that?" asked the banker.

Herbert explained.

"So that was what gave you the swollen jaw, was it?" said Mr. Goldwin, addressing Felix Mortimer in a severe tone.

"No, it was not," said he. "I told you what did it, and I don't propose to hear any more lies from street fellows like these," added Mortimer, contemptuously, and at the same time moving towards the door.

"Stop!" said the banker, firmly. "You will not leave this room till this matter is cleared up."

Young Mortimer winced, and Bob Hunter looked up at Herbert, and smiled suggestively.

"Mr. Randolph, this fellow stated to me yesterday that you were not from Vermont, that you are an impostor. What have you to say to this?"

"I can only say that I told you the truth."

"Have you any way of proving your statement?"

"Here is a letter that I received this morning from my mother," said Herbert, handing it to the banker. "This, I think, will sustain my word."

"The envelope is postmarked Fairbury, Vermont," replied Mr. Goldwin, scrutinizing it closely.

"You may read the letter," said our hero. "It will doubtless convince you of my truthfulness."

It ran as follows:

FAIRBURY, Vt., Thursday, November 12th.

MY DEAR SON:

Your letter reached us this evening, and it lifted a great load of anxiety from our hearts, for we could not help fearing some ill luck might have overtaken you—a stranger and an inexperienced boy in so great a city as New York.

Your father and I rejoice at your good fortune, and feel proud that our boy should be chosen by the banker from among so large a number of applicants for the same position. Your excellent start gives us fresh courage to fight the battle of life over again, and to try and regain our property, or so much of it as will be necessary to support us comfortably in our old age.

Your father's eyes filled with tears of joy when I read your letter to him, and he said I might tell you that he feels rich in the possession of a son who has health, energy, and good principles, and who has shown himself able to make his way in the world unaided. He thinks you now have an excellent opportunity for commencing a prosperous career. From what you wrote of Mr. Goldwin, the banker, we think he must be a very nice man, and we are heartily glad that you can have his influence thrown about you to strengthen you against the evils you should shun.

We were greatly amused at the picture you gave of Bob Hunter the newsboy. You must find him very entertaining. Write us some more about him. His droll talk reads like a novel. Your father laughed heartily at it.

Be sure and write us two or three times a week, for you know we are entirely alone now you are away. With love from your father and myself, I will say good by for today.

YOUR MOTHER.

Mr. Goldwin commenced to read this letter aloud, but before he had finished it his voice choked, and he reached for his handkerchief with which to dry his moist eyes.

The picture it presented of the Vermont father and mother, so deeply interested in their only boy, brought fresh to the banker's mind his own parental home, and he saw himself once more bidding good by to his father and mother, as he left them and the old farm, a mere boy, to seek a livelihood in the great metropolis.

Presently he overcame this emotion, and turning to young Randolph[TN: should be Mortimer], said, sternly:

"This letter, which I hold in my hand, not only proves Mr. Randolph's truthfulness, but it convicts you of a base falsehood. You deceived me by your artful lying, and now you have the effrontery to stand up before me and before this young man, whom you have so cruelly wronged, and boldly deny everything. You are the most polished young villain I ever knew.

"Young man," continued the banker, addressing Bob, and without waiting for Mortimer to reply, "what do you know about this matter?"

"I guess I know 'bout everything," said the young detective, glad of a chance to have his say.

"You remarked that it was lucky that you found out something before it was too late for us here at the bank, I believe?"

"Yes, sir, you are right."

"Will you please tell us the facts?"

Bob related the conversation he had heard between old Gunwagner and Felix Mortimer, relative to bank robbing.

"So that was your scheme in getting in here, was it? you young villain!" said Mr. Goldwin, angrily addressing Felix Mortimer.

"I refuse to answer the charges made by these confederates. They are telling what has no truth in it, and are deceiving you, as you will learn to your sorrow," replied Felix, still maintaining a good degree of boldness.

Richard Goldwin, however, was too good a judge of human nature to be further imposed upon by the tricks of young Mortimer.

"But you will be forced to answer to the charges sooner or later, sir," said the banker. "The court will compel you to do so."

The court!

These words made young Mortimer wince, and his nerve palpably weakened. He muttered some unintelligible reply—whether a threat or not none present knew.

"How came you to overhear this conversation between the old fence and this fellow?" asked Mr. Goldwin of Bob Hunter.



The young detective here related the whole story, telling why he suspected Mortimer, how he saw him at the bank in Herbert's place, how he shadowed him up Broadway—told of the bootblacking scene, in which he got the essential facts from Peter Smartweed and Mortimer; related his manner of gaining admittance to the fence, and told of the trick he played upon the old man and Felix—the trick that enabled him to carry out to success his scheme for liberating Herbert Randolph.

"And you did all of this alone?" asked the banker, with genuine astonishment.

"Yes, sir," replied Bob, carelessly, as if it didn't amount to much.

"I cannot realize it," said Mr. Goldwin, admiringly. "A professional detective could not have done better, and probably would have fallen far short of doing as well."

"I didn't think nothin' of it," returned Bob. "'Twas easy enough, and 'twas kinder of excitin', too."

"And you liked the excitement?"

Bob admitted that he did, but was very modest about his triumph, and was not disposed to look upon it as any great feat now it was all over. But Mr. Goldwin assured him, in most complimentary terms, that great credit was due to him for the skill and bravery he had displayed.