"So you are the son of Stephen Ray?" he said.

"Yes. What have you to say now?"

"That you had no right to run into me, whoever your father may be."

"I shall report your insolence to my father. I shall charge you with violently assaulting me."

"I might have known you were Stephen Ray's son," said the stranger thoughtfully.

"Do you know my father?" asked Clarence in considerable surprise.

"I am on my way to call upon him."

"I don't think it will do any good. He never gives money to tramps."

"I have a great mind to give you another shaking up," said the man, and in some fear Clarence edged away from him.

It was evident that this shabby-looking stranger had not a proper respect for those who were in a higher station.

"I will tell him not to give you anything," continued Clarence.

"Like father, like son," said the stranger thoughtfully, apparently not disturbed by the boy's threats.

Evidently he was no common tramp, or he would have been more respectful to the son of the man from whom he was probably about to ask a favor.

"You just wait till you see my father. He'll give you a lecture that you won't soon forget."

"You'd better get on your wheel, boy, and go right along," said the stranger calmly.

"Do you know where my father lives?"

"Yes, at yonder fine house. I see him sitting out on the piazza. Shall we go along together?"

"No, I don't keep such company as you. Tramps are not my style."

"And yet some day you may be as poor and friendless as myself."

"That isn't very likely; my father is a very rich man."

"I knew him when he was poor."

More and more puzzled by the independent manner of this shabby stranger, Clarence made a spurt, and soon found himself in the grounds of his father's house.

"With whom were you talking, Clarence?" asked Stephen Ray, as his son joined him on the piazza.

"One of the most impudent tramps I ever came across," answered Clarence. "He made an attack upon me, and pulled me from my bicycle."

Stephen Ray's cheek flamed with anger. An insult to his son was an insult to him.

"Why did he do this? How dared he?" he demanded angrily.

"Because I happened to touch him as I passed," answered Clarence.

"He actually pulled you from your bicycle?" asked Stephen Ray, almost incredulous.

"Yes."

"I should like to meet him. I should feel justified in ordering his arrest."

"You will have a chance to meet him. He told me he was going to call upon you there he is now, entering the gate."

Stephen was glad to hear it. He wanted to empty the vials of his wrath on the audacious offender. He prided himself on his grand manner.

He was accustomed to seeing men of the stamp of this stranger quail before him and show nervous alarm at his rebukes. He had no doubt that his majestic wrath would overwhelm the shabby outcast who had audaciously assaulted his son and heir.

He rose to his feet, and stood the personification of haughty displeasure as the poor man, who dared his anger, walked composedly up the path. He now stood by the piazza steps.

"It is well you have come here," began the squire in a dignified tone. "My son tells me that you have committed an unprovoked outrage upon him in dragging him from his wheel. I can only conclude that you are under the influence of liquor."

Stephen Ray waited curiously to hear what the man would say. He was prepared for humble apologies.

"I am no more drunk than yourself, if that is what you mean, Stephen Ray," was the unexpected reply.

Squire Ray was outraged and scandalized.

"You must be drunk or you would not dare to talk in this way. Who authorized you to address me in this familiar way?"

"You are only a man, I believe, Stephen Ray. I have addressed you as respectfully as you have spoken to me."

"Respect to you?" repeated Mr. Ray, disdainfully. "Has the time come when we must be respectful to tramps?"

"A poor tramp is quite as deserving of respect as a rich rascal."

"What do you mean by that?" demanded the squire suspiciously.

"It was a general remark."

"It is well that it was. But it has no application in the present instance. If you are poor I will give you a quarter, but only on condition that you apologize to my son."

The stranger laughed.

"Why should I apologize to your son?" he asked.

"You pulled him off his bicycle. Do you deny it?"

"No, I do not. Do you know what he did?"

"He brushed against you with his wheel, he tells me, accidentally."

"So that is his version of it? He deliberately ran into me."

"I gave you warning. I said 'Out of the way, there!'" interrupted Clarence.

"Yes, but you had no right on the side walk. That is meant for foot-passengers."

"It seems to me, sir, that you are remarkably independent for a man of your rank. Even if it had been as you say, you had no right to assault my son. I might have you arrested on your own confession, but I will forbear doing so on condition that you leave town at once."

"I have a little business with you, first, Stephen Ray."

"If you expect alms, you have come to the wrong man. I don't believe in encouraging beggars."

"I know very well that you are not charitable. You see, I used to be acquainted with you."

"Who are you?"

"My name is Benjamin Bolton."

Stephen Ray looked startled.

"Benjamin Bolton!" he repeated, half incredulous. "I can't believe it."



CHAPTER XXV.

A STARTLING DISCLOSURE.

"Look at me closely, Stephen Ray," said the strange visitor. "I think you will see some traces of the Bolton you used to know."

Stephen Ray, somewhat discomposed, did examine his visitor closely. Against his will he was obliged to acknowledge the resemblance of the man before him to one who in past times had had an intimate acquaintance with his affairs.

"You may be Benjamin Bolton," he said after a pause, "but if so, you have fallen off greatly in your appearance. When I first knew you, you were well dressed and—"

"Respectable, I suppose you mean to say?"

"Well, respectable, if you will have it so. Now you look more like a tramp than a lawyer."

"True as gospel, every word of it. But it isn't too late to mend. That's an old proverb and a true one. It is quite in the line of possibility that I should get back to the position from which I fell."

"Perhaps so, but I'm not sanguine of it."

"With your powerful help nothing is impossible—not even that."

"You must not count upon that," said Stephen Ray, stiffly. "It is a good while since we parted company. I don't myself care to renew the acquaintance."

"But I do," rejoined Bolton with emphasis. "I told you that I had business with you."

"I have very little time at my disposal," said Ray, pulling out an elegant gold watch—a Jurgensen—and consulting it.

"I think it may be well for you to spare me a little time," went on Bolton, quietly.

There was something in his tone that sounded like a threat, and Stephen Ray could not wholly conceal his uneasiness.

"Well," he said, "I will give you ten minutes. Get through your business, whatever it is, as soon as possible."

"Hadn't you better send your son away?" suggested Bolton, significantly.

"Why should I?"

But on second thoughts Mr. Ray concluded to act on the hint, and turning to Clarence he said, "Clarence, you might take another spin on your wheel."

This did not suit Clarence at all. His curiosity had been excited by his father's change of front towards the objectionable stranger, and he counted on finding out the reason for it.

"Why can't I stay?" he grumbled. "I am tired of riding."

"Then go up stairs. This man and I have a little private business together."

He spoke firmly, and Clarence knew by his tone that further remonstrance would be un availing, so with a dissatisfied look he left the room.

"Now, sir," said Stephen Ray, sharply, when his son had taken his departure, "I gave you ten minutes. You will need to be expeditious."

"It will take more than ten minutes—what I have to say," returned Bolton, coolly. "I am rather tired of standing, so you will excuse me if I sit down."

As he spoke he dropped into a comfortable chair three feet from his host.

"Confound his impudence!" thought Ray, much annoyed.

"I think we had better go indoors," he said.

He did not care to be seen in an apparently friendly conversation with a man like Bolton.

"Very well. I think myself it may be better."

He followed Ray into a room which the latter used as a library and office, and took care to select a comfortable seat.

"Really, Stephen Ray," he remarked, glancing around him at the well-filled bookcases, the handsome pictures, and the luxurious furniture, "you are very nicely fixed here."

"I suppose you didn't come to tell me that," responded Stephen Ray with a sneer.

"Well, not altogether, but it is as well to refer to it. I have known you a good many years. I remember when you first came here to visit your uncle in the character of a poor relation. I don't believe you had a hundred dollars to your name."

Such references grated upon the purse-proud aristocrat, who tried to persuade himself that he had always been as prosperous as at present.

"There is no occasion for your reminiscences," he said stiffly.

"No, I suppose you don't care to think of those days now. Your cousin, Dudley, a fine young man, was a year or two older. Who would have thought that the time would come when you—the poor cousin—would be reigning in his place?"

"If that is all you have to say, our interview may as well close."

"It isn't all I have to say. I must indulge in a few more reminiscences, though you dislike them. A few years passed. Dudley married against his father's wishes; that is, his father did not approve of his selection, and he fell out of favor. As he lost favor you gained it."

"That is true enough, but it is an old story. Why recall it?"

"Does it seem just that an own son should be disinherited and a stranger—"

"A near relative," corrected Stephen Ray.

"Well, a near relative, but less near than an only son. Does it seem right that Dudley should have been disinherited and you put in his place?"

"Certainly. My cousin disobeyed his father, while I was always dutiful and obedient."

"So he was left in poverty."

"I don't see how that concerns you, Benjamin Bolton. My uncle had the right to dispose of his property as he pleased. It was not for me to question his right nor you."

