Meanwhile Felix Mortimer had been slyly inching towards a door that was a little to his left; and now that Mr. Goldwin's attention was centered upon young Bob Hunter, he seized the opportunity, and made a mad plunge for liberty. His movements, however, had been detected by Herbert Randolph, and he no sooner reached the door than the young Vermonter grasped him firmly by the collar, and jerked him back.

Mortimer's effort to escape prompted Mr. Goldwin to sound the alarm for a policeman. An officer responded promptly, and immediately arrested the young criminal, and took him to the station house, where he was locked into a cell.

"I was never so deceived in a boy in my life," remarked the banker, with a troubled look, when the officer had gone with his prisoner. "He has a remarkably strong character, and had he taken the right course in life, would have made an able man. It always makes me sad to see a bright boy, just entering upon his career, start in a way that is sure to result in disgrace and ruin."

"His associates have doubtless had a bad influence over him," said Herbert, as if trying to soften the boy's offense.

"It is certainly praiseworthy in you, Mr. Randolph, to speak so kindly of one who caused you so much suffering as that boy did," returned Mr. Goldwin.

"Well, since his evil purpose has recoiled upon himself, he is now the chief sufferer; and besides, I do not think he wanted to injure me farther than to get me out of his way. And he knew no other plan, I suppose, than to keep me a prisoner."

"I am glad to see you view the matter so charitably," said the banker, warmly, for he appreciated highly this glimpse of Herbert's character.

"But what do you say to old Gunwagner?" put in Bob.

"I think he is a heartless old wretch," answered young Randolph, with fire in his eyes. "It is he who abused me so cruelly."

"You say he, too, is locked up now?" asked Mr. Goldwin.

"Yes."

"Do you think he has any property?"

"I should judge so. In fact, he tried to buy us off when he found we had him cornered."

"It is possible that you may be able to get damages for false imprisonment," said the banker, thoughtfully.

"I had not thought of that," returned Herbert.

"Mind you, I said it was possible only, so do not have too great hopes of such a result."

"No, I will not, and the damage was not much, unless I lost my situation with you," replied Herbert, somewhat anxiously.

"No, you have not lost that, for I shall reinstate you at once. You have proved yourself to be the sort of young man I desire in my business."

"Thank you, sir, for your compliment, and especially for reinstating me. I should be very sorry to lose this position, and I know my father and mother would feel badly, too."

"Do not worry about that, my boy. Employers are as anxious to get desirable clerks as clerks are eager to be employed. But to return to the matter of false imprisonment, I will state the case to my lawyer, and see what there is in it. Of course it would be no use to fight him if he is worth nothing."

"He said he had plenty of money—enough to make us all rich," put in Bob, with some enthusiasm. "It would be a great act to make him come down handsome. I'd like to see it done."

"Those fellows usually have a lot of money," said Mr. Goldwin, "and I agree with Bob—I will call you by that name hereafter—that it would be gratifying to recover damages."

"That's right, I like to be called Bob—everybody calls me that."

"Well, Bob, you are a character. I shall take a great interest in your development, for I think you have done the smartest thing, in getting your friend out of old Gunwagner's clutches, that I ever knew a boy of your age to do."

Bob's cheeks became highly colored. He had not been accustomed to praise, and such compliments as these from a rich banker were unwieldy for him.

"Tom Flannery helped me," said the young detective, generously trying to throw some of the glory upon Tom.

"Tom Flannery! Who is he?"

"He is a fellow what sells papers too. Me and him worked this case up together."

"What sort of a boy is he—sharp, like yourself, I suppose?"

"Well, he done some good work helpin' me," replied Bob, evading the question as to Tom's keenness.

The fact is that young Flannery was not wonderfully sharp; but Bob liked him for his honest, good natured self, and, therefore, would only speak in praise of him.

The banker drew Bob out, and learned of the fire act that Tom performed so satisfactorily. But his keen sense detected the truth of the matter, and he was satisfied as to where the real merit lay.

"Bob," said he, "your modesty and your efforts to throw much of the credit on Tom Flannery are certainly becoming to you. I like you for the spirit you show in the matter. But, nevertheless, I recognize in you the chief of the undertaking—the one who planned and carried out the entire scheme. Now, here is a little present for you; I want you to take it and buy you a good suit of clothes, so that you will be as well dressed as Herbert. I believe you room together?"

"Yes, we do," said Bob. "But I don't want no present. I can earn some money to buy clothes with."

"But I want you to take it," replied Mr. Goldwin. "You have done a great act of kindness to Herbert, and to me as well, for sooner or later we would doubtless have suffered a loss by Felix Mortimer."

Bob took the crisp new bills reluctantly—four of them, five dollars each—twenty dollars—he had never held so much money in his hands at any one time before, and this was all his own.

He felt bewildered. After a moment's pause, however, he said, "Mayn't I give some of this to Tom Flannery?"

"I expected you would say that," replied the banker, enjoying Bob's surprise, "so I retained a five dollar bill for Tom. Here it is; give it to him with my regards. He, too, did us a service in aiding you as he did."

Bob's joy was now beyond expression. He looked, however, the thankfulness that he could not find words to express.

"You may go now," said Mr. Goldwin, kindly. "I will keep you in mind, and see what I can do for you. Come and see me within a few days."

Bob thanked Mr. Goldwin heartily, and left the bank, overflowing with happiness. When the young detective had gone, Mr. Goldwin asked Herbert many questions about him.

"I think he is a promising lad," said the banker. "I have taken a great liking to him. He has a droll, comical way that is very pleasing."



CHAPTER XXI.

TWO YOUNG CAPITALISTS.

"Is that you, Bob Hunter?" said Tom Flannery, his eyes opened wide with surprise.

"I should think it is," laughed the young detective.

"Say, Bob, where did you get 'em?" continued Tom, somewhat in doubt of his own senses.

"Why, I bought 'em, of course. How does anybody get new clothes?"

"They are slick, though, ain't they, Bob?" said young Flannery, admiringly, "and they fit stunnin', too. You must er struck a snap somewhere, Bob."

"I should think I did," replied the latter; "the best snap any er the boys ever struck."

"Bob, you was always lucky. I wish I was as lucky as what you are. I never strike no snaps, Bob."

"Don't you?" said young Hunter, meditatively.

"No, they don't never come my way," responded Tom, dolefully.

Bob turned the lapels of his coat back and threw out his chest ponderously.

"Tom," said he, with the air of a Wall Street banker, "here's a five for you," taking a new, crisp bill from his vest pocket.

"For me, Bob!" exclaimed Tom, incredulously.

"Why, yes, of course it's for you. Why not?"

"I don't understand it, Bob," said young Flannery, completely upset.

"Why, it's one of them snaps. You said you never had any luck like me, so I thought I'd just give you some."

"Bob, you're a dandy. I never see any feller do things the way you do."

"Well, I do try to throw a little style into 'em, when it's handy to do it."

"I should think you do."

"You see, Tom, it don't cost no more to do things as they ought to be. I believe in doing 'em right, that's what I say."



"But, you see, Bob, believing in 'em and knowing how to do 'em is two different things. Now I believe in 'em just the same as what you do, but I can't do 'em the same way."

"Well, you ain't so old, Tom."

"I know I ain't, but that don't make no difference, for when you was no older than what I am, why you done things in a awful grand way."

Bob here explained to Tom that the five dollar bill was a present to him from Richard Goldwin, the banker, and told him also about his own good luck.

"And he gave you all that money to buy these new clothes with! He is a bully old fellow, ain't he, Bob?" said Tom Flannery, greatly astonished.

"I should say so," responded Bob. "But I didn't spend it all, though."

"How much did you put up for 'em, Bob?"

"Fifteen dollars, that's all."

"They are swell, though, I tell you, Bob, and you look like kind of a masher," said Tom, criticising them carefully.

"Well, I ain't no masher, but I think myself they do look kinder slick."

"And you got five dollars left, too?"

"Yes, jest the same as what you have, Tom."

"What you goin' to do with it, Bob?"

"I hain't thought about that yet. What you goin' to do with yourn?"

"I guess I'll keep it, Bob, till next summer, and put it up on the races."

"What do you want to do that for, Tom Flannery?" returned Bob, with disgust.

"Why, to make some money, of course."

"Are you sure you will make it?"

"Of course I am, Bob. Nobody what knows anything at all can't lose when he has so much as five dollars to back him. It's them that don't have nothin' what gets broke on racin'."

"You know all about it, I suppose?"

"Why, of course I do, Bob; I've made a stake lots of times."

"And lost lots of times, too, I s'pose."

"Well, that's because I didn't have enough capital."

"But answer me this, Tom Flannery," said Bob, pointedly: "You admit you did get wiped out at bettin', do you?"

"Well, yes, I s'pose I did, Bob."

"And you'll get broke again, if you go at it. I tell you, Tom, they all get left, them that bets on horse racing."

"But don't some of them make slats of money? Answer me that."

"They don't make no money what sticks to 'em."

"What do you mean by that, Bob? I don't understand."

"I mean that they lose it the same way they make it, so it don't stick to 'em. Do you see?"

"Yes, I see. But how's a feller like me goin' to make any money, Bob, if he don't bet any?"

"Now, Tom, you're gettin' to somethin' I've been thinkin' about, and I'll let you into the secret. You see, Tom, I don't believe in horse bettin' the way you do, but I ain't afraid to take chances all the same."

"What is it, Bob?" interrupted Tom, eager to get into the secret.

"Wall Street," replied Bob, striking the attitude of a money king.

"Do you mean it, Bob?" asked young Flannery, incredulously.

"Of course I mean it, Tom. There's piles of money down there."

"I know there is, Bob, but how are fellers like you 'n' me going to get it?"

"Why, by speculatin', of course. How does any of 'em make it?"

"Them fellers are all rich, Bob. They didn't go down there the same as what we would go, with only five dollars," replied Tom.

"They didn't, did they? Well, tell me if Jay Gould, and the old man Sage, and half a dozen more of them big fellers, didn't go into Wall Street without a cent?"

"I can't tell you, Bob; I never heard anybody say," answered Tom, humbly.

"Well, Tom Flannery, I should think you would find out such things. Don't you never want to know anything?"

"I ain't been thinkin' about Wall Street, and them fellers you speak about, Bob," apologized Tom. "But I wish you'd tell me about 'em, for I'd like to know how they made their money."

"Well, I'll tell you some other time," said Bob, with assumed ease. As a matter of fact, however, he did not know himself, but was not willing to admit so much to Tom. He therefore decided to change the subject at once before getting cornered.

"Now, Tom," he continued, "I'll tell you what it is. I've jest thought what we'll do, you 'n' me and Herbert."

"What is it, Bob?"

"Well, you see we got knocked out of our breakfast this morning, Tom, so I think the best thing we can do is to have a big dinner tonight."

"I think so too, Bob," said Tom, eagerly.

"You see, 'twould be a celebration of the way we worked the detective business."

"So 'twould, Bob. That's a good idea, I think."

"I think so, too, Tom, and we'll have a regular first class lay out."

"It will be immense, Bob, I know 'twill," said Tom, with enthusiasm. "I never had a big dinner, Bob."

"No, I should think you never did, but you won't be hungry, Tom, when you get done with the one we will have tonight."

"I hope I won't, Bob."

"So do I," answered Bob, comically.

"When will Herbert be here?" asked Tom, looking at the large Tribune clock.

"It's time for him to show up now."

"I should think so, too," replied Tom, with an expression of doubt.

He was thinking about that morning's experience when Herbert failed to appear till after he had breakfasted.

In a little time young Randolph joined them. He was as much surprised as Tom had been at the change made in Bob's personal appearance by his handsome new suit.

"You must go down and let Mr. Goldwin see you with it on," said he.

"When shall we start, Bob?" put in Tom Flannery, who couldn't see the propriety in delaying dinner simply to discuss new clothes.

"Are you so very hungry?" laughed Bob, good naturedly.

"I should think I am, for I haven't had no dinner."

"It don't make no difference, Tom, whether you did or not. You'd be starvin' all the same."

"Well, I can't help it; I think it's time to eat, don't you, Herbert?"

"Yes, it is about time for dinner," replied our hero. "Are you ready to go, Bob?"

"Yes, but we won't go up to the Boss Tweed tonight," replied the young detective, somewhat pompously.

"Bob is goin' to ask us up town for a big lay out," said Tom.

Herbert looked doubtful.

"That's so," said Bob. "We will have kind of a blow out all by ourselves."

"And shall we do the town afterwards, as the bloods say?" asked Tom.

"What does 'doing the town' mean?" asked Herbert. The expression was new to him.

"It's goin' round and seeing the sights," replied Bob. "But come, let's be movin'. We can talk about doin' the town while we are at dinner."

"So I say," said Tom, with characteristic hunger.



CHAPTER XXII.

THE GREAT BANQUET.

"Gewhittaker! this is splendid, Bob. I didn't think we was coming to no such tony place as what this is," said Tom Flannery.

"Didn't I tell you it wa'n't no Jim Fisk or Boss Tweed ranch?" replied Bob.

"So you did, Bob; but you see I didn't know about them big glass—what do you call 'em?"

"Chandeliers," suggested Herbert.

"Chandeliers, that's it; but ain't they stunnin', though?"

"Well, there ain't nothin' mean about 'em, I should think," answered Bob.

"No, nor 'bout anything here," said Tom. "I never see so much style slung round before, did you, Herbert?"

"I don't know," answered young Randolph, carelessly.

"Say, Tom, don't make so much fuss about this place. 'Tain't nothin'; no, 'tain't nothin', Tom, beside some er the tony places further up town."

A waiter now came along and handed a bill of fare to Bob, and took away the glasses to fill them with ice.

"Do them fellers always dress up so with a swallow tail on, Bob?" asked Tom.

"Yes, at a swell place, like this is, they do," answered Bob. "Now that waiter he will be right back and want our orders. The first thing is soup, and there's three kinds—potage Julienne, supreme, and consomme a la royale. Which will you have, Herbert?"

"You may give me the potage Julienne," replied the young Vermonter.

"Say 'em again, Bob; I didn't quite catch 'em before," said Tom.

Bob smiled, and obeyed the request.

"Why not have 'em all, Bob?" said Tom, eagerly.

"'Cause 'tain't regular to do that way."

"Well, they are all on there for us, ain't they?"

"They are on for us to take whichever one we want."

"And I can't have but one?"

"No."

"Well, I thought at these er—what do you call 'em?—dinners a feller had everything in the old bill, if he wanted it."

"Table d'hote, you mean, Tom Flannery, but you're way off, you are; nobody ever has everything."

Tom looked disappointed, even sad.

"Well," continued Bob, "I'm waiting for your order. Which soup will you have?"

"Which you goin' to have, Bob?"

"I'm goin' to have the consomme."

"Then I'll take the other one," said Tom.

"The supreme?"

"That's him," replied Tom.

"Why do you prefer that?" laughed Herbert.

"Well, you see, it sounds better. That one that Bob has took I can't make no sense out of it nohow, and I don't believe it's good to eat, either—anything with a name like that."



"But the name of your soup is not much better."

"That's so, Herbert. Blamed if I know what they wants to put such stuff on fer a feller to eat fer," said Tom, with an air of disgust.

"Well, Tom, you may as well get used to these names, for you'll get a lot of 'em before you get through this bill," said Bob, laughing.

"Them names don't go all the way through, do they, Bob?" asked Tom, alarmed.

"Yes, plumb through to the end."

"Well, that will spoil my dinner, then, for I don't know nothing about such words."

"No, I guess it won't spoil your dinner, Tom; I'll bet you will eat like a hungry tramp before we get through."

"Maybe I will, Bob Hunter, but I'd like to know what I'm eatin' all the same," replied Tom, somewhat indignant. He did not like to be compared to a hungry tramp.

"That's all right, Tom Flannery; now don't you get off your base so sudden like. You will think you never struck a lay out like this before you get half way down the bill," said Bob, trying to restore good feeling.

"Well, I hope I will, that's what I say. A feller ought to get something good when he has to wade through such blamed old names as these, that don't mean nothin'."

"But they do mean somethin', jest as much as what our words mean to us."

"Do you mean to tell me, Bob Hunter, that anybody uses these words?"

"Of course they do, Tom. They are French words, and French folks know what they mean."

Tom thought for a moment; then he said:

"I was way off, Bob. I thought it was some words jest made up for this bill, 'cause you see I don't know nothin' about French."

The waiter now reappeared, bringing with him two long rolls of French bread, a supply of butter, and three glasses of ice water.

Presently the soup was brought on.

"Sail right in now, Herbert, you and Tom," said Bob. "The next course will be right along."

Tom took a few drops, timidly, then a larger portion—less timidly—and now he put on a full head of steam and worked the spoon like a trip hammer.

When his plate was empty he said: "I think I struck it right, Bob; I knew I hit the best name."

"Why, was yours good, Tom?" replied Bob.

"I should think it was, Bob. It was way up, that's what it was. You see 'tain't always, Bob, that a feller can pick a winner the first time."

"Now you're givin' us some more of your horse racin' expressions, Tom. Can't you never let 'em alone, 'specially at a tony dinner like this is?" said Bob.

"Well, I didn't think about that, Bob. I didn't mean to do nothin' wrong. But you see, Bob, I didn't know of no other way to get at it. This orderin' stuff by these blamed words is takin' chances—what I call bigger chances than bettin' on a horse race."

Young Randolph and Bob laughed heartily at Tom's remarks.

The next course was now put on the table. It came in a large platter. Three plates were placed before Bob, and he served the fish and potatoes in a very creditable manner.

"Now comes the entrees," said Bob.

"What are them things, Bob?" said Tom, while ravenously devouring the portion before him.

"Well, I was jest goin' to give 'em to you when you busted in on me," replied Bob. "Here they are:

"Fillet pique.

"Fricandeau de Veau.

"Pates aux huitres."

"Can't a fellow get more'n one go at 'em, Bob?" said Tom, comically.

"That's all, only one go, Tom; which will you have?"

"I'll take the first one, Bob."

"The fillet pique?"

"Yes, if that's the first one."

"Well, 'tis; but, Tom, you're way off. You didn't pick no winner this time, as you say, for that dish ain't no good."

"Where did you get on to them blamed names, Bob? You're slingin' jest as much style here, too, as you did in the detective business."

"Well, why wouldn't I know 'bout 'em, Tom? Didn't I work in one of these places for a good while, and didn't I pay some attention to the way things was done?"

"So you did, Bob; I didn't think about that."

"I, too, have been surprised, Bob, to see how familiar you seemed with the various dishes," said Herbert.

"Well, that's how it come. You see I picked it up."

"But you are as much at ease serving the dinner as I am at eating it."

"How much?" said Bob, feeling in his pocket for loose change.

"What do you mean?" asked Herbert, seriously.

Bob smiled, and Tom burst into a characteristic laugh. It was the first time since the dinner commenced that he had seen the funny side of anything. Tom Flannery was not given to looking upon the comical side. He was too credulous for that; but when anything did strike him as funny, and he made up his mind to treat it as such, the outburst of laughter that followed—laughter that was rich and childlike—was something to do one good.

Now, there was nothing especially bright or funny about Bob's remark that should have caused Tom to become so hilarious. In fact, it was more Herbert's serious manner, than what Bob said, that set him off.

"'Twas an old chestnut, any way, Bob," as Tom said the next day; "but Herbert looked so honest about it, jest as if you wasn't talkin' jokes, that it jest made me lay myself out and shout. I couldn't er stopped, Bob, ef it had killed me."

When the laughter had subsided, Bob explained his joke to Herbert, and then said:

"You have not told me what you will have. Here comes the waiter for our orders."

"You order 'em, Bob," said Tom. "You know what's good."

"That is a good suggestion, Tom, and meets with my approval," remarked Herbert.

Bob accordingly ordered for all three, and his selection gave excellent satisfaction to his guests.

The next course was simply maccaroni, cooked in the Italian style, with tomato dressing.