"Probably Dudley Ray is living in poverty now."

"You are mistaken. He is dead."

"Indeed! Poor fellow. He was a generous and high-minded man."

"Whatever he may have been, he offended his father and suffered the consequences."

"Too true!"

"But I fail to understand why you should have come to discuss this matter with me."

"When did Dudley die?"

"I can't be sure as to the year. I think it was about a year after his father's death."

"I presume that his father's injustice helped to hasten his end."

"I won't permit any reflections upon my dear uncle and benefactor. He did what he liked with his own. He felt that the estate would be better in my hands than in Dudley's."

"Admitting for a moment that this was so, did your heart prompt you to bestow a part of the estate on your unfortunate cousin?"

"No; for I am sure my uncle would have disapproved of such action on my part."

"Do you know if he suffered much from poverty?"

"No; I did not concern myself with that, nor need you."

"I would like to comment on one of your statements. You say that your uncle had a right to dispose of his estate as he pleased."

"Do you dispute it?"

"No; I agree with you. Stephen Ray, was his estate disposed of according to his wishes?"

Mr. Ray started, and his face became flushed.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"I mean that he bequeathed the estate to his son, and you took possession of it."

Bolton spoke slowly, and eyed Stephen Ray keenly.

"Are you mad?" gasped Stephen. "How could I do that? His will, devising the estate to me, was duly probated, and I entered upon my inheritance by due process of law."

"I know such a will was probated."

"Then what have you to say?" demanded Stephen Ray, defiantly. "Do you mean to deny that the will was genuine?"

"No."

"Because if you do, you can go to the probate office, and submit the will to any judge of my uncle's handwriting."

"There will be no occasion. I admit that the will was written by him."

"What do you mean, then?" asked Stephen Ray, showing relief.

"I mean this—that it was not his last will and testament."

"Where is the later one? Produce it if you can," said Stephen Ray, triumphantly.

"You say this fearlessly because you found a later will—and destroyed it."

"It is a vile slander!"

"No; I will swear that such a will was made."

"If it was destroyed, he destroyed it himself."

"No, he did not. I am willing to swear that when he died that will was in existence."

"I don't think your swearing will do much good," sneered Stephen Ray.

"Perhaps so; but one thing has not occurred to you."

"What is that?"

"A duplicate of the last will was placed in my hands. That will exists to-day!"

Stephen Ray started violently.

"I don't believe it," he said.

"Seeing is believing."

"Then bring it here, and let me see it. However, there is one material circumstance that would make it of no value."

"What is it?"

"My cousin Dudley is dead, and so is his son Ernest. There would be no one to profit by the production of the alleged will."

Bolton was quite taken aback by this statement, as Stephen Ray perceived, and he plumed himself on the success of his falsehood.

"When did the boy die?" asked Bolton.

"About five years ago."

"And where?"

"At Savannah," answered Ray, glibly.

"What should have taken him down there?"

"I am not positive, but I believe after his father's death a Southern gentleman became interested in him and took him to Georgia, where the poor boy died."

Bolton looked keenly at the face of his companion, and detected an expression of triumph about the eyes which led him to doubt the truth of his story. But he decided not to intimate his disbelief.

"That was sad," he said.

"Yes; and as you will see, even had your story about the will been true it would have made no difference in the disposal of the property."

"Still the revelation of your complicity in the suppression of the last will would injure your reputation, Mr. Ray."

"I can stand it," answered Ray with assumed indifference. "You see, my dear fellow, you have brought your wares to the wrong market. Of course you are disappointed."

"Yes, especially as I am dead broke."

"No doubt."

"And it prompts me to take my chances with the will in spite of the death of the rightful heirs."

"What do you propose to do?"

"Lay the matter before a shrewd lawyer of my acquaintance, and be guided by his advice."

Stephen Ray looked uneasy. The lawyer might suggest doubts as to the truth of his story concerning Ernest's decease.

"That would be very foolish," he said.

"Would it? Then perhaps you can suggest a better course."

"You are a man of education and have been a lawyer yourself. Get a place in the office of some attorney and earn an honest living."

"You see how I am dressed. Who would employ me in this garb?"

"There is something in what you say. I feel for you, Bolton. Changed as you are, you were once a friend. I certainly haven't any reason to feel friendly to you, especially as you came here with the intention of extorting money from me. But I can make allowance for you in your unfortunate plight, and am willing to do something for you. Bring me the document you say you possess, and I will give you fifty no, a hundred dollars."

Bolton eyed his prosperous companion with a cunning smile.

"No, Stephen Ray, I prefer to keep the will," he replied, "though I can do nothing with it. Give me the money unconditionally, and if I get on my feet you will have nothing to fear from me."



CHAPTER XXVI.

BOUGHT OFF.

Bolton's reply did not quite suit Mr. Ray, but he felt that if he said too much about the will it would give it an exaggerated importance in the eyes of the man before him. So he answered carelessly, "Oh, very well! The document is of no value, and though I should prefer to have it, I won't insist. I will give you the hundred dollars, but I wish it understood that it is all I can give you at any time. Don't apply to me again, for it will be of no use."

"I understand," said Bolton, non-committally.

"Shall I give you a check?"

"I could do better with the money. My name is not known now at any bank."

"Well, I think I can accommodate you. I believe I have that sum in my desk."

He opened a drawer in his secretary, and produced a hundred dollars in crisp new bills. They had been taken from the bank the day before for a different purpose.

Bolton took them joyfully. It was long since he had had so much money in his possession. He had been his own worst enemy. Once a prosperous lawyer, he had succumbed to the love of drink, and gradually lost his clients and his position. But he had decided to turn over a new leaf, and he saw in this money the chance to reinstate himself, and in time recover his lost position.

"Thank you," he said; but while there was relief there was no gratitude in his tone.

"And now," said Stephen Ray, "I must ask you to leave me. I have important business to attend to. You will excuse me if I suggest it would be better to go away—to a distance—and try to build yourself up somewhere where you are not known."

"I might go to Savannah."

"Yes, to Savannah, if you think it will be to your advantage," said Ray with equanimity.

The other noticed his manner, and he said to himself, "He is willing to have me visit Savannah. It is clear that Ernest did not die there."

Benjamin Bolton left the house in a pleasant frame of mind. It was not the sum which he had received that exhilarated him. He looked upon it only as the first instalment. It was clear that Stephen Ray feared him, for he was not an open-handed man, and would not have parted with his money unnecessarily.

Bolton had not arranged his campaign, but he was determined to raise himself in the world by playing on the fears of the man he had just visited.

"I wonder," he said to himself, "whether Dudley Ray's son is really dead. He was a strong and healthy boy, and he may still be living."

This was a point not easy to ascertain.

He went to a restaurant and obtained a substantial meal, of which he stood very much in need. Then he went out for a stroll. He did not propose to leave the place yet.

As he was walking along he met Clarence Ray again, but not now on his bicycle. The boy recognized him.

"Are you going to stay in town?" asked Clarence, curiously.

"Not long."

"Did you get through your business with pa?"

"Yes, for the present. By the way, I suppose you know that you have a cousin about your own age. I used to know him and his father."

"Did you? His father is dead."

"So I have understood. Do you happen to know where the son is?"

"Somewhere out West, I think."

Bolton pricked up his ears. So it seemed that Stephen Ray had deceived him.

"I would give five dollars to know where he is," he said slowly.

"Have you got five dollars?" Clarence asked, doubtfully.

By way of answer Bolton took a roll of bills from his pocket. They were those which Stephen Ray had given him.

"Do you mean it?" asked Clarence, in a more respectful tone. Since Bolton had money, he regarded him differently.

"Yes, I mean it."

"Why didn't you ask pa?"

"He never liked the boy nor his father, and I don't think he would tell me."

"That is true. He didn't like either of them."

"I suppose you couldn't find out for me?" said Bolton, tentatively.

"I don't know but I could," answered Clarence, briskly.

He had a special use for five dollars, and it struck him that he might just as well earn the money offered by the stranger.

"If you could, I would cheerfully pay you the five dollars. You see I used to know Ernest Ray and his father, and I would be pleased to meet Ernest again."

"Just so," said Clarence, complaisantly. "How long are you going to remain in town?"

"I did think of going to Elmira to-night, but I think on the whole I will stay at the hotel here till to-morrow morning."

"That will give me time to find out," said Clarence.

"All right! You had better not ask your father, for he is so prejudiced I don't think he would tell you."

"That's so. He will be going out this evening, and then I will search in his desk. I saw a letter there once in which the boy's name was mentioned. But I say, if you've got money why don't you buy some new clothes? You look awfully shabby."