"This is bang up, Bob," said Tom Flannery, smacking his lips. "Them Eyetalians are some good after all, ain't they?"

Roast duck followed the maccaroni, with jelly, and fine cut celery with dressing.

Then came ice cream, followed by cheese—fromage de Brie.

"Bob, there's somethin' wrong about this," said Tom, seriously, referring to the last course. "Jest get on to that piece, will you?" and Tom passed his portion to Bob.

"Don't be a fool, now, Tom Flannery," said Bob, with assumed displeasure, while he struggled hard to keep from giggling.

"Well, I ain't no fool, Bob; I guess I know when I know a thing," said Tom, indignantly. "I tell you that piece is all spoilt," and, to make sure of his statement, he took it in his fingers, and without regard to good manners placed it close to his nose, and gave it a genuine test.

Bob threw himself back in the chair, and exploded with laughter. Herbert did likewise. But Tom was mad. He thought Bob had played a trick on him, and he said:

"I don't intend to be imposed upon in any such way as what this is, Bob Hunter. I'll show you that I can put up jobs, too, ef you think it is so much fun."

Now Brie cheese is somewhat soft, so much so that it many times adheres slightly to whatever it touches. Tom had rashly taken it up in his fingers, and now, while breathing forth malice and threats against Bob, he chanced to put his fingers up to his mouth. This brought them again in close proximity to his nose.

"Gewhopper!" yelled Tom, as he thrust his hand into his trousers pocket with a view to better protecting his nose. "I wouldn't er thought this of you, Bob Hunter!"

Both Bob and Herbert were convulsed with laughter, and were holding their sides from pain.

From the fact that they laughed so uncontrollably, and that they did not deny his charge, Tom felt sure that he had been made the butt of a foul joke, and he resented it spunkily. This of course only made the situation more ridiculous, and the more Tom said, the harder Bob and Herbert laughed. At length, however, Bob quieted down sufficiently to remark:

"Tom, listen to me. You're the biggest fool I ever see."

"Yes, you think you've made a fool of me, don't you, Bob Hunter? But you hain't, for I got on to your game before I got any er that durned stuff into my mouth."

"Oh, don't you be so ignorant, Tom Flannery. The trouble is with you, you're a chump, you don't know nothin' about livin' at high toned places like this is."

"No, nor I don't want to nuther, Bob Hunter. Ef that stuff is what you call high toned livin', why I don't want no more of it in mine. I'll——"

In the excitement of the conversation, Tom forgot to keep his hand housed up longer in his pocket, and now the tips of his fingers unconsciously found their way close to his nose again.

This was what caused Tom to break off his sentence so abruptly. He didn't say anything for a minute, but he looked a whole volume of epithets.

Herbert and Bob started in on another round of laughter that still further irritated Tom.

"I'm goin'," said he, slinging his napkin savagely upon the table; "I won't stand this business no more, Bob Hunter."

"Sit down, Tom," commanded Bob; "there's more to come yet. You hain't had no coffee yet, nor nuts and raisins."

Tom immediately replaced the napkin in his lap, and pulled up to the table again. Coffee, nuts and raisins! Oh, no, Tom Flannery couldn't allow his grievance to deprive him of these luxuries!

"Now, Tom," said Bob, "I jest want to show you that you've made a fool of yourself, and that we hain't made no fool of you. Of course we couldn't help laughin' to see you actin' so redickerlous, Tom, and all about a little piece of cheese, too. A feller would er thought, Tom, that you'd been dumped in a sewer, to see you carry on; but when you get one er them crazy notions in your head, why, there's no doin' anything with you, but to let you sail in and enjoy yourself."

Bob then ate his choice bit of Brie with a keen relish, much to the surprise of Tom, and I may say Herbert as well, for the latter's taste had not been educated up to the point where he could eat such food.

At length reconciliation was reached, and Tom was once more happy. When the coffee had been drunk, the three boys, while eating nuts and raisins, discussed the problem of money making.

"How about the Wall Street racket?" remarked Tom.

"You refer to speculating, I suppose?" replied Herbert.

"Yes. You see my capital ain't earnin' me nothin'."

"Well, I have had very little time to think about that since we first spoke of it. In fact, I am not in favor of the idea."

"What! not in favor of spekerlatin'?" said Bob, with astonishment.

"Nuther am I," put in Tom, wisely; "I don't think it's safe."

"But you think it's safe to bet on horse racin', don't you, Tom Flannery?"

"Well, it's safer'n what spekerlatin' is, that's what I think, Bob Hunter."

"Humph! You know a lot, don't you, Tom Flannery?"

"No, I don't know a lot about them Wall Street schemes, ef that's what you mean; but I guess I can pick a winner at racin'."

"Well, ef you don't know nothin' about spekerlatin', how are you goin' to use any judgment? Tell me that now, Tom Flannery."

"You kinder want to bulldoze me, don't you, Bob Hunter? You've got your head sot on spekerlatin', and you want to make me think jest like you do."

"You tire me, Tom Flannery," said Bob, with a great show of disgust. "I'd try and have some sense, ef I was you."

"All right, Bob, then I'll try 'n' have some sense—I'll do jest as you say, and spekerlate till my five dollars is all blowed in. Now, does that satisfy you, Bob?"

Tom Flannery had almost always yielded readily to Bob's judgment. This sudden independence of opinion, therefore, was a surprise to young Hunter.

"Why, that's all right, Tom," said he, instantly changing his attitude. "I don't care nothin' about your spekerlatin' ef you don't want to; but I want to make some money, that's what I do, and I thought you did too, Tom."

"So I do, Bob, so I do; but you see so many folks loses money down there in Wall Street, and some of them big fellers, too, with heaps of money, just dead loads of it, to back 'em."

"Well, that's so, Tom, I know they loses sometimes, but don't lots of 'em make money? Now answer me that."

"Yes, you are right, Bob, they do some of 'em strike it rich, but as you said about the racin' I guess the money ain't good money, fer it don't stick to 'em."

"Well, I should think it stuck to Jay Gould, didn't it?"

"Yes, he is one of the few successful ones," said Herbert, answering the question for Tom.

"Yes, but there are lots and lots of them kings of Wall Street," persisted Bob, who had a strong desire to become a speculator.

"So there are, Bob," replied Herbert, "but they do not hold their rank throughout their lives. A man that is called a king in Wall Street one day, may be a beggar the next day."

"Think of that, Bob," put in Tom Flannery, exultantly.

"Well, I know, but then them kings don't all go up like that."

"But the majority of them do. If you will get a book that gives the history of Wall Street, you will be surprised to see how thousands, hundreds of thousands, and even millions, are swept away almost without warning."

"Whew! just think of it! A whole million dollars!" exclaimed Tom. "Say, Herbert, how much is a million dollars? It must be a whoppin' big pile, that's what I think."

"A million dollars—let me see, Tom, how I can explain it so that you will comprehend its——"

"So I will what?" interrupted Tom, doubtful of the meaning of the word "comprehend."

Herbert made this clear, and then said:

"Now, Tom, you have a five dollar bill, and——"

"Yes, and it's a new one, too, crisp as a ginger snap," interrupted young Flannery.

"All right, then, a new five dollar bill. Now, suppose you had altogether twenty bills just like this one, you would have how much money?"

"Can you tell, Bob?" said Tom, grinning.

"Why, of course I can!" replied Bob, throwing his head back, proudly.

"Well, let's see ef you can."

"One hundred dollars," answered Bob.

"I guess that's right, Herbert, a hundred dollars; but I never see so much money all at one time, did you, Bob?"

Herbert proceeded with the illustration by saying:

"Then, Tom, you understand how many five dollar bills it takes to make one hundred dollars. Now, it would require ten one hundred dollar bills to make one one thousand dollar bill."

"Gewhopple! that's climbin' up, ain't it, Bob?" exclaimed Tom, incredulously.

"Oh, but that's nothing," said Herbert. "Just listen: It would take a hundred one thousand dollar bills to make one hundred thousand dollars, and it would require ten times one hundred thousand dollars to make one million."

"Well, that's fur enough," said Tom, scratching his head. "Don't give me no more tonight, for I can't take it in no way. A million dollars; and you say some er them kings loses so much money as all this in almost no time?"

"Why, yes; perhaps in a single day," answered Herbert.

"And you think, Bob Hunter, that we could go down there with only five dollars apiece and lay out them kings and scoop the boodle, do you? Now, answer me that."

"Well, it does seem kinder like takin' chances, ef them fellers loses money like that."

"Of course it does, Bob, fer you see we wouldn't have but one go at the game with only five dollars; would we, Herbert?"

"Five dollars wouldn't go very far, for a fact," replied Herbert, "and in my opinion it would be lost very quickly."

"But I've heard of fellers that went down there without no money, and they made loads of it."

"Very true," said Herbert; "but did you ever hear of the thousands that went down there and came away without a cent?"

"No, I never did," admitted Bob, frankly.

Tom smiled quietly, for he felt that Bob would have to acknowledge himself mistaken, and at last come over to his side.

"Well, now, there is the very point," said Herbert, "and it is the one that nobody stops to think about. A report is circulated that some one makes a big haul in Wall Street, and, without thinking about the thousands of people that lose money there, a thousand or two more people try their luck at speculating, thinking, each one of them, to make a great haul too. But the result is the same as it was with the other thousand speculators—the money is swallowed up, and gone forever."

"What becomes of it all?" asked Bob, much impressed by Herbert's well founded argument.

"Well, the most of it goes into the pockets of the kings."

"Then I shouldn't think them kings would get busted, as you say they do," said Bob, always keen at making a point.

"They would not if they had to deal only with the small speculators, such as you would like to be. If that were the case they would win nearly every time. But kings are the ones who break kings."

"Oh, I see now," said Bob. "There are a lot of 'em, and they jest go for each other. Is that it?"

"Yes, that is the way they do it."

"Well, I guess you are right, then, Herbert—you and Tom."

"I feel sure I am. Mr. Goldwin talked with me about it today, and told me never to speculate."

"But he speculates," said Bob, "and he is worth a lot of money."