"Your suggestion is a good one," said Bolton, smiling. "Come to look at myself I do appear shabby. But then I'm no dude. I dare say when you rode into me this morning you took me for a tramp."

"Well, you did look like one."

"That's so. I can't blame you."

"Shall I find you at the hotel this evening?"

"Yes."

"Then I'll see what I can do."

About seven o'clock Squire Ray went out to attend to a business meeting, and Clarence was left in possession of the study. He locked the door and began to ransack his father's desk. At length he succeeded in his quest.

Benjamin Bolton was sitting in the public room of the hotel an hour later smoking a cigar, and from time to time looking towards the door. Presently Clarence entered, and went up to him.

"Have you got it?" asked Bolton, eagerly.

"Yes," nodded Clarence.

He took a piece of paper from his vest pocket and handed it to Bolton.

It read thus: "Ernest Ray, Oak Forks, Iowa."

"How did you get it?" asked Bolton.

"I found a letter in pa's desk from an old man named Peter Brant, asking pa for some money for the boy, who was living with him."

"When was that letter written?"

"About two years ago."

"Thank you. This gives me a clue. Come out of doors and I will give you what I promised. It isn't best that any one should think we had dealings together."

Five minutes later Clarence started for home, happy in the possession of a five-dollar bill.

"I never paid any money more cheerfully in my life," mused Bolton. "Now I must find the boy!"



CHAPTER XXVII.

THE TOWN OF OREVILLE.

When Ernest and Luke Robbins started for California they had no very definite plans as to the future. But they found among their fellow-passengers a man who was just returning from the East, where he had been to visit his family. He was a practical and successful miner, and was by no means reluctant to speak of his success.

"When I landed in Frisco," he said, "two years ago, I had just forty dollars left after paying the expenses of my trip. I couldn't find anything to do in the city, so I set out for the mines."

"Where did you go?" asked Luke, becoming interested.

"To Oreville. At least, that's what they call it now. Then it didn't have a name."

"I hope you prospered," said Ernest.

"Well, not just at first, but luck came after a while. When I reached the mines I was dead broke, and went to work for somebody else. After a while I staked out a claim for myself. Well, I won't go into particulars, but I've got six thousand dollars salted down with a trust company in Frisco, and I've got a few hundred dollars about my clothes besides."

"That's the place for us, Ernest," said Luke.

"So I think," answered Ernest.

"Do you want to go to the mines?" asked the miner.

"Yes; we have our fortunes to make, and are willing to work."

"Then go out to Oreville with me. Have you got any money?"

"We have enough to get there, and perhaps a little over."

"That will do. I'll set you to work on one of my claims. We will share and share alike. How will that suit you?"

"It seems fair. Do you think we can make enough to live upon?"

"That depends partly on yourselves and partly upon luck. Luck has something to do with it."

"At any rate, we are willing to work," said Ernest.

"Then I'm your friend, and will help you," said the miner heartily. "Tom Ashton never goes back on his friends."

This was very encouraging. Luke and Ernest were not dead broke, but were near it. They had less than forty dollars between them, and they had already found out that living was high in California. They remained but a day in San Francisco, and then started for Oreville with Mr. Ashton.

The two friends knew nothing of mining, but as practised in those early days it took very little time to learn. They found that their new friend was a man of consideration at Oreville. He owned several claims, and had no difficulty in finding them employment. They set to work at once, for they were almost penniless.

It may be easily supposed that the miners were not fastidious about living. The cabins or huts which they occupied were primitive to the last degree. Generally they did their own cooking, such as it was. Three of these cabins Tom Ashton owned, and one was assigned to the use of Ernest and his friend.

For years, Ernest, with his old friend and supposed uncle, Peter Brant, had lived in a cabin at Oak Forks, but it was superior to their new residence. Yet his former experience enabled him the better to accommodate himself to the way of living at Oreville.

For a month the two friends worked steadily at their claim, which Ashton had finally given them. They made something, but not much. In fact, it was with difficulty that they made expenses.

"It will be a long time before we make our pile, Ernest," said Luke one evening, as he sat in front of his cabin smoking.

"Yes, Luke, things don't look very promising," replied Ernest, gravely.

"If it weren't for my pipe I should feel blue. Smoking cheers me up."

"That is where you have the advantage of me, Luke."

"You have the same chance that I have. I have an extra pipe. Won't you take a smoke?"

Ernest shook his head.

"I think I'm better off without it."

"Perhaps you're right, lad. I remember my poor father warned me against smoking. The question is, how long we'd better keep at it."

"Is there anything else, Luke?"

"Well, no; not here."

"And we haven't money enough to get away."

Just then a tall man with reddish hair strode across the field to their cabin.

"Good evening, neighbors," he said. "How are you making out?"

"Not over-well," answered Luke.

"There's a difference in claims. You've got a poor one."

"Probably you are right."

"There's been considerable gold dust gathered in Oreville within six months. I have been one of the lucky ones."

"Indeed! I am glad of it."

"Yes; I found a nugget two months since that I sold for two thousand dollars. I have made five thousand within a year."

"You've been in luck. I wish the boy and I could be as successful."

"The claim is not good enough to support two. Why not let the boy find something else?"

"You wouldn't have me freeze him out?" said Luke, in a tone of displeasure.

"No, but suppose I find something for him to do? What then?"

"That's a different matter. Have you an extra claim?"

"Yes; but that isn't what I offer him. I have a plan in which he can help me."

"What is it?"

"All our supplies come from Sacramento. What we need is a retail store in Oreville—a general store for the sale of almost everything that miners need."

"It would be a good plan to open one," said Luke, approvingly.

"Now, you must know that I am an old storekeeper. I had for years a store about twenty miles from Boston. I succeeded fairly with it, but my health gave out. The doctor told me I must not be so confined—that I needed out-of-door exercise. So I came out here and got it. Well, the advice proved good. I am strong and robust, and I feel enterprising. Now, what I propose is this: I will open a store, and put the boy in charge under me."

"I should like it," said Ernest, eagerly.

"You know what we pay for supplies. There's at least a hundred per cent, made, and no one objects to the prices. Why shouldn't we make it as well as the Sacramento storekeepers?"

"True!" said Luke.

"I don't ask you to work for me, my friend, for I don't think it would suit you."

"It wouldn't. At home—that's in Oak Forks, Iowa—I was a hunter. I was always in the open air. The sort of life we live here suits me, though I haven't made much money as yet."

"The boy, I think, would do. He looks like a hustler. I need only look at his face to know that he'd be honest and faithful. What is your name, boy?"

"Ernest Ray."

"That's a good name. You'll only have to live up to it—to the first part of it, I mean. Then you accept my offer?"

"You haven't made any," said Ernest, smiling.

"Oh, you mean about wages. Well, I don't offer any stated wages. I will give you one-third profits, and then your pay will depend on your success. The fact is, you are to keep the store."

Ernest looked an inquiry.

"One person can attend to it by day. I will come in the evening, and take a general look after things. Just at first I'll stay with you till you've got the hang of things. But during the day I shall be looking after my claims. Do you know how to keep books?"

"I understand single entry bookkeeping."

"That will be all you will require."

"How soon shall you start?" asked Ernest, who began to feel very much interested.

"I will go to Sacramento to-morrow, now that we have come to terms. You know that frame building near Ashton's cabin?"

"Yes."

"I don't know what it was originally used for, but it is empty and I can secure it for our store. It isn't large, but it will hold all we need. I can get new supplies as we need them."

"Yes, that will do."

"You haven't said how you like my offer."

"Of one-third profits? I like it better than if you paid me wages. I will make it amount to a good deal."

"That will suit me. I don't care how much you make out of it, for I shall make twice as much."

"How did you happen to think of me?"

"I've watched you ever since you came. I can judge of any one, boy or man, if I have time enough to take stock of him. I saw that you were just the man for me."

"Boy," suggested Ernest, smiling.

"Oh, well, I'll make a man of you. By the way, an idea has just occurred to me. You'd better go to Sacramento with me to-morrow."

"I should like to do it," said Ernest, brightening up.

"Then you can notice where I buy my supplies. You may need to go alone sometimes."

"At what time will we start?"

"The stage leaves at seven o'clock."

"I will be ready."



CHAPTER XXVIII.

AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE TURNS UP.

The journey to Sacramento was made, the goods selected, and in less than a week the new store was stocked. In the arrangement of goods Ernest took a zealous part. He had never served in a store, yet it seemed to come natural to him, and he felt more interest in it than in the work of mining.

After the store was in full working order Horace Ames left Ernest as sole manager, coming in only in the evening to look at the books, for Ernest, as far as possible, kept a record of every sale.

Storekeeping in those days and in that country was unusually profitable. Ernest made a little comparison between the cost of goods and the selling price, and arrived at the conclusion that the average profits were a hundred per cent. And still the miners were able to buy goods cheaper than when they sent to Sacramento for them.

At the end of the first week Ernest figured up the sales and found they aggregated two hundred dollars. His share of the profits amounted to a little over thirty dollars.

This was encouraging, being three times as much as he had ever realized in the same length of time from mining.

There was one embarrassment. There was no bank in the place where money could be deposited, and of course the chance of loss by robbery was much increased. However, his partner purchased a small safe, and this afforded some security.

One day a man entered the store, and purchased a pipe and tobacco. He was a stranger to Ernest, but there was something familiar in his look, yet he could not place him.

The newcomer looked about with considerable curiosity.

"You have quite a snug store here," he remarked.

"Yes."

"Does it belong to you?"

"I have an interest in it, but it belongs to Mr. Ames."

"Is he here much?"

"He usually comes in evenings, but he is interested in mining."

"You seem to have a good trade."

"What makes you think so?"

"You have a good stock. You would not keep so many goods unless you had a call for them."

"Have I ever seen you before?" asked Ernest abruptly, for the idea grew upon him that he and his new customer had met somewhere under peculiar circumstances.

"I don't know. I don't remember you," answered the customer, shrugging his shoulders. "I haven't been in California long. I suppose you were born here."

"No; very few of those now living in California were born here. I once lived in Iowa. Were you ever there?"

"Never," answered the customer. "I've been in Missouri, but never in Iowa."

"I have never been in that State. Are you going to stay here?"

"I don't know. It depends on whether I can make any money. I suppose you don't want to hire a clerk?"

"No."

Ernest said to himself that this man, with his shifty looks and suspicious appearance, would be about the last man he would think of engaging.

"Perhaps Mr. Ames would give you a chance to work some of his claims," he suggested.

"I will look about me a little before I apply to him," replied the customer.

"Did you come here alone?" he asked after a pause.

"No. A friend came with me—Luke Robbins."

The stranger started a little when Ernest pronounced this name, so that young Ray was led to inquire, "Do you know Luke?"

"How should I know him? Is he a young man?"

"No; he is probably about your age."

"I suppose he came with you from Nebraska?"

"Iowa."

"Oh, yes, Iowa. He isn't in the store, is he?"

"He is working for Mr. Ashton on one of his claims."

At this point a new customer came in, and the visitor, after a brief delay, left the store.

When Ernest had waited upon the new customer he look for the first visitor, but missed him.

"I wonder who he was," he reflected, puzzled. "I am sure that I have seen him before."

But think as he might, he could not trace him.

Yet with this man he had had a very exciting experience in Oak Forks, for it was no other than Tom Burns, the tramp who had entered his cabin during the night and robbed him, and later had attacked him when digging for Peter's hidden treasure. It had been only a few months since they had met, but Tom Burns, during that time, had grown a thick beard, which had help to disguise him.

It is hardly necessary to explain how Burns had found his way out to Oreville. It was his business to tramp about the country, and it had struck him that in the land of gold he would have a chance to line his pockets with treasure which did not belong to him. So fortune had directed his steps to Oreville.

When he entered the store in which Ernest was employed, he immediately, and in some surprise, recognized the boy of Oak Forks. He was glad to find that Ernest did not recognize him, and he immediately began to consider in what way he could turn the circumstance to his own advantage.

"I wonder if the boy sleeps there," he said to himself. "If so, I will make him a visit to night. Probably the money he has taken in during the day will be in some drawer where I can get hold of it."

As he was leaving the store in the stealthy way habitual to him he met a man walking towards the place with a long and careless stride.

He started nervously, for this man was one whom he dreaded, and had reason to fear.

It was Luke Robbins, who, tired with working the claim, was going to the store to replenish his stock of tobacco.

Tom Burns pulled his soft hat down over his eyes and pushed swiftly on.

Luke Robbins halted a moment and looked at him. As in Ernest's case, he seemed to see something familiar in the appearance of the tramp. He realized, at all events, that he was a stranger in Oreville, for he knew every one in the mining settlement.

"Who are you, stranger? Have I seen you before?" asked Luke, hailing him.

Tom Burns did not dare to reply, for he feared that Luke might prove to have a better memory than Ernest. So he was passing on without a response, when Luke, who considered his conduct suspicious, demanded, in a peremptory tone, "Who are you? Do you live here?"

Tom Burns shrugged his shoulders, and said, disguising his voice, "Me no understand English, boss."

"What countryman are you?" asked Luke, suspiciously.

"Italian," answered Tom.

"Humph! You are the first Italian I have seen in Oreville."

"Si, signor," answered Tom, and this comprised all the Italian he knew.

"Well, I don't think you will find any inducement to stay."

"Si, signor," replied Burns, meekly.

Without another word Luke entered the store.

"Ernest," he said, "I am out of tobacco and must have a smoke. Give me half a pound."

"All right, Luke."

"I ran across an Italian just outside. He seemed to be leaving the store."

"An Italian?" queried Ernest, his tone betraying surprise.

"Yes. Wasn't he in here?"

"There was a man in here—a stranger, but I don't think he was an Italian."

"This man answered me in some Italian gibberish. He said he couldn't understand English."

"What was his appearance?"

Luke described him.

"It's the same man that was in here just now, but he could speak English as well as you or I."

"Did you have some conversation with him?"

"Yes. He looked familiar to me and I asked him who he was. He said he had come from Missouri. He was in search of work."

"You say he understood and spoke English?"

"Yes."

"Then I wonder what could be his game."

"Don't he look familiar to you?"

"Yes; there was something familiar about his appearance, but I couldn't place him."

"He asked me if I couldn't employ him in the store. I told him Mr. Ames might give him a chance at mining."

"Well?"

"He said he would look round a little before deciding."

"Did he buy anything?"

"Yes, tobacco."

"Did you mention my name?"

"Yes, and he looked uneasy."

"Ernest," said Luke Robbins, with a sudden inspiration, "I know the man."

"Who is it?"

"Don't you recall any man at Oak Forks with whom you had trouble?"

"Tom Burns?"

"Yes. That's the man."

"Why didn't we recognize him then?"

"Because he has grown a full beard."

"That's so, Luke. I understand now why he looked so familiar. I am sorry to see him here."

"He'd better not undertake any of his rascalities or he will find himself in hot water."



CHAPTER XXIX.

TOM BURNS MAKES A CALL.

When Burns left the store he walked to the outskirts of the mining settlement, not wishing to attract attention. He wished especially to avoid encountering Luke Robbins, with the strength of whose arm he was disagreeably familiar.

He proposed to keep out of sight until night, and then make a visit to the store. It would go hard with him if he did not make a raise there either in the shape of money or articles of value.

He came to a cabin standing by itself, at a considerable distance from the homes of the other miners. Sitting in front of it was a man with grizzled beard whose appearance indicated advanced age. There were lines upon his face that betrayed ill health.

"I wonder if anything can be got out of him," thought Tom Burns. "I'll see."

"Good day, sir," he said affably.

The old man looked up.

"Good day," he replied. "Who are you?"

"I'm an unfortunate man, in search of employment."

"When people are unfortunate there is generally a reason for it. Are you intemperate?"

"No, sir," answered Burns, as if horror-stricken. "I hate the taste of liquor."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"I belong to three temperance societies," continued Tom, by way of deepening the favorable impression he thought he had made.

"And still you are poor?"

"Yes," answered Burns. "Once I was prosperous, but I was ruined by signing notes for an unprincipled man who took advantage of my friendship. Do you think I can find work here?"

"I don't know. Probably you can get a chance to work on one of Mr. Ames claims."

"Is it Mr. Ames who owns the store?"

"Yes."

"I called there to buy some tobacco. Is the boy there his son?"

"No; he is a recent arrival in Oreville. He is a very smart boy."

"Is he? Mr. Ames trusts him, I suppose?"

"Yes. Why shouldn't he?"

"I—I would rather not answer that question."

"Have you ever met the boy before? Do you know him?"

"Yes; I met him at the East," answered Burns.

"Since you have said so much, you must say more. I am a cousin of Mr. Ames, and if you know anything unfavorable of the boy it is your duty to tell me."

"I have nothing against the boy, and would prefer not to speak."

"I insist upon your doing it."

"It is only this. When I knew him he was employed in a store. He was trusted, as he appears to be here. One night the store was robbed, that is some money disappeared, and the boy claimed it was broken into by thieves, who took the money, whereas he took it himself."

"That seems bad. Was it proved that he took the money?"

"Yes. That's why he was compelled to leave the place. That is why he is now in Oreville."

"Did you come here to expose him?"

"No; I didn't know he was here. I was very much taken by surprise when I saw him in the store."

"This is important, if true. Mr. Ames ought to be informed."