"Oh, no, never."

"What's he call himself a broker for, then?"

"Why, a broker is not necessarily a speculator. A broker is one who buys and sells stocks or bonds for some one else—for a speculator, and he gets his commission or pay for doing the business."

"Well, I guess I was way off, Herbert. I thought all of them brokers was speculators, and I knew lots of 'em was solid with money."

"Yes, that is the way of it," replied Herbert. "The broker makes the money and the speculator loses it, usually."

"Don't brokers never lose nothin', Herbert?" asked Tom.

"No, not unless they trust some one who fails to pay them."

"Well, I thought you would get sick er spekerlatin', Bob, and I'm glad you've done it before you're broke," said Tom Flannery. "I don't want no spekerlatin' for me."

"No, but you'd like a go at horse racin' all the same, Tom Flannery," said Bob.

"No, I wouldn't nuther, Bob, fer you talked me out er bettin' and into spekerlatin', and now Herbert here has jest upset the spekerlatin' idea, so I'm out of it all, Bob."

"Good," said Herbert; "I am glad you have come to so wise a decision."

"So am I," said Bob, heartily.

"So am I," echoed Tom, with equal fervor.

"But now," said Bob, "what are we goin' to do with our money? It ain't earnin' us nothin', you see."

"I think the best plan, Bob," said Herbert, thoughtfully, "would be for you and Tom to put your money in the savings bank. There it will be safe, and will be earning a little interest all the time. Let it remain there until we see a chance to invest it to good advantage, and in the meantime add as much to it as possible."

"I never thought of that before," said Bob.

"Nuther did I," added Tom.

"Strikes me 'tain't a bad scheme," continued Bob. "What do you say, Tom?"

"Well, I don't see no great money in it, anyhow," answered young Flannery. "But if Herbert says it's the best thing, why I s'pose 'tis."

"It is the best plan, I am sure," said young Randolph. "Very few speculators ever come out rich. The men who gain wealth are those who invest their money carefully, and put it where it will be safe."



CHAPTER XXIII.

BOB HUNTER'S AMBITION.

On the following day, after the paper trade of the morning was over, Bob and Tom, acting upon young Randolph's advice, went to the Emigrants' Industrial Savings Bank, and deposited each five dollars. They felt very proud as they came out into Chambers Street with their bank books.

"It's a starter any way," said Bob.

"I've been thinking over what Herbert said, and I guess between you'n me, Tom, he is 'bout right."

"That's what I think too, Bob," replied young Flannery, for aside from the matter of betting on horse racing and speculating, he always agreed with Bob.

"I think we was in big luck, Tom, when we run on to Herbert Randolph."

"I think so, too, Bob; but why do you think so?"

"Why do I think so! Well, ef that ain't a queer question, Tom Flannery. Would you a' had that bank book now, with your name, Thomas Flannery, in plain writin' writ across it, I'd like to know, ef it hadn't been for Vermont?"

"No, I wouldn't. That's so, Bob, I wouldn't, fer to be honest with you, Bob, I think I'd put it on racin'."

"So you would, Tom, ef you'd had it, but you wouldn't er had it."

"Well, I never thought of that, Bob, but it's so, ain't it?"

"I should say it is, and I wouldn't er had my bank book or these new clothes either."

"And the big supper, Bob?"

"That's so, Tom, and the big supper too. I tell you, Tom Flannery, 'twas great luck when we struck Vermont."



"That's so, Bob, so it was. But say, Bob, don't you think 'twas kinder lucky for Herbert when he fell in with you?"

"I don't know 'bout that, Tom. How do you figure it?"

"Why, I figures it in this way, Bob; ef it hadn't been fer you he would be down in that old Gunwagner's cellar now."

"Well, that's so, Tom, but he has more than paid me up, though."

"How did he do it, Bob?" asked Tom eagerly.

"Ain't he helping me right along, I'd like to know?"

"I hain't heard much about it, Bob. What has he done for you?"

"Yes, you have heard about it, too, Tom Flannery. Didn't I tell you how he teaches me every night?"

"Oh, yes, you told me about that, Bob, but that ain't much—'tain't like doin' the detective business, is it?"

"Well, no, of course it hain't, but it's just as good, Tom, and a good deal more so, I think."

"Well, I don't think no such thing, Bob."

"Well, ef I do, that's all right, ain't it? I tell you, Tom, 'tain't every feller that can do the teachin' act."

"Nuther can every fellow do the detective business. Ef you want to know what I think, Bob Hunter, I'll tell you."

"All right, Tom, sail in."

"Well, I think, ef I was you, I'd jest let this learnin' business go, and I'd make myself a detective. No feller could put more style into it than what you could, Bob."

"Tom, you're way off again. A feller can't make no kind of a detective, nor nothin' else, neither, unless he knows somethin'. I guess I know, and Herbert says so too."

"Well, I hain't got no learnin'," replied Tom, somewhat pompously, as if to prove by himself that Bob's statement was untrue.

"I know it," said Bob, and stopped short.

Tom looked at him doubtfully.

"Then you might's well say right out that I won't make nothin', Bob Hunter," said he, his manner resembling that of one not a little indignant.

"Well, I said what I said, Tom, and if it fits you, why then am I to blame?"

Tom made no reply.

"It's no use for you to get mad, Tom. Anybody would tell you jest the same as what I did. Now, the thing for you to do, Tom, is ter get some learnin'—you can do it."

"Do you think I could, Bob?" replied Tom, coming round to Bob's views, as he almost always did.

"Why, of course you could, Tom; ain't I doin' it?"

"Well, yes, I s'pose you are, Bob, but then you can do 'most anything."

"That ain't so, Tom. You can do it jest as well as what I can, ef you only try."

"I never thought about that before, Bob," said Tom, thoughtfully. "Who could I get to learn me?"

"You mustn't say 'learn you,' Tom. Herbert says that hain't right."

"What is it, then, Bob?"

"He says I must say 'teach me,' because I've got to do the learning myself."

"Well, that's too much for me, Bob; I want to start in on somethin' easier."

At length this discussion ended by Tom falling in with Bob's opinion as usual, and by his agreeing to commence at once attending an evening school.



CHAPTER XXIV.

A VISIT TO THE BANKER'S HOUSE.

The disturbing elements that had produced the somewhat dramatic and extraordinary scenes of the last week were now apparently quiet. But were they actually so? This is the question that Herbert Randolph and Bob Hunter asked themselves—a question that caused them much anxiety.

Felix Mortimer, to be sure, was in the Tombs awaiting his trial. But the granite wall and the great iron doors were alike powerless to imprison his mind. He was as free as ever to think and to plot. What schemes of revenge might not then be planned by this boy whose hatred for Herbert Randolph now undoubtedly burned more fiercely than ever? And Gunwagner, his companion in crime, was free to carry out any plan that might be agreed upon between them. He had given bonds to appear when wanted by the court, something that Felix Mortimer was unable to do. This is why the latter was still locked up, while the old fence was allowed his temporary freedom.

Except for the constant anxiety that Herbert and Bob felt over this matter, everything went smoothly with them. Papers sold briskly, work at the bank was congenial, and they had already become much interested in each other. The days flew by quickly, and they looked forward to the evenings, which they spent together as a time for enjoyment and improvement. As often as Tom Flannery could leave his evening school he joined them, and he was always welcome. No one could help liking him, he was so simple and honest. How keenly he enjoyed an evening with Herbert and Bob in their room, or strolling about the great city, as they not infrequently did! Their slender means would not warrant them in attending the theater often. Occasionally, however, they managed to get inexpensive admission tickets to a really good play. Bob Hunter usually procured them as a reward for some service he had given during the day, when his paper trade did not demand his attention. Many very good free lectures, too, were open to them, and they seldom failed to improve this opportunity. The Young Men's Christian Association building, with its fine library and gymnasium, proved a very attractive resort to these three boys, whose happiness, though they lived in the most humble way, was doubtless equalled by few boys in the great metropolis, however luxurious their home and surroundings.

One evening in particular young Randolph found especially enjoyable. It came about in this way. Mr. Goldwin had a slight attack of rheumatism that caused him to remain at home. He sent a note to his office saying he should not be at the bank on that day, and requesting Herbert to come to his house late in the afternoon, and to bring with him a report of the day's business, and whatever mail it would be desirable for the banker to see.

The young Vermonter read the note eagerly, and then immediately did the same thing over again. A peculiar pleasure shone in his eyes as he looked doubtingly at the little piece of paper. And now he saw a very attractive picture—a rich family carriage into which a charmingly pretty girl was being helped by a blushing boy. He wondered why she had never been at the bank since that time, and speculated dreamily upon his chance of seeing her at her father's house.

Thus the day wore away, and at the close of business hours young Randolph hurried from the bank, taking with him what he had been requested to bring.

At City Hall Park he stopped and informed Bob Hunter of his mission, and then went quickly to his room to put himself into the most presentable appearance possible with the somewhat scanty resources of his wardrobe.

His heart beat fast with expectations and fears as he ascended the brown stone steps of Mr. Goldwin's house.

"Good evening, Mr. Randolph," said the banker, greeting Herbert very cordially. "I hope you have a good report of today's transactions for me."

"Yes, I think this statement of the transactions will please you," replied young Randolph politely.

"Excellent," exclaimed the banker with a smile of satisfaction, as he read the report. "You have done a splendid day's work. The market must have been unusually active. Why, here is a transaction of twenty thousand shares by one house alone—great customers, Breakwell & Co., great customers, bold men—not afraid of anything."

"They certainly seem to be very enterprising," remarked Herbert, feeling the necessity of saying something, and that that something should concur with his employer's views.

"Most assuredly they are," answered the banker, warming to the subject. "Why, if we had more houses like Breakwell & Co., Wall Street would see no dull days—no, sir, none at all. On the contrary, it would just hum with activity."

"I suppose they are perfectly good, Mr. Goldwin," remarked Herbert, not knowing what better reply to make.

"Good? Why, they are rated A1, and are reported to be very rich," replied the banker.

"Did they make their money by speculating?"

"Yes, I understand so."