"Don't tell him while I am here. The boy is very revengeful, and he might try to do me an injury."

"Are you afraid of a boy?"

"I am a man of peace. I don't want to get into any difficulty."

"I suppose you wonder that I am sitting here while others are at work."

"Well, it did cross my mind."

"My spine is affected. I look well, but I cannot walk. I hope to be better after a while, but at present I am comparatively helpless."

"Can't I help you?"

"You may go into the cabin, and bring me a bottle of medicine which you will find in the cupboard."

Burns entered the cabin gladly. He thought that he might find something worth taking.

On the wall, hanging from a nail, was a gold watch. It was too good a chance to be lost. It might or it might not be valuable, but at any rate it was worth something.

So, while securing the bottle, Burns slyly possessed himself of the watch, which he slipped into his inside breast pocket.

"Here is the bottle, sir," he said, meekly.

"Thank you. Now bring a spoon, which you will find on the table."

Burns did so.

"Now pour out a teaspoonful, which I will take."

"I am glad to be of service to you. Don't you want a kind attendant, while you are sick, to take care of you?"

"There would not be enough for you to do. I have a son at work in the mines who is here morning and night, and he gives me all the care I require."

"I am sorry to hear that," thought Burns. "The son may be dangerous."

"Then, sir, I will bid you good-by. I will pray for your recovery."

"Thank you. The prayers of the righteous avail much. Are you righteous?"

"It isn't for me to say, sir. I don't want to boast."

"That is creditable to you. By the way, are you hungry?"

"I haven't broken my fast since morning."

"You will find some cold meat and a loaf of bread in the cupboard. It is plain, but if you are hungry you will enjoy it."

"Thank you, sir. I will accept your kind invitation."

Tom Burns was really hungry, and he did justice to the food offered him.

When his lunch was over he came outside.

"Thank you," he said, "for your kindness. I am sure you will be rewarded."

"I don't want any reward. Out here we are always glad to give a meal of victuals to a stranger who needs it. Are you going to stay long in Oreville?"

"If I can get anything to do I may. You see I am a poor man, and stand in pressing need of employment."

"Keep up your courage! Something will turn up for you. I will ask my son if he cannot find something for you to do."

"Thank you, sir. I will bid you good-by, with thanks for your kindness."

"If you are not pressed for time, I will send you on an errand."

"All right, sir. I shall be glad to be of service to you."

"Here is a Mexican dollar. You may go to the store and bring me a dozen eggs. If there is any change you may keep it."

"Thank you, sir."

"A dollar in!" thought Burns, as he turned away from the cabin. "I think I can turn it to a better use than spending it in eggs. That was a profitable call. I made a gold watch and a dollar by it. The old man can't pursue me, that's one comfort, thanks to his spinal complaint."

"That is a very clever fellow," reflected the old man when Burns had started on his errand. "A bit too religious to suit my taste. Still he seemed grateful for the little I did for him. If he had a little more push and get-up-and-get about him he would succeed better. Why, he isn't more than forty, and he confesses himself a failure. Why, at forty I considered myself a young man, and was full of dash and enterprise. Now I am sixty and tied to my seat by this spinal trouble. However, I've got something laid by, and, old as I am, I feel independent, as far as money goes."

Half an hour—an hour—passed, and still the old man found himself alone. His messenger had not come back.

But there came up the path a tall, muscular figure, who greeted the old man in a bluff, off hand way.

"How are you, Luke?" said the old man. "I was feeling lonely. I am glad to see you."

"Have you been alone since morning?"

"Not quite all the time. I had quite a long call from a stranger."

"A stranger!" repeated Luke, suspiciously.

"What was his appearance?"

The old man described Burns, and Luke knew him at once.

"What did he say to you?"

"That reminds me—he said he knew the boy whom Horace has put in the store—young Ray."

"Did he?"

"Yes, and he doesn't speak well of him."

"What does he say about him?"

"I don't like to tell you, Luke, for I believe he is a protege of yours."

"Don't mind that. If there is anything to be said unfavorable of Ernest I ought to know it."

"He says the boy robbed a store in which he was employed, and then pretended it was entered by thieves. It was on that account, he says, that the boy was compelled to leave the town where he lived and come to California."

"Really, that is very interesting. To my own personal knowledge the boy was never before employed in a store, and he came out to California with me."

"Then what could the man mean?"

"I can't say. I can only tell you that he is a professional thief."

"Look quick, Luke, and see if my gold watch is hanging on a nail near the cupboard."

"No, it is not there."

"Then the rascal must have stolen it. I gave him, besides, a Mexican dollar to buy some eggs at the store."

"I don't think you will ever see it again, unless I catch the thief, as I may to-night."



CHAPTER XXX.

A BURGLAR'S FAILURE.

If Tom Burns had been more prudent he would have made good his escape with the money and gold watch he had already secured. But he was too greedy for gain.

He pictured to himself the store with its goodly stock of money taken in during the day, and he felt an irresistible craving for it. There might be one or two hundred dollars, and no one in charge but a boy whom he could easily overpower.

Apart from the pecuniary gain he felt that he should enjoy getting the best of Ernest, who had already foiled him at Oak Forks.

"This time he will come out second best," chuckled Burns to himself.

Then he laughed when he remembered how his appearance had puzzled Ernest.

"It was a good idea, growin' a beard," he said to himself. "Seems to have disguised me pretty well. The boy thought he had seen me before, but he couldn't make out where. The next time he'll know me, I reckon.

"I must keep out of the way till night," he said to himself. "It won't do for me to be seen prowlin' round the settlement."

He retired a mile or two among the hills, and waited impatiently for night to come.

"It is lucky that the old man gave me a meal," he reflected, "otherwise I should be about starved. I wonder if that watch is worth much."

He examined the watch, and decided that its value was probably not far from a hundred dollars. In fact the old man had bought it in St. Louis, and had selected a high-priced article.

It did occur to Burns that perhaps he had better remain satisfied with what he had got, for the watch would probably bring him fifty dollars at a sacrifice sale; but the temptation to stay was too strong.

"It would be a sin to give up such a fine chance," he reflected. "There's next to no risk, and I may get two hundred dollars."

Then he began to consider what he would do in that case. He decided that he would go to San Francisco, and see what pickings he could find there.

He had already found out that mining men and others in the far West were more careless about their money than those in the East, probably because money came easier.

"I did well when I came out here," he said to himself in a tone of congratulation. "I'll make hay while the sun shines."

Meanwhile, though he did not know it, his visit was expected, and preparations were being made to receive him.

After supper Luke Robbins came to the store, and held a conference with Ernest.

"I am going to pass the night with you, lad," he said.

"I wish you would, Luke."

"I want to help you do the honors to my old friend Burns."

"Perhaps he won't call."

"If he knows what's best for himself he won't, but he will be like the foolish moth, and won't be contented till he has singed his wings. I will look about me and see where to bestow myself for the night."

Ernest occupied a bed in the rear of the store, just behind one of the counters. It was near a window in the rear of the building.

"I'll take that bed, Ernest, and you can find another place."

"Shall I fasten the window?"

"No. I am going to make it easy for my friend Burns to get in. Whether he will find it as easy to get out will be another matter."

Nothing was said to the miners about the presence of a thief in the settlement. At that time there was no toleration for thieves. The punishment visited upon them was short, sharp, and decisive. The judge most in favor was Judge Lynch, and woe be to the offender who ventured to interfere with the rights of property.

Had Luke breathed a word about Burns, half a dozen miners would have volunteered to stand guard, and would thus have interfered with Tom Burns' visit.

"I want to keep all the fun to myself, Ernest," said Luke. "We'll give him a lesson he won't soon forget. If I told the boys, they'd hang him up in short order. I don't want to take the fellow's life, but I'll give him a first-class scare."

It was about ten minutes of twelve when Tom Burns, leaving his place of concealment, walked with eager steps towards the mining settlement. The one street was not illuminated, for Oreville had not got along as far as that. The moon gave an indistinct light, relieving the night of a part of its gloom.

Burns looked from one cabin to another with a wistful glance.

"I suppose some of these miners have got a lot of gold dust hidden away in their shanties," he said to himself. "I wish I knew where I could light on some of their treasure. If I only knew which cabin to choose!"

But then it occurred to him that every miner was probably armed, and would make it dangerous to any intruder.

So Tom Burns kept on his way. He was troubled by no conscientious scruples. He had got beyond that long ago. Sometimes it did occur to him to wonder how it would seem to settle down as a man of respectability and influence, taking a prominent part in the affairs of town and church.

"It might have been," he muttered. "My father was a man of that sort. Why not I? If I hadn't gone wrong in my early days, if I had not been tempted of the devil to rob the storekeeper for whom I worked, and so made myself an outcast and a pariah, who knows but I might have been at this moment Thomas Burns, Esq., of some municipality, instead of Tom Burns the tramp. However, it is foolish to speculate about this. I am what I am, and there is little chance of my being anything else."

So he dismissed the past, and recalled the work he had set for himself. Everything was still. In the mining village probably there was not a person awake. It was like a dead town. Everything seemed favorable to his designs.

There was the store. He could see it already. And now there was nothing to do but to get in and take the money, which he had no doubt was waiting ready to his hand.

Perhaps he might be fortunate enough to secure it without waking the boy. He hoped so, at any rate, for he was not a desperate or cruel man. He did not wish to injure Ernest unless it should be absolutely necessary. If he could get along without it, so much the better.

Arriving at his destination, he paused to reconsider.

He did not expect to enter by the front door. He did not as yet know whether there was any other. But at any rate there must be a window somewhere, and he preferred to get in that way.

He walked around to the rear of the store, and there he discovered the window. He had been afraid it might be blockaded with shelves, which would make entrance difficult, but fortunately this did not appear to be the case. He stood at the window and looked in.



The faint moonlight did not enable him to penetrate the interior very far, but he could make out something. There were goods of various kinds scattered about, and he could just see a recumbent figure on a bed near the counter.

"That's the boy," he said to himself. "I wonder if he is asleep."

There did not seem to be any doubt on this point.

But for the indistinct light, Tom Burns might have thought the outstretched figure rather large for a boy. But he only glanced at it furtively.

The next thing to consider was whether the window was fastened. In that case he would have some difficulty, though for this he was prepared, having an instrument with which he could cut a pane of glass, and, thrusting in his hand, unfasten the catch.

But through some strange inadvertence, apparently, the window was not locked, and much to his relief he had no difficulty in lifting it. In this way he made his entrance into the store.

He was as careful as possible, fearing lest he might stumble over some article, and by the noise betray his presence.

What if there was a dog inside? This thought brought alarm to the burglar. In that case his visit would probably be a failure. He remembered, however, with a feeling of relief, that he had seen no dog about during his visit to the store.

Now that he had passed through the window, and was fairly in the store, he looked round for the money-drawer. He had not seen the safe, or probably he might not have entered the store at all, for he was not expert in breaking open safes, and at any rate it would be a matter of time and difficulty. So he was looking about, when, as he passed by the bed, he felt himself seized by the leg. Evidently the sleeper had awakened and discovered his presence.

Burns got down on his knees and grasped the recumbent by the throat.

"Lie still, or I'll choke you!" he said, fiercely.

But as he spoke he felt the rough beard of a man, and with dismay he realized that he had tackled a more formidable foe than the boy for whom he was prepared.

He then felt himself seized with an iron grasp.



"I've got you, you rascally burglar!" were the words he heard, and gave himself up for lost.

"Who are you?" he asked faintly.

"I am Luke Robbins, and I know you of old. You are Tom Burns!"



CHAPTER XXXI.

THE ADVERTISEMENT.

If there was any one of whom Tom Burns stood in fear it was Luke Robbins. When he found himself in the grasp of his dreaded enemy he grew weak with terror.

It was no longer a question of successful robbery. It was a matter of personal safety.

"Well, what have you to say for yourself?" demanded Luke, tightening his grasp.

"Have mercy on me, Mr. Robbins! Don't kill me!" ejaculated Burns, half choked.

"What did you come here for?"

"I—I had no money, and—"

"You thought you could get some here. That is the explanation."

"Ye-es," faltered Burns.

"You thought you would be more than a match for the boy. Well, you have no boy to deal with."

"I know that very well," confessed Burns.

"How long have you been in Oreville?"

"I only came this morning."

"You have improved your time," said Luke, dryly. "You have stolen a gold watch, besides making this attempt at robbery."

Tom Burns could not deny it, though he was surprised at Luke's knowledge. He did not reply.

"Hand over that watch!" said Luke, in a tone of authority.

"Will you let me go if I do?"

"I will make no conditions with you. Hand over that watch!"

Burns drew it from his inside pocket and handed it over.

"Humph! So far so good. Now how about that dollar you took to buy eggs?"

"It is the only money I have, except a few pennies. Please let me keep it."

"If I tell the miners what you have done you won't need any more money," said Luke, grimly.

"Why not?" asked Burns, trembling.

"Why not?" repeated Luke. "Because they will hang you to the nearest tree. You won't need to trouble about money matters after that."

"You won't give me up, Mr. Robbins," pleaded Burns in an agony of terror. "I—I am not fit to die. Besides, I am a young man. I am not yet forty. I will turn over a new leaf. I will, truly."

"It's high time you did. It is a long time since you earned an honest living."

"I know it, Mr. Robbins. I have been a bad man, but it is not too late to reform. If you'll let me go I will leave Oreville to-night, and I will never trouble you again."

"It isn't me you have troubled. It is the boy. You robbed him, or tried to do it, at Oak Forks, and now you have turned up here."

"I didn't know he was here. Truly I didn't."

"You didn't know I was here, or I think you would have given the place a wide berth."

"I am very sorry for what I did, and if you'll only spare my life I'll promise to reform."

"I haven't much faith in your promises, but I'll leave it to the boy. Ernest, what shall I do with this man?"

Ernest had come forward, and was standing but a few feet from Luke and his captive.

"If he promises to reform," said Ernest, "you'd better give him another chance, Luke."

"I am not sure that I ought to, but it is you to whom he has done the most harm. If you give him over to the miners we shall never be troubled by him again."

Tom Burns turned pale, for he knew that life and death were in the balance, and that those two—Luke and the boy—were to decide his fate.

Ernest could not help pitying the trembling wretch. He was naturally kind hearted, and at that moment he felt that he could forgive Burns all that he had done.

"Since you have left it to me, Luke," he said, "let him go."

"It shall be as you say, Ernest."

As he spoke he released his hold, and Tom Burns stood erect. He breathed a deep sigh of relief.

"May I go?" he asked submissively.

"Yes."

Before leaving he turned to Ernest.

"You are a good-hearted boy," he said, "and I shall not forget that you have saved my life. If I am ever able to do anything for you, I will do it. You will find that Tom Burns, bad as he has been, knows how to be grateful."

"I think you mean what you say," returned Ernest. "I hope you will keep your promise and will turn over a new leaf. Is it true that you are penniless?"

"Not quite. This is all I have."

Burns drew from his pocket a handful of small change—less than a dollar in all—and held it out for inspection.

"Then I will help you along."

Ernest took from his pocket a five-dollar gold piece, and offered it to the tramp.

"That is more than I would do for him," said Luke.

"It is more than I deserve," replied Burns, "but you won't be sorry for your kindness. If ever you see me again, I shall be a different man."

He passed out of the window, and they saw him no more.

Luke and Ernest said very little of their night's adventure, but the gold watch and the Mexican dollar were returned to the man from whom they had been taken.

Six months passed. Oreville had doubled its population, the mines had yielded a large sum in gold dust, and the store presided over by Ernest was considerably enlarged.

His services had been so satisfactory that Horace Ames, whose time was taken up elsewhere, had raised his share of the profits to one half.

At the end of six months, besides defraying his expenses, Ernest found himself possessed of a thousand dollars.

"Luke, I feel rich," said he, when his faithful friend came round for a chat.

"You've done better than I have," rejoined Luke. "The most I have been able to scrape together is four hundred dollars."

"I will give you a part of my money, so that we may be even."

"No, you won t, Ernest. What do you take me for? I should be ashamed to touch any of your hard earnings."

"They are not hard earnings, Luke. Mr. Ames has been very liberal, and that is why I have got so much. I don't feel that I ought to have so much more than you."

"Don't bother about me, lad; I feel rich with four hundred dollars. I never was worth so much before, though I'm almost three times your age. And I wouldn't have that but for you."

"How do you make that out, Luke?"

"Because I never had any ambition till I met you. I never thought of saving money; as long as I got enough to eat I cared for nothing else. I should have died without enough to bury me if you had not set me the example of putting something by for a rainy day."

"I am glad if I have done you any good, Luke, for you have been a kind friend to me."

A. week later Luke came into the store holding a letter in his hand.

"Here is a letter for you, Ernest," he said. "I was passing the post-office just now when I was hailed by the postmaster, who asked me if I would take the letter to you. I didn't know that you had any correspondents."

"Nor I, Luke. I think it is the first letter I ever received. Whom can it be from?"

"From some one who knows you are here. It is postmarked St. Louis."

"Well, I can easily discover who wrote it," said Ernest, as he cut open the envelope with his penknife.

He turned at once to the signature, and exclaimed, in great surprise, "Why, it's from Tom Burns."