"Are they sure of keeping it if they continue to speculate?"

"Well, now, you are asking me a difficult question. Nothing, you know, is certain in Wall Street."



Before Herbert had time to reply, dinner was announced. The question touching the reliability of Breakwell & Co. was immediately dropped, and in its place arose the unexpected problem whether or not he should accept the banker's invitation to dine with him and his family. He would have quite as soon thought of receiving an invitation to dinner from the mayor himself. It was quite natural, therefore, that he should offer some ridiculous reason why he should be excused, when, as a matter of fact, he would have much rather served another term of imprisonment at old Gunwagner's than lose this opportunity.

"Come right along" commanded Mr. Goldwin, himself leading the way.

Herbert followed the banker into the parlor, where he was introduced to his employer's wife and daughter.

He found himself blushing even more profusely than when he had handed Ray Goldwin into her carriage, at the close of his first day's service for her father. This heightened color, too, seemed to be reflected upon her cheeks, and her manner indicated a slight but not unnatural embarrassment.

Herbert had thought that the dinner given by Bob Hunter was about as good as could well be served, but this one proved in every respect much the better; and notwithstanding his nervousness and lack of ease, under circumstances so unfamiliar, he enjoyed the meal greatly.

While Herbert Randolph could laugh at the drollery and peculiar street language of Bob Hunter and Tom Flannery, he nevertheless found a higher degree of pleasure in the conversation of this intelligent and refined family.

"Papa told us about your imprisonment, Mr. Randolph," said Ray, looking wonderfully pretty, as Herbert thought. "It must have been dreadful."

"It was an unpleasant experience," replied young Randolph, lightly; "but I came out all right."

"Ah, that reminds me," said Mr. Goldwin, "that one of the letters you brought me was from my attorney. In it he expressed the opinion that you can recover damages from the old fence for false imprisonment. I would therefore advise you to place the matter in his hands at once, and have him push it."

"You mean put it into the hands of your lawyer?"



"Yes."

"I appreciate very highly your interest in my behalf, Mr. Goldwin, and I will do as you say," replied Herbert.

"Wouldn't it be splendid if you could get damages from that dreadful old man?" said Ray, with enthusiasm.

Thus the conversation ran on, and before the dinner had been finished, Herbert felt himself quite well acquainted with both Mrs. Goldwin and Ray. He had tried to convince himself that he did not care for girls, and he thought he had succeeded well in doing so. But for some inexplicable reason, his imaginary objections to the sex in general did not stand long against Ray Goldwin in particular.

Her bright blue eyes, brimful of spirit and laughter, seemed to detect his aversion, and she aimed, he thought, to show him that he had deceived himself.

After the meal had been finished all repaired to the library, where, after a half hour of social converse, Herbert wrote several letters for Mr. Goldwin at his dictation. Ray sat opposite him with the purpose of reading, but as a matter of fact she did not progress very fast with the story.

"Would you be willing to write in my autograph album, Mr. Randolph?" said she, somewhat timidly, when he had finished her father's letters.

"Yes, I will do so with pleasure," he answered.

"I shall be proud of such pretty writing," returned Ray, handing him the book.

"You embarrass me," said he, blushing.

"I don't see why," laughed Ray, enjoying young Randolph's modesty.

"Well, I am not accustomed to compliments, especially from—er——"

"From young girls," suggested Mrs. Goldwin, smiling.

"Thank you," returned Herbert; "I was hesitating whether to say 'girls' or 'young ladies.'"

"Oh, say girls, by all means," replied Mrs. Goldwin. "We don't want Ray to become a young lady too soon."

"I don't blame you," responded our hero, half seriously.

"Why, Mr. Randolph," said Ray, shaking her dainty finger at him, "I believe I would not have asked you to write in my album if I had supposed you would say that."

"Well, it is not too late yet, for you see I have not touched the book with the pen," laughed Herbert.

"Oh, but I would not want to disappoint you. You know you said it would give you pleasure to do so."

"So it would, but I would rather sacrifice this pleasure than feel that you would be sorry you had given me the invitation."

Without further parley Herbert wrote in the album—wrote so prettily that he was roundly complimented by all.

Mrs. Goldwin and Ray were now summoned into the drawing room to receive a caller, and presently young Randolph took his leave, and started for his room with a very light and happy heart.



CHAPTER XXV.

TOM FLANNERY'S SICKNESS.

Bob Hunter was too much surprised by the fact that Herbert was going to Mr. Goldwin's house to tell him of his own anxiety about Tom Flannery. The latter had not, as Bob learned, been seen for two days at his accustomed place. That he should be away one day was not particularly strange, for he not infrequently got odd jobs to do that took him to another part of the city, or possibly to some of the near by suburbs. Two days' absence, however, was so unusual for him that Bob Hunter became anxious, fearing that possibly the vengeance of old Gunwagner and his companion in crime had fallen upon poor, unsuspecting Tom. This thought having suggested itself to him, his previous anxiety speedily turned to a feeling of alarm.

He therefore left his place of business as early as possible, and after a hurried supper went quickly to Tom Flannery's home, which was in a large office building on Broadway, very near Bowling Green. The latter's mother was janitress of the building. Her duties were to keep it clean, and to look after the interests of the owner. For these services she received a trifling money reward, and was allowed to occupy two small rooms at the top of the building. Here Mrs. Flannery and Tom made their home, which, though humble, was very neat.

Bob knocked softly at the door, out of breath from climbing so many flights of stairs, and with sore misgivings for the safety of his young companion. The door was opened presently by a woman of middle age, who, as Bob saw at a glance from her extraordinary resemblance to Tom, was the newsboy's mother. He had never seen her before, but the honest, trustful look so characteristic of his young friend shone prominently in Mrs. Flannery's face.

"They have got him, poor Tom," said Bob to himself with beating heart, as he saw Mrs. Flannery's grief.

"Are you not Master Bob Hunter?" said the woman, speaking first—after an awkward pause; for the visitor, who had been so bold a detective, was now so distressed that he knew not what to say.

"Yes, I am Bob Hunter," was the soft reply.

"And you are come to see my boy—my poor Tom?" said the woman, pressing Bob's hand warmly, and struggling vainly to keep back the tears.

"Is he here?" asked Bob, dumfounded by the contradictory state of things; for it was apparent from the woman's question that Tom was at home, and, he being at home, why such grief?

"I'm so glad you came to see him, for he thought so much of you, Master Bob," said Mrs. Flannery, now giving way entirely to her feelings.

"I would have come before if I had known——"

"I know you would, I know you would," interrupted the woman between sobs, "and he asked so many times for you, and now to think that you are here and he won't know you. Oh, my poor Tom!"

"I don't blame you for being proud, Bob. I wish I had such a case too, but then I couldn't handle it not the way you could, Bob. None of the fellers could, not one of 'em, Bob, for you do everything in such a grand way, you know."

These words, so familiar yet so ominously strange, fell upon Bob Hunter like a messenger of death.

"Oh, what is it, Mrs. Flannery? What has happened to Tom?" cried he, pale with fright.

"It's his head, Master Bob—gone since morning—rambling on just like this—detectives, and I don't know what all."

"Have you had a doctor to see him?" asked Bob, his mind turning quickly to practical measures.

"Yes, and he says it's pneumonia, and a very bad case," answered the mother, with almost a hopeless expression.

Bob learned that Tom came home two days before thoroughly wet from a cold northeast rain; that he had a chill soon after going to bed; that he grew rapidly worse throughout the night, and that in the morning he had a high fever. Mrs. Flannery called in a doctor, who, after a careful examination, pronounced the case pneumonia. He left medicine which seemed to afford temporary relief. In the night, however, Tom grew worse, and during the following forenoon became delirious.

"Don't you know me, Tom?" said Bob feelingly, as he stood by the bedside, and held the sufferer's hand in his own.

"All the evening papers—Sun, Mail and Express, Telegram—big accident—tremendous loss of life! Which will you have, sir?"

And this was Tom's wild reply, poor boy. Now that his companion, whom he wanted to see so much, and for whom he had such admiration, had at last come to him, the sick boy did not know him; but supposing he had a customer for his papers, he rattled on in true newsboy fashion. Bob tried again and again to rouse his mind by referring to Herbert Randolph, and to scenes familiar and interesting, but his efforts were unsuccessful. At length his stout young heart gave way, and with an expression of the keenest grief he dropped into a chair beside the bed, burying his face in the pure white spread that covered his young companion, and wept tears of sincere sorrow.



Presently he withdrew from the sick room, and after a brief discussion with Mrs. Flannery hurried away to the doctor whom she had previously called in to see Tom. The physician promised to visit the sick boy again within an hour. Having this assurance from the doctor, Bob then turned his steps towards his own room to acquaint Herbert Randolph with Tom's illness. But to Bob's surprise he found on arriving there that the young Vermonter had not yet reached home.

"'Twas nine o'clock when I passed the Tribune building," said Bob to himself rather anxiously, "and he hain't come yet. I hope nothing's gone bad with him, though, for we've got trouble enough on our hands already, with Tom sick, and goin' to die, I'm afraid. I wish I could do something for him; he would do anything in the world for me, Tom would."

But Bob's fears regarding Herbert proved groundless, for in a little time the latter joined him with a light heart, made happy by the very kind reception given him at Mr. Goldwin's.

On his way home his mind was filled with the vision of a sweet young face, which to him was an inspiration. And as he hurried along the avenue, thinking faster and faster, what charming pictures his imagination brought before him—pictures that for him possessed a strange and peculiar attraction. But these beautiful creations of his mind were quickly lost to him when he saw the troubled look on young Bob Hunter's face.

"Why, Bob," said he, "what makes you look so wretched? What has happened?"

The latter quickly related the story of Tom's sickness, and stated his own fears.

"I cannot realize it, Bob," said Herbert, deeply touched. "Poor Tom! let us go at once and do whatever we can for him."

"That's right, Herbert; that's what I think we ought to do, and I shouldn't come home at all only I knew you would not know what had become of me," replied Bob, as they put on their overcoats and started for Mrs. Flannery's humble home.



CHAPTER XXVI.