"The man who tried to rob the store?"

"Yes."

"He has probably written to ask you for some money."

"No, Luke, you are mistaken. I will read it to you."

The letter started thus:

ERNEST RAY:

You will probably be surprised to hear from me. Let me begin by saying that I have kept the promise I made to you and Mr. Robbins when you let me off six months ago. I have turned over a new leaf, and have been strictly honest ever since, as I promised you I would be.

I won't trouble you with an account of my struggles to get along. I will only say that I am employed at present as a waiter at the Planters Hotel, and though I can't save up much money, I am able to live comfortable. But you will wonder why I am writing to you. It is because I have seen your name mentioned in an advertisement in one of the St. Louis daily papers. I inclose the advertisement, and hope it is something to your advantage. I have taken the liberty to write to Mr. Bolton, telling him where you were six months since, and now I write to you so that you may communicate with him also.

Yours respectfully, TOM BURNS.

The advertisement appended ran thus:

INFORMATION WANTED.—Should this meet the eye of Ernest Ray, some time residing at Oak Forks, Iowa, he is requested to communicate with Benjamin Bolton, Attorney-at-Law, 182 Nassau Street, New York City.



CHAPTER XXXII.

MR. BOLTON AS A HUSTLER.

When Benjamin Bolton left the house of Stephen Ray with a hundred dollars in his pocket, it was with the clearly-defined purpose in his mind to find the boy who had been so grossly wronged, and force the present holder of the Ray estate to make restitution. But he was not yet in a position to move in the matter.

Only a few hours previous he had been nearly penniless. Even now, though he was provided with a sum of money that made him feel comparatively rich, he knew that it would not last very long. Clearly he must obtain employment.

He provided himself with a respectable suit of clothing, and took the next train for New York. He had been in the metropolis two or three times in the course of his life, but he knew no one there. He must push his own way without help.

While other paths might be open to him, for he was a man of education and worldly experience, he felt that he should like to get back into his own profession. He flattered himself that if properly started he could make himself valuable to an established attorney in the way of hunting up cases, and taking part in any description of legal work that might be intrusted to him.

But how could he, a man altogether unknown, recommend himself to any lawyer whose standing and business would make a connection with him desirable? Perhaps in any other business there would be less difficulty in making a start.

But Mr. Bolton was resolute and determined, and fortune favored him.

Within thirty miles of the city a stout gentleman of perhaps fifty entered the car and sat down beside him. He looked like a well-to-do business man, prosperous and free from care, but for the anxious expression on his face. He appeared like a man in trouble who stood in need of advice.

The train had gone several miles before he made up his mind to confide in the quiet-looking man who sat beside him. He had already taken stock of Bolton in several furtive glances before he decided to speak of the matter that troubled him.

"There is something on his mind," thought Bolton. "He looks as if he wished to speak to some one."

He addressed a casual remark to his companion, who instantly responded.

"I don't like to trouble you," he said, "but I am somewhat perplexed."

"My dear sir, if in any way I can help you I shall be glad to do so," answered Bolton. "I am a lawyer—"

"Are you?" said the other eagerly. "I want to meet a good, honest, and smart lawyer, who will undertake a case for me."

Bolton pricked up his ears. This seemed to be a providential opportunity of which he resolved to avail himself.

"I should not like to praise myself," he said modestly, "but I think you would find me faithful to your interests."

"No doubt of it, sir. Are you a New York lawyer?"

"I am about to connect myself with a law firm in the city," answered Bolton, heartily hoping that this statement might prove accurate.

"Then you will be able to help me."

"State your case, if you don't mind." Bolton took out a small memorandum book, and, pencil in hand, sat ready to take down the important points.

"You must know, sir, that twenty years ago my father died, leaving an estate of fifty thousand dollars. It was divided equally between my sister Martha and myself. I married, and Martha, for the last twenty years, has been a member of my family. Being a spinster, with only herself to provide for, her property has doubled, while I, having several children, have barely held my own. Of course I expected that my children and my self would inherit Martha's money when she died."

"Very natural, sir, and very just."

"Well, Martha died last August. Imagine my dismay when her will was opened and proved to bequeath her entire estate to various charities in which she never took any particular interest when living."

"Do you suspect any one of influencing her to this disposition of her property?"

"Yes, she had had various conversations with a collector for these societies, who resided in the town during the summer, and who sought an introduction when he learned that she was a lady of independent fortune. He called frequently, and flattered up my poor sister, who, between ourselves, had lately shown signs of mental weakness."

"Did she cut off your family entirely in her will?"

"Yes; she didn't leave even a dollar to any one of my children, though one of my daughters was named for her."

"Was the collector entitled to a commission on sums secured for the societies which he rep resented?"

"Yes, that is the cause of his zeal. He would make a very handsome percentage on an estate as large as my sister's."

"But for him would she have been likely to cut off her relatives?"

"No; we should probably have received every dollar."

"Do you think the collector cherished any matrimonial designs with reference to your sister?"

"I did think so at one time, but Martha's condition as an invalid led her to discourage his attentions, though she was evidently flattered by them."

"Of course you wish to break the will?"

"Yes. Do you think it can be done?"

"Upon the basis of what you have told me I should think the chances were greatly in your favor."

His companion brightened up very perceptibly at this assurance.

"Have you ever been employed in any similar cases?" he asked.

"My dear sir, I have an important case of the kind on my hands at this moment. The amount involved is a quarter of a million dollars."

Mr. Bolton rose greatly in the estimation of his new client after he had made this statement.

"Is the case at all similar?"

"Hardly. It is the case of a will concealed, or rather suppressed, and acting upon a will previously made. I cannot go into details for obvious reasons, as I wish to keep our enemy in the dark."

"I understand. Have you your card with you, so that I can call at your office?"

This was a puzzling question for Bolton, but he was equal to the occasion.

"Tell me what hotel you propose to stop at, and I will call upon you at eleven o'clock to-morrow morning."

"I don't know much about the New York hotels."

"Then let me recommend a house," naming a comfortable but not expensive hostelry on upper Broadway.

"I will go there."

"I think you have not yet mentioned your name."

"My name is Ephraim Paulding."

Bolton noted it down in his memorandum-book, and soon after the train ran into the station at Forty-second Street.

There was no time to be lost. Bolton made inquiries and obtained the name of a successful, go-ahead lawyer, having an office at 182 Nassau Street. He did not wait till the next day, but made a call that same evening at his house on Lexington Avenue.

Mr. Norcross, the lawyer, entered the parlor with Bolton's card in his hand and a puzzled expression on his face.

"Have I ever met you before, Mr. Bolton?" he asked.

"No, sir."

"Please state your business."

"I should like to enter your office. I am a lawyer with fifteen years experience."

"I should hardly think so, considering the strange, and I may say unprecedented, proposal you are making."

"I am quite aware that it seems so, but I can make it worth your while."

"How?"

"By bringing you business. I can put in your hands now a will case involving an estate of fifty thousand dollars, and further on probably a much more important case."

"You seem to be a hustler."

"I am."

"Where has your professional life been spent?" asked Norcross.

"At Elmira. Now I wish to remove to this city. It will give me a larger and more profitable field."

"Give me some idea of the case you say you can put in my hands."

Bolton did so. His terse and crisp statement—for he was really a man of ability—interested the lawyer, and disposed him favorably toward the matter.

The result of the interview was that he engaged Bolton at a small salary and a commission on business brought to the office for a period of three months.

"Thank you," said Bolton, as he rose to go. "You will not regret this step."

The next morning Bolton brought his rail road acquaintance to the office, and Mr. Norcross formally undertook his case.

"I think we shall win," he said. "It is an aggravated case of undue influence. Mr. Bolton will from time to time communicate to you the steps we have taken."

It is unnecessary to go into details. It is enough to say that the will was broken, and a goodly sum found its way to the coffers of lawyer Norcross.

By this time Benjamin Bolton had established himself in the favor of his employer, who, at the end of three months, made a new and much more advantageous arrangement. Bolton had not as yet taken any steps in Ernest's case, but he now felt that the time had come to do so. He wrote to the postmaster at Oak Forks, inquiring if he knew a boy named Ernest Ray, but learned, in reply, that Ernest had left the place some months before, and had not since been heard from.



CHAPTER XXXIII.

THE RESULT OF AN ADVERTISEMENT.

The advertisement for Ernest in a St. Louis daily paper came about in this way:

Bolton was in the habit of inquiring from time to time, of Western clients, if they were acquainted with any persons bearing the name of Ray. One gentleman, who frequently visited St. Louis, answered, "Yes, I know a boy named Ray."

"Tell me all you know about him," said Bolton, eagerly.