A CRASH IN WALL STREET.

At the end of two weeks Tom was again up and dressed. His struggle with the pneumonia had been a frightful one. It was turned in his favor largely by the aid of the best medical skill, and the untiring care given him by his mother and his two faithful friends, Herbert and Bob. The latter took turns in watching with him at night, while Mrs. Flannery slept, that she might renew her strength for the day watch.

But the disease, as is not infrequently the case, left Tom with a hard, dry cough, which threatened serious results. His lungs were weak, and his body was much emaciated. He was not the Tom Flannery of old, the Tom so full of boyish spirits and desire to push his paper trade. This change in their young companion caused Herbert and Bob keen anxiety. They had watched beside his bed through delirium and helplessness, when there seemed no hope of his recovery. How glad their young hearts were when he began to rally, and they could see him in imagination back with them again in their old pleasures and pastimes! His failure, therefore, to throw off the racking cough and regain his strength was a sore disappointment to them, but this was not their only source of apprehension.

How full these two weeks had been of bitter trouble—trouble that drew deeply upon their sympathy; that destroyed splendid prospects and forced one of them from a position of independence to one little better than beggary.

Disturbing elements had been gathering for days in Wall Street, which to a few wise old heads seemed ominous. They predicted danger, but their warnings were laughed at by the less cautious speculators, who operated with a reckless daring. At length, however, the storm struck almost without a moment's notice. Wild reports filled the air, and men, strong, bold men, crushed by the tremendous force of the panic, fell prostrate here and there, and everywhere. Terror spread to all, and painted its sickly hue upon their faces. When the storm had subsided the street was full of wrecks. Among them was the daring firm of Breakwell & Co., who had failed for a million and a quarter of dollars.

Young Randolph was stunned at the exhibition he witnessed on that fatal day. House after house with whom his firm had done business, and who were supposed to be almost beyond the possibility of failure, had closed their doors. Breakwell & Co. were among the last to go under. They had been kept up by the splendid loyalty of Richard Goldwin, who put his bank account at their command, relying upon their assurance that they were all right, and would come out of the storm stronger than ever, if they could only receive temporary help. Mr. Goldwin, anxious to save them, stood heroically by them, and went down with them—a victim of noble generosity, of misplaced confidence. Yes, he had failed—Richard Goldwin, the banker and broker, yesterday a millionaire, today perhaps a pauper.

Herbert Randolph could not at first realize the awful fact, but the pain he saw in Mr. Goldwin's face appealed so strongly to his sympathy that the tears forced themselves from his eyes, try however bravely he would to restrain them. The doors were closed, and all business with the house of Richard Goldwin was at an end.

Mr. Goldwin bore the misfortune like a hero. His face was white and firm as marble. Certain lines, however, told his distress, but never a word of complaint at the miserable treachery of Breakwell & Co. escaped his lips.

Herbert could not help thinking how severe the shock would be to Mrs. Goldwin and Ray, who could not bridle their emotions with an iron will like that of the ruined banker. The latter was accustomed, in his long career in Wall Street, to seeing others meet the disaster that had now overtaken him; but his wife and daughter—ah, how little they were prepared for such a shock.

The panic that ruined so many men added quite largely to the fortunes of young Bob Hunter. He had never before had such a trade. Papers sold beyond all imagination, and at double their usual price. The result was a profit of seven dollars and forty seven cents for his day's work. He felt richer than ever before in his life, and so happy that he could hardly wait till the usual time for Herbert to join him, he wanted so much to make known his grand success. But when young Randolph came to him with the sad story of that day in Wall Street, his happiness gave place to a feeling of unusual sadness, and the sadness deepened on learning that his friend was now out of a position.

"But you can get another place, Herbert," said he, reassuringly; "perhaps a better one than you have lost."

"I hope so," was all the reply the young bank clerk made, but there was a world of expression in the way he said it. His face, too, looked the disappointment and sorrow he felt, and Bob rightly divined that the sorrow was more for Mr. Goldwin and his family than for himself.

It is safe to presume that Herbert thought long and regretfully of the probability of Mr. Goldwin being reduced to a state of poverty—of his being turned out of his luxurious home—of Ray, his daughter, being obliged to work for her living—of her young, sweet life being embittered by want and miserable surroundings, so out of keeping with her beauty and genial, sunny nature. And if he did think in this wise, what resolutions he formed for relieving her of such a life, and of restoring her to her proper place we can only imagine, for on this matter he said never a word, not even to Bob Hunter.

On the following morning, Bob Hunter handed Herbert a small roll of bills.

"What is this for?" said the latter.

"It's for you," replied Bob. "There's only eight dollars in it, but you'll perhaps need it, and then you'll feel better with it in your pocket while looking for work."

"But I cannot accept your money, Bob," protested Herbert, with feelings of deep gratitude.

"Yes, you must, for you are out in the cold, and my business is good; and then, you know, I made most all of it yesterday out of the failures in Wall Street—out of your firm's failure as much as any, probably, and that meant your failure to keep your place; so in a way I kinder made it out of you, and now I want you to have it again."

Herbert's eyes were now moist.

"Bob, you are very good and generous," said he, rather huskily; "but you are not logical. I have no claim on your money, neither has any one. You made it in legitimate trade, and should not feel that it does not belong to you."

"Well, I know I did; but I feel in a kind of way that it was made off of the misfortunes of others, you see."



"But the misfortunes were not caused by you. They had occurred, and people wanted to know about them, and were willing and glad to pay for their information. This gave you an opportunity to make some money, and you made it."

"Well, of course you will beat me at arguing, Herbert, for you always do; but all the same I wish you would take the money, for I think you will need it."

"If I do need any money, when mine is gone, I will then borrow this of you, but until then you must keep it."

After this discussion, and after a very frugal breakfast, Herbert once more joined the ranks of the vast army who go from place to place, hungry and thinly clothed many times, in search of employment—anything to keep the wolf from the door.



CHAPTER XXVII.

DARK DAYS.

It was now midwinter. The streets were filled with snow and ice, and the cold, frost-laden air was chilling alike to the body and spirits of one in the unfortunate position in which young Randolph suddenly found himself.

If one has never been out of a position in a great city at this season of the year, he can have but little conception of the almost utterly hopeless prospects before him. After the holiday trade is over, a vast number of clerks are discharged from our stores, and thousands in the manufacturing line are thrown out of employment. These are added to the very large number that at all seasons of the year are hunting for work. Thousands, too, from the country, thinking to escape the dreary frost-bound months of rural life, flock to the city and join the enormous army of the unemployed. All want work, and there is little or no work to be had. It is the season of the year when few changes are made by employers other than to dispense with the services of those not actually needed. To be sure, a few employees die, and leave vacancies to be filled. Others prove unfaithful, and are discharged. A new business, too, is started here and there, but all the available positions combined are as nothing when compared to the tremendous demand for them by the thousands of applicants.

When Herbert Randolph came to New York in the fall, he was fortunate in arriving at the time when employers usually carry a larger force of help than at any other season of the year. There was consequently less demand for positions, and a greater demand for help. Thus he had a possible chance of securing employment, and he happened to be fortunate enough to do so. I say he had a possible chance, for surely he had no more than that even at the most favorable season of the year. He was extremely fortunate, coming from the country as he did, to find employment at all.

In view of these facts it will not be surprising that young Randolph, brave boy as he was, looked upon the dreary prospect before him with a heavy heart.

Bob Hunter realized fully the gravity of his friend's situation, and this is why he urged the money upon him, wishing to keep up his courage, and delicately refraining from touching upon the dark outlook ahead.

I wish I had the space to picture carefully all the rebuffs, the cold treatment, and the discouragement that met our young hero on his daily wanderings, seeking for some honest labor—anything that would furnish him with the means to buy bread. But as I should not feel justified in extending this story to such a length, I must content myself with a few glimpses that will show the heroic struggle he made to sustain himself during these dark, chilly, and cheerless days of winter.

"It's pretty tough, ain't it, Herbert?" said Bob, one night when they were alone together in their room. He sought to lift the burden from his friend's mind by drawing him into conversation.

"Yes," answered Herbert, mechanically.

This reply, so short, and given with so little expression, gave Bob a feeling of uneasiness.

"I hope you ain't getting discouraged," he ventured next.

"No, nothing will discourage me now," replied young Randolph doggedly.

"But you hain't got no encouragement yet?"

"No, none whatever," was the gloomy answer.

"And you've been trying for three weeks to strike something?"

"Yes; it's nearer four weeks, and my shoes are worn out with walking."

"But you know I have some money for you, and you better take it and buy you a new pair."



"No, Bob, I will never take that except as a last resort. While I have my health I shall not allow myself to accept charity. I am not afraid to do any sort of work, and sooner or later I am confident that I shall find employment. This morning I earned seventy five cents shoveling snow from the stoops of houses. This sort of employment, however, is very uncertain, as so little snow falls here; but there are other odd jobs to be done, and I shall try and get my share of them."

"I didn't know you was doing that kind of work, Herbert," said Bob, with a deep drawn sigh. "It ain't right for a boy with your learnin' to come down to that."

"It's right for me to do anything temporarily to earn an honest penny. One who is above work cannot hope to succeed. I am here, and I am going to stay, and the best I can do is to do always the best I can, and the best I can do just at present is to be a porter, an errand boy, a boy of all work—ready for anything, and willing to do anything, always keeping my eyes open for a chance to go a step higher.

"The trouble with me now, Bob, is that I started in too elegantly at first. I commenced in a broker's office, when I should have started at the bottom, in order to know anything about the first round of the ladder. I'm at the bottom now, and it looks as if I would have to remain there long enough to learn a good deal about that position."

"I'm glad you feel that way, Herbert, for I thought you was getting discouraged," replied Bob, his face brightening up.

"I did feel utterly discouraged for the first two or three weeks; but you know, Bob, one can get used to anything, and I have become sufficiently accustomed to this miserable kind of work, and to the beggarly pennies I earn from time to time, so that it is less cutting to me than at first. I try to content myself with the belief that it will be better by and by, though I get heartsick sometimes. It seems almost useless to try farther for work in any well established business."