"I was staying at the Southern Hotel last winter," answered Mr. Windham, "when my attention was called to a bright-looking newsboy who sold the evening newspapers outside. I was so attracted by him that I inquired his name. He said it was Ray, and that he was alone in the world."

"What was his first name?"

"I can't recall. I am not sure that I heard it."

"Was it Ernest?"

"Very possibly. But, as I said before, I cannot speak with any certainty."

"How old did the boy appear to be?"

"About sixteen."

"That would have been the age of Dudley Ray's son," said Bolton to himself.

"I suppose you didn't learn where the boy lived?"

"No."

This was all the information Mr. Windham was able to impart, but Bolton felt that it was possibly of importance. It was, in fact, the first clue he had been able to obtain.

That Dudley Ray's son should be forced by dire necessity to sell newspapers was not in the least improbable. He went to an advertising agency, and inserted the advertisement already mentioned.

A few days later he received two letters post-marked St. Louis.

He opened them with a thrill of excitement.

He felt that he was on the verge of making an important discovery.

One letter was addressed in a school-boy hand, and ran thus:

DEAR SIR:

I saw your advertisement in one of the morning papers. I hope it means me. My name is not Ernest, but it may have been changed by some people with whom I lived in Nebraska. I am sixteen years old, and am a poor boy obliged to earn my living by selling papers. My father died when I was a baby, and my mother three years later. So I am alone in the world, and I am having a hard time. I suppose you wouldn't advertise for me unless you had some good news for me. You may send your answer to this letter to the Southern Hotel. The clerk is a friend of mine, and he says he will save it for me.

Yours respectfully, ARTHUR RAY.

"That isn't the boy," said Bolton, laying down the letter in disappointment. "The name is different, and, besides, the writer says that his father died when he was a baby. Of course that settles the question. He is a different boy."

He opened the second letter, hoping that it might be more satisfactory.

It was the letter of Tom Burns, setting forth his meeting Ernest at Oak Forks, and afterwards running across him at Oreville in California.

"Eureka!" exclaimed Bolton, his face beaming with exultation. "This is the boy and no mistake. I will at once answer this letter, and also write to Ernest Ray in California."

This was the letter received by Burns:

DEAR SIR:

I am very much indebted to you for the information contained in your letter of two days since. I have reason to think that the boy you mention is the one of whom I am in search. If it proves to be so, I am free to tell you that he will be much benefited by your communication. There is a considerable estate, now wrongfully held by another, to which he is entitled. Should things turn out as I hope and expect, I will see that you lose nothing by the service you have rendered him and myself. I will write to him by this mail. Should you change your address, please notify me.

Yours truly, BENJAMIN BOLTON, 182 Nassau Street, New York.

The letter written to Ernest ran thus:

ERNEST RAY, OREVILLE, CALIFORNIA:

I have for some time been seeking to find you. Finally, in response to an advertisement inserted in a St. Louis daily paper, I learn that you are at present living in Oreville, California. This information was given me by one Thomas Burns, who is employed at the Planters Hotel. The name is, I hope, familiar to you. It is very desirable that I should have an interview with you. If you are the son of Dudley Ray, formerly residing at or near Elmira, what I have to say will be greatly to your advantage.

Will you write me at once, letting me know whether this is the case? Also, state your present circumstances, and whether you need pecuniary help. It is unfortunate that we are so far apart. I am connected with a New York legal firm, and can not very well go to California, but I might assist you to come to New York if, as I suppose, your means are limited. Will you write to me at once whether this is the case? I shall anxiously await your reply.

BENJAMIN BOLTON, Attorney-at-law, 182 Nassau Street, New York City.

Ernest read this letter with eager interest, and showed it to Luke Robbins.

"What do you think of it, Luke?" he asked.

"What do I think of it? It looks very much as if you were entitled to some money."

"What shall I do?"

"Write this Mr. Bolton that you will go at once to New York, and call upon him."

"But how about the store? I should not like to leave Mr. Ames in the lurch."

"I will take your place here, and in order to qualify myself for it, I will come in to morrow and begin to serve an apprenticeship."

Ernest wrote to Bolton that he would start for New York in a week. He added that he had the money necessary for the journey. He said also that he was the son of Dudley Ray, and that he remembered visiting Elmira with his father.

When Bolton received this letter he exclaimed, triumphantly, "Now, Stephen Ray, I have you on the hip. You looked down upon me when I called upon you. In your pride and your unjust possession of wealth you thought me beneath your notice. Unless I am greatly mistaken, I shall be the instrument under Providence of taking from you your ill-gotten gains, and carrying out the wishes expressed in the last will of your deceased uncle."



CHAPTER XXXIV.

A STRANGE MEETING.

Ernest left Oreville with four hundred dollars in his pocket. The balance of his money he left in the hands of his friend Horace Ames, upon whom he was authorized to draw if he should have need.

"I don't intend to carry all my money with me," he said to Luke Robbins. "I might lose it."

"Even if you did, Ernest, you could draw on me. If you need it, do so without any hesitation."

"You are a good friend, Luke," said Ernest warmly. "What should I do without you?"

"I am beginning to wonder what I shall do without you, Ernest. Suppose, now, this lawyer puts a fortune in your hands?"

"If he does, Luke, I am sure to need your help in some way. I will see that we are not separated."

"Thank you, Ernest. I know you mean what you say. You may find a better friend, but you won't find one that is more ready to serve you than Luke Robbins."

"I am sure of that, Luke," said Ernest with a bright smile, as he pressed the rough hand of his faithful friend.

Ernest did not loiter on his way, though he was tempted to stop in Chicago, but he reflected that he would have plenty of chances to visit that bustling city after his business had been attended to.

As he approached Buffalo on the train his attention was attracted to two persons sitting in front of him. They were a father and son, as he gathered from the conversation.

The son was about his own age and size, apparently, but rather more slender in figure. He had a peevish expression, and Ernest doubted whether he would like him.

"Father," Ernest heard him say, "won't you give me a little money? I am dead broke."

The father frowned.

"I gave you five dollars when we set out on this journey," he said.

"Well, five dollars won't last forever," was the pert rejoinder.

"It ought to last more than four days, Clarence."

Ernest started. He knew that his cousin's name was Clarence. Could this be Stephen Ray and his son?

Even if it were so, he felt that it would not be advisable to make himself known. This business which was carrying him to New York might bring him into conflict with Stephen Ray. If so, he would not care to let his presence be known.

On arriving at Buffalo Ernest left the train. He had never visited Niagara, and being now so near, he felt that he could not forego the opportunity.

He registered at the Tefft House, and decided to remain twenty-four hours. This would give him time to see the Falls.

Ernest had a room assigned him, and went up to it at once in order to have the luxury of a good wash.

Five minutes afterwards, Stephen Ray and his son Clarence entered the hotel.

Mr. Ray, in a pompous manner, went up to the desk and said to the clerk, "Can you give me a good room?"

"Yes, sir."

"I want a front room, if you have it."

"I can't give you a front room, but I can give you a good side room."

Stephen Ray grumbled a little, but finally decided to take the room offered him. He saw that his haughty manner did not impress the clerk, who was accustomed to men of his class.

Clarence looked over his father's shoulder as he registered.

"Why, pa," he exclaimed in surprise, "there's another guest of our name."

"Where?" asked his father.

"There, three names above your signature."

Stephen Ray looked at the register, and started violently as he read the entry:

ERNEST RAY, Oreville, California.

"What's the matter, pa?" asked Clarence, noticing his father's agitation.

"Oh, nothing, nothing," answered his father, with an effort.

"Haven't we a cousin named Ernest Ray?"

"We had, but he is dead."

"It is strange that there should be another person of the name."

"Not at all. The world is large, and there are probably a good many persons of one name."

"This one is from California."

"So I see. By the way," here Mr. Ray addressed the clerk, "did you observe the person who registered under the name of Ray?"

"Yes. It is a boy about the size of this young gentleman."

"It is strange!" said Clarence. "It may be our cousin."

"Didn't I tell you that the person you refer to is dead?" said his father, testily.

"I don't believe it," thought Clarence, but he did not express his unbelief. He determined, however, to have an interview with the boy, and find out for himself all about him.

He saw Ernest at the table soon after, and so did Stephen Ray. The latter noted with alarm the resemblance of the boy to his cousin Dudley Ray, whose estate he had usurped.

"I hope Bolton won't get hold of him." he said to himself. "It would be bad for me."

After supper Mr. Ray went out, leaving Clarence to himself.

He improved the opportunity. Seeing Ernest sitting alone, he went up to him.

"Is your name Ray?" he asked.

"Yes, Ernest Ray."

"My name is Clarence Ray."

"So I thought. We are cousins."

"That's what I told pa, but he said it was not so—that Ernest Ray was dead."

"Your father's name is Stephen Ray?"