The foregoing will give a very slight idea of the struggle young Randolph made to keep his head above water, and it presents a pretty true picture of the difficulties a boy will ordinarily encounter in attempting to make his way unaided in a great city like New York. Of course difficulties vary in character and severity; but it would not be safe for the average boy to expect to find less than those that surrounded our hero. Some would be more fortunate, while others would be less favored. Herbert Randolph was especially fortunate in meeting Bob Hunter, whose friendship proved as true as steel. What would have become of him while in the hands of old Gunwagner, but for Bob's effort to rescue him? And, again, how could he have fought away despondency during his enforced idleness had he lived by himself in a cold and cheerless room? Brave and manly as he was, he owed much to his warm hearted companion, whose presence and sympathy revived his drooping and almost crushed spirits.

As the days passed by, Herbert Randolph turned his attention to the most practical purposes. He almost entirely gave up looking for a steady situation, and devoted his time to doing whatever odd jobs he could hit upon that would bring him in a little money. Among the many kinds of humble employment to which he bent his energies was that of working the hoist. In New York the tall warehouses, those not supplied with an elevator, have a windlass at the top, to which is attached a heavy rope, that passes down through a wide opening to the ground floor. This rope, with a large iron hook at the end, is attached to heavy cases, or whatever is to be taken to any of the upper lofts. Another rope, passing over a big wheel, when pulled turns the windlass. This winds the main rope around it, and thus draws it up, taking with it its load, whatever that may be. Perhaps no harder or less poetic work to an educated boy could be found than this; yet Herbert Randolph did not hesitate to throw off his coat, and work with an aching back and smarting hands as few porters would do.

He worked faithfully and honestly, with no hope of reward other than the money he would earn by his labor. And yet this very employment—this humble porter work—opened up to him an opportunity of which he had never dreamed—suggested to him an idea that he never before thought of.

It came about in this way. One day, after he had toiled for two hours or so on the hoist, and had finished his work, he went up to the cashier to get his money, as he had done many times before. A man with a satchel strapped to his shoulder was just ahead of him.

"Good morning, Mr. Smith," said the man with the satchel, addressing the cashier.



"Good morning," responded the latter. "I am glad you came today, Mr. Woodman, for we have an unusually large supply of stamps on hand."

"The market is very much overstocked at present," replied Woodman, unslinging his satchel, and resting it on the desk. "I bought a thousand dollars' worth of stamps yesterday from one party at five per cent off."

"Five per cent," repeated the cashier, arching his eyebrows.

"Yes, five per cent."

"And you expect to buy from us at that rate?"

"I wish I could pay you more, but my money is all tied up now—the market is glutted, fairly glutted."

"I should think it would be, when you buy them in thousand dollar lots."

"Well, that does seem like a large amount of stamps, but I know of one lot—a ten thousand dollar lot—that I could buy within an hour, if I had the money to put into them."

"You could never get rid of so many, Woodman," said the cashier, surprised at the broker's statement.

"Oh, yes, I could work them off sooner or later, and would get par for most of them too."

"How do you do it?"

"I put them up in small lots of fifty cents and a dollar, and upwards, and sell them to my customers. Of course, when I buy big lots I do a little wholesaling, but I put away all I cannot sell at the time."

"They are sure to go sooner or later, I suppose," said the cashier.

"Oh, yes, sure to sell. During the summer months very few stamps come into the market."

"And this gives you an opportunity to work off your surplus stock?"

"Yes."

"I presume you sell as a rule to stores and business offices."

"Yes; I have a regular line of customers who buy all of their stamps off me—customers that I worked up myself."

"And they prefer buying of you to going to the post office for their supply?"

"Certainly; for I give them just as good stamps, and by buying of me they save themselves the trouble of going to the post office for them."

Herbert Randolph was waiting for his money, and overheard this conversation between the cashier and the stamp broker. He made no effort to hear it, for it did not relate to him. They spoke so loud, however, that he caught every word distinctly, and before they had finished talking the idea flashed across his mind that he would try his hand at that business. Mr. Woodman, as good fortune willed it for young Randolph, could take only a portion of the stamps the cashier wished to dispose of. When the broker had completed his purchase and gone, Herbert stepped up to the cashier for the money due him for working on the hoist. Mr. Smith handed it to him cheerfully, with a pleasant remark, which gave young Randolph an opportunity to talk with him about the stamp brokerage idea that had set his brain on fire.

"How much capital have you?" asked the cashier, with growing interest.

"With the money you just paid me I have three dollars and seventy five cents," answered Herbert, his face coloring.

The cashier smiled.

"And you think you could become a broker on that capital?" said he, with mingled surprise and amusement.

"I think I could try it on that capital if you would sell me the stamps," replied Herbert, with such intelligent assurance that he interested the cashier.

"You can certainly have the stamps," answered the latter, "and I will aid you in every way possible, but——" and there was an ominous pause, as if thinking how he could best discourage the boy from such an undertaking.

Herbert divined his thoughts, and said, "I know such an idea must seem foolish to you, who handle so much money; but to me——"

"Yes, you may be right, young man," interrupted the cashier. "You certainly interest me. I like ambition and pluck, and you evidently have both. When would you like the stamps?"

"Thank you," said Herbert, in a tone that lent strength to his words. "You may give them to me now, if you please—three dollars' worth. I may need the seventy five cents before I succeed in selling any stamps."

"It is a wise precaution to avoid tying up all your capital in one thing," laughed the cashier, while counting out the stamps. "They will cost you two dollars and eighty five cents, at five per cent discount, the same as I gave Mr. Woodman."

When the transaction had been completed, young Randolph left the office hurriedly, anxious to learn what the possibilities of his new undertaking were.

Ten times during that first day did he return to Mr. Smith for stamps, and ten times was his supply exhausted by customers to whom he sold at par—resulting in a profit of a dollar and fifty cents—an income that to him was a small fortune.

That night Herbert Randolph joined Bob Hunter with brighter eyes and more buoyant spirits than he had known since Mr. Goldwin's failure, now nearly three months ago.



CHAPTER XXVIII.

IN BUSINESS FOR HIMSELF.

Only strong characters are able to lift themselves out of poverty and adversity by sheer force of will, unaided by any one. Such a character Herbert Randolph proved himself to be. For nearly three months he had faced the most discouraging prospects. With education, with a knowledge of accounts, with splendid intelligence, with manly pride and noble ambition, he went from luxurious banking apartments to the cold wintry streets, down, down the cheerless and grim descent, till he reached the bottom, where he found himself in competition with the dregs of humanity—one of them, as far as his employment went. Imagine this proud spirited boy humbled to the degree of bidding side by side for work with a ragged Italian, a broken down and blear eyed drunkard, a cruel faced refugee from the penitentiary, or a wretched, unkempt tramp. How his young, brave heart must have ached as he found himself working on the hoist or in the street with loathsome characters of this sort—characters that purity and self respect could only shun as a pestilence.

But this he was forced to do—either this, or to acknowledge his city career a failure, and return home with crushed spirits and shattered pride, a disappointment to his father and mother and the butt of rude rural jokes for his more or less envious neighbors.

The latter is just what most boys would have done, but not so young Randolph. His eyes were closed to any such escape from his present wretched condition. Herein he showed his superior strength. But how little he realized, as he worked with dogged determination at these cheerless tasks, that this very employment would lead him into the light, as it ultimately did. Boys see nothing but drudgery in such employment, or in any humble position. They want to commence work at something genteel. An easy clerical position like the one young Randolph had with Mr. Goldwin appeals strongly to their taste. Fine clothes, white hands, little work and short hours—these are in great demand among boys. Young Randolph, indeed, was no exception to the rule. He sought a position in a bank and got it. Fortunately for him, however, the bank failed, and he was thrown into the streets. But for this he would have been a clerk still—a little three dollar machine, which bears no patent, and possesses no especial value over the ten thousand other machines capable of performing similar work. His dream of wealth and position would in all probability never have materialized. He would doubtless have in time become a head clerk at a respectable salary. But how little this would have satisfied his ambition! His desire to be at the head of the firm could never have been realized, for he would not have had the money to place himself there. The result would have been clerking, clerking, miserable, aimless clerking, and nothing more. But now, through what seemed to him his misfortune had come good fortune—through the drudgery of the hoist had come a business of his own—a growing, paying, business—a business of great possibilities. The suffering he had undergone did him no permanent harm. On the contrary it enabled him to appreciate more keenly the opportunity he now had for making money and supplying himself with the necessaries, and some of the luxuries, of life.

Young Randolph's brokerage business grew day by day as he added new customers and learned how to manage it more successfully. In a little time he saw the necessity of having a place where his customers could reach him by mail or messenger. He therefore arranged with a party on Nassau Street to allow him desk room. Then followed this card:

HERBERT RANDOLPH, 111 NASSAU STREET, BUYS AND SELLS NEW YORK. ALL KINDS OF FOREIGN COIN AND PAPER. United States Silver and Postage Stamps a Specialty.

It was with much pleasure that he studied these neatly printed cards. The first thing he did after receiving them from the printer was to inclose one in a letter to his mother. He had already written her glowing accounts of his growing business, and he felt that this card would give a realism to his pen pictures that he had been unable to impart. He thought long and with pride how sacredly that little bit of pasteboard would be treasured by his parents—how proudly they would show it to their neighbors, and the comments that it would bring forth.

Then he took one over to Bob Hunter, who exhibited no little surprise as he read it admiringly.

Later in the evening he and the newsboy went as usual to visit Tom Flannery, who now, poor boy, seemed to be yielding to that dread disease—consumption. How his face brightened up as he looked at the card with scarcely less pride than if it had been his own!

"I wish I could get into that business, Herbert, when I get well," said he, turning the card languidly in his thin, emaciated fingers; "you'n' me'n' Bob. Yes, I would like that, for we always had such good times together, didn't we, Bob?"

"Yes, we did, Tom," answered Bob, tenderly. "I guess as good times as anybody ever had, even if we didn't have much money."

"So I think, Bob. I've thought of it a good many times while I've been sick here—of the detective business and all, and how grand you managed the whole thing. But then you always done everything grand, Bob. None er the boys could do it like you."

"You do some things much better than I could, Tom," said Bob.

"No, Bob. I never could do nothing like you."

"You bear your sickness more patiently than I could, and that is harder to do than anything I ever did," replied Bob.

"Well, I have to do it, you know, Bob. There ain't no other way, is there, Herb——"

The last part of the word was lost in violent coughing that racked the boy's feeble frame terribly.

"I am afraid you are talking too much, Tom," said Herbert. "We must not allow you to say any more at present."

Ten days later, and Tom had grown too weak to be dressed. Part of the time he lay bolstered up in bed, but even this taxed his strength too heavily. He had become very much wasted, and was little more than a skeleton. All hope of his recovery had been given up, and it was now simply a question of how long he could be kept alive. Bob and Herbert brought him choice fruits, and drew liberally from their slender purses, to buy for him whatever would tend to make him more comfortable or would gratify his fancy.

Poor Mrs. Flannery was almost overcome with sorrow as she saw her boy wasting away and sinking lower and lower as each day passed by. He was her only child, and she loved him with all the force of her great mother's heart.

At length the end came. Bob and Herbert were present with the grief-stricken mother, trying to comfort her and struggling to repress the sorrow each felt at the close approach of death.

For several hours the sick boy had been in a sort of stupor from which it seemed probable that he would never rally. He lay like one dead, scarcely breathing. Towards midnight, however, he opened his eyes and looked upon the three tear stained faces beside his bed. An expression of deepest pity settled upon his countenance, and he spoke with much effort, saying:

"Don't cry, mother; don't feel so bad for me. You have Bob and Herbert left. They will look out for you when I am gone," whispered the dying boy faintly, and he turned his eyes for confirmation to the friend who had never failed him.

"Yes," answered Bob, pressing the sufferer's hand warmly. "We will do everything you could wish us to for your mother—you would have done it for either of us, Tom."

The latter's eyes moistened and grew bright with a feeling of joy at this assurance from Bob—this last proof of his true friendship.

"I knew it before, mother," he said, nerving himself for the effort, "but it makes me happy to hear him say it before you—to hear him say it before I go."

"And you may rely upon me also, Tom, to join Bob in doing for your mother whatever would please you most," said Herbert, unable to keep back the hot tears.

"Yes, I am sure of that, Herbert. You and Bob are just alike, and can do more than I could if I had lived. I am so glad I knew you, Herbert," continued the dying boy, his face flushing with momentary animation as he recalled the past. "What good times we have had, you and me and Bob! I thought they would last always, but—but—well I wish I might have lived to go into business with you. I would have tried my best to please you, and——"

"What is it?" asked Herbert, noticing the sufferer's hesitation.

"I was going to ask you if the business, your new business, wouldn't get big enough to take Bob in with you—to make him a partner, so he can make a lot of money, too. I was almost afraid to ask you, but——"

"That is already fixed," said Bob hoarsely, almost overcome by the solicitude of his dying friend. "Herbert gave me an interest in the business today, and I shall commence working with him as soon as I am needed."

"I am so glad, so glad," responded the sufferer faintly, and with a smile that told plainly the joy this knowledge gave him. "It's all right now," he continued slowly, and with greater effort, for the little strength he had left was fast leaving him. "You will be taken care of, mother, and Bob will be taken care of by Herbert," he went on, sinking into a half unconscious state. "I know they will do well and will make rich men and have everything in the world that they want. I wish I could see them then with a big banking house and clerks and private offices and errand boys and electric bells and fine carriages and horses and a brown stone house in the avenue, may be."



In a little while he regained full consciousness as if by a powerful effort, and said in a faint whisper:

"There is one thing more, mother—my knife, my little brass knife."

Mrs. Flannery brought it and placed it in his thin hands.

He looked at it with such a strange expression of affection—a little well worn knife of inexpensive make. How long he had carried it in his pocket, how many times he had held it in his hand, and now—yes, now, he held it for the last time—only this little knife, yet his all, his only legacy.

"You won't want it, will you, mother?" said he, with moist eyes and struggling with emotion.

"No, no, Tommy," sobbed the broken hearted mother.

"I knew you wouldn't," said he, "for I want to give it to Bob. It ain't much, I know, Bob," he continued, addressing the latter; "but it's all I have. You will keep it, won't you, to remember me by? When you get to be a man—a rich business man with fine offices and a house of your own, look at this knife sometimes—my knife, and think of me, and how we used to work together. Yes, you will do so, won't you, Bob?"

"I will, Tom, I will," answered Bob, as he took the little knife into his own hands. "I will keep it always to remind me of you," and he bowed his head upon the bed beside his dying friend and cried with sincere grief.

"It's all right now," responded the sufferer. "All right," he repeated, as his mother pressed her lips to his forehead.

"All right," again, so feebly that the last word fainted half spoken by his dying lips.

In a few moments the last death struggle was over. He was gone, poor Tom, the honest, trustful boy with a pure heart and noble friendship—cut off in the morning of his life by a sickness brought on by exposure, and an exposure made necessary that he might earn the means to supply his humble wants. A cruel world this seems sometimes, when one reflects how unevenly the joys and sorrows, and luxuries and misery are distributed among brothers and sisters, neighbors and countrymen.



CHAPTER XXIX.

TOM FLANNERY'S FUNERAL.

The grief of the broken hearted mother and the two faithful friends can better be imagined than described. Words, however ably chosen, fail utterly to picture the sufferings of the human heart. In imagination we can see the three bending over the still form of him to whose heart each was attached so firmly. One, a well aged woman, still clinging passionately to the cold hands and moaning with almost frantic grief. Now she presses the lifeless figure to her breast, appealing wildly to it to speak to her, to call her "mother" just once more. Again she falls upon her knees and prays as only one prays with bursting heart, that her boy, her Tom, her only child, her very life, may be restored to her. With her tears are mingled those of Herbert and Bob, whose young spirits overflow with sorrow, not alone for their own loss at the hands of death but at the wild, tumultuous grief of the bereaved mother.

A little later we see the undertaker arrive with all his dread paraphernalia, then the casket, a plain, neat one purchased by Herbert and Bob, in due time receives the dead body.

The funeral follows speedily, and is held in Mrs. Flannery's rooms. In one of them she lies in bed helplessly ill from grief and utter prostration. All preparations for the burial have been made by Herbert and Bob. The minister arrives, and after a hurried talk with Herbert devotes himself to Mrs. Flannery, trying to lessen her sorrow by such words of consolation and assurance as his calling enables him to speak with something like holy authority.

A tall, fine looking man with a young, sweet faced girl now knocks at the door. They are Mr. Goldwin and his daughter, and the latter brings a cross of flowers for a burial offering. How strangely out of place they seem in these small, barely furnished attic rooms, yet they have come with honest purpose to pay honor to the humble dead. Mr. Goldwin had known of Tom's brave part in rescuing Herbert from the villains by whom he had been imprisoned. He had at that time sent him a reward, and now he came sorrowfully to mingle his tears with those of the lowly friends of the dead. Ray had begged to come with him, and he was glad to grant her the request, for he felt that she would receive a lesson from this simple funeral such as could not be learned elsewhere.

A delegation of newsboys about the age of the dead now arrived. They had known him well as a rival trader, as a true friend and agreeable companion. They had often asked after him during his illness, and now they came, their bright young faces heavy with sorrow, to follow his remains to the tomb. They brought with them a handsome wreath of flowers bearing the simple word "Tom."

The casket was carried into the sick room and placed on a table not far from the bed on which Mrs. Flannery lay sobbing. When all had been seated, the minister rose and prayed, such a prayer as is seldom offered. The occasion was an inspiration to the holy man. In all his years of ministry he had never been called upon to attend such a funeral as this—so simple, so strange, and yet so genuinely sad. It was a boy's funeral, and the audience was composed almost wholly of boys. The casket had been bought by boys, the details of the funeral had been arranged by boys, and boys—nearly a score of them—were there to mourn the loss of their friend. And they were no ordinary boys, with careless, thoughtless manners, but sturdy lads who were almost men in thought, for long, long months had they, like the deceased, had to think and act for themselves.

Mr. Goldwin and Ray, aided to some extent by a few of the boys, sang a hymn, and then the minister, after reading the Bible, gave a feeling and impressive talk that went home to the hearts of every one present. Bob and Herbert could not have felt greater sorrow had the dead been their own brother. They tried, however, to restrain their grief, as everything depended upon them, since Mrs. Flannery was now helpless.

At the close of the service all except Mrs. Flannery passed by the casket, looking for the last time upon the features of the dead boy before the lid was closed. The mother was bolstered up in bed, and the casket was lowered beside her, where she too could view the remains. The pall bearers were selected from the delegation of newsboys, as I think Tom would have wished had he expressed himself upon this point.

In a little time the casket had been placed within the hearse, and this strange funeral party started on its solemn journey to the tomb. Mr. Goldwin and Ray and Herbert and Bob occupied the carriage of chief mourners—not that the two former could strictly be called mourners, but their object in going to the tomb was to comfort the two boys, for whose conduct Mr. Goldwin had the greatest admiration.

The newsboys followed in other carriages, which had been secured by Bob Hunter without cost, when it was known for what purpose they were wanted.

The remains of the dead boy were buried beside those of his father and sister in Greenwood Cemetery, where his mother had bought a plot at the death of her husband.



"We must buy a stone, Herbert, for Tom's grave when we can get the money," said Bob, as they came slowly away from the cemetery.

"Yes, we will do that some time, Bob," answered Herbert, with swollen eyes. "But our first duty is to take care of his mother."

"Yes, we promised him that we would look after her, and we must do it—he would have done it for either of us," answered Bob, choking with emotion as his mind went back to the death scene.

"I wish I could help do something for Mrs. Flannery, poor woman," said Ray, addressing her father.

"I shall be very glad to have you do anything in reason, my dear," replied Mr. Goldwin with pleasure. "Nothing would make me more proud of my daughter than to see her helping others who need encouragement and assistance."