"Yes."

"I have known of him and you since I was old enough to remember anything."

"Then you are really my cousin Ernest?"

"Yes."

"I wonder why pa said you were dead. I will tell pa he is mistaken."

"No, Clarence, I would rather you wouldn't. There are reasons why it is better not to say anything about it."

"All right. Are you well off?"

Ernest smiled.

"I am not rich," he said, "but I am comfortably fixed."

"Do you live in California?"

"I have lived there for the last few months."

"Why did you come East?"

"On a little business."

"I am glad you are well off. I think pa was afraid you were a poor relation."

"Your father is rich?"

"Yes, ever so rich. We've got a fine place near Elmira. If pa wasn't so cranky I would invite you there to visit me."

"Thank you all the same," said Ernest, smiling.

Later in the evening, when Stephen Ray came in, Ernest noticed that he looked at him critically. He, too, examined the man who, he had reason to believe, was enjoying the estates that should be his, and was not attracted towards him.

"What will he say," thought Ernest, "when I make a formal demand for the property?"

"What in the name of all that's unlucky can have brought that boy here at this time?" Stephen Ray was saying to himself.

He never for an instant doubted Ernest's identity—in fact, he could not well have done so, for he bore a strong resemblance to Dudley Ray, who had been a strikingly handsome man, very much the superior of Stephen in personal attractions.

Stephen Ray's curiosity was excited. Ernest did not appear like the average poor relation. He was quite as well dressed as Clarence. Besides, he had registered at a high-priced hotel, and this alone showed that he was not cramped for means.

This gave him some satisfaction, as it made it less likely that he would appeal to him for assistance.

Stephen Ray was rather surprised that Clarence made no further reference to Ernest. Had he known that the two had had a conversation he would have been seriously disturbed. He only hoped that Bolton would not get hold of the boy.



CHAPTER XXXV.

MR. BOLTON AND HIS CLIENT.

Benjamin Bolton sat at his desk in the law office of Albert Norcross, on Nassau Street. He was well, even handsomely dressed, and looked very unlike the shabby tramp who had called months before at the house of Stephen Ray.

He was really a man of ability, and this his employer had found out. He had raised Bolton's salary to a liberal figure, and felt that in securing his services he had made a real acquisition.

Bolton was absorbed in preparation for a case which had been assigned to him, when a boy came to his desk with a card.

Bolton no sooner read the name, "Ernest Ray," than he became eager and excited.

"Tell him to come in," he said.

Ernest, quiet and self-possessed, entered the office and approached the lawyer's desk.

"Are you Mr. Bolton?" he asked

"Yes, and you—"

"I am Ernest Ray."

Benjamin Bolton looked keenly at the boy, admiring his handsome face and manly bearing.

"I see your father's looks in you," he said.

"Then you knew my father?" said Ernest, eagerly.

"Yes. We were young men together."

"I am glad to meet you then."

"You come from California?"

"Yes."

"I judge from your appearance that you have not suffered from poverty."

"I have been fortunate at Oreville. At Oak Forks I lived very humbly with Peter Brant, an old servant of my father."

"Yes, I remember Peter. Is he alive still?"

"No, he died a little less than a year since. Till his death I thought him my uncle, and knew no other relatives. Before he died he told me who I was."

"How did he live?"

"On a small sum left by my father. When he died it was all exhausted except a hundred dollars. I took that and went to California with a man named Luke Robbins, who has proved my faithful friend."

"What were you doing in California? Were you working at the mines?"

"No. I was keeping a store where I sold miners supplies."

"Did it pay you well?"

"I was very well paid for a boy. When I left Oreville I was worth a thousand dollars."

"That is well, but it is only a drop in the bucket compared with the fortune you are entitled to."

"Now held by Mr. Stephen Ray?"

"Yes; he will be surprised to see you here in the East."

"He has seen me," said Ernest, quickly.

"What!" exclaimed the lawyer. "You have not called upon him?"

"No. I met him on the train and afterwards at a Buffalo hotel. My cousin Clarence was with him."

"Did you have any conference with them?"

"I talked with Clarence, not with his father."

"Did you think the father knew you?"

"Yes, but he did not speak to me."

"He told me when I called upon him some time ago that you were dead—that you had died in Georgia."

"What could have been his object?"

"He did not wish me to find you, for I had the proof that the estate was rightfully yours."

"What led you to think I was alive?"

"I cross-examined Clarence, who did not know his father's desire to keep us apart."

"Is the estate a large one?"

"Quarter of a million, at least."

Ernest's eyes opened wide with amazement.

"But I will introduce you to Mr. Norcross, my principal, and we will talk over our plan of operations. You must assert your rights, and demand that your grandfather's will be carried out. Are you content to place yourself in our hands?"

"Entirely so. But I am sorry for Cousin Stephen. It will be a great blow to him."

"Don't waste any pity upon him. He defrauded your father, and meant to defraud you."



CHAPTER XXXVI.

AN IMPORTANT INTERVIEW.

"A gentleman to see you, sir." This was the message brought to Stephen Ray by the servant one morning.

"Did he give his name?"

"No, sir."

"Very well; bring him up."

Mr. Ray was sitting at the desk in his library. He was looking over some plans for the improvement of his already handsome residence.

He proposed to enlarge a lower room by a bay-window, and to carry the piazza round on each side. It would cost something, but his income was ample—at least four times his expenditure.

He looked up as a handsomely dressed gentleman entered the room.

"What is your business, sir?" asked Stephen Ray, formally.

The visitor smiled.

"You don't recognize me, Stephen Ray?" he said.

"Benjamin Bolton!" exclaimed the other, his countenance changing.

"The same."

"I judge from your appearance that your circumstances have improved," said Mr. Ray, coldly.

"Fortunately, yes."

"You have probably come to receive my congratulations. Well, I congratulate you."

"Thank you. The money you kindly loaned me when I was last here did me a great deal of good."

"I presume you have come to repay it," said Ray, with a sneer.

"You are right," and Bolton drew from his pocket two fifty-dollar bills, which he tendered to his host.

Stephen Ray was fond of money, and he received the notes with satisfaction.

"You have acted honorably," he said more graciously. "Are you located in the neighborhood, Mr. Bolton?"

"No, in New York City. I am in a law office there."

"I am pleased with your success. I would ask you to remain, but I am busy this morning."

"Excuse me, Mr. Ray, but the repayment of the loan was not my only errand. I am here on more important business."

Stephen Ray's countenance changed. He began to fear that Bolton had found Ernest.

"Well?" he said stiffly.

"When I was here last year you told me that Dudley Ray's son Ernest was dead."

"Yes, he died in Alabama."

"When I was here before you told me he died in Georgia."

"I believe it was in Georgia," said Stephen Ray, disconcerted.

"You will be glad to hear that it is a mistake—about his death, I mean. He is as much alive as you are."

"Mr. Bolton," said Ray angrily, "you are trying to impose upon me. The boy is dead, I tell you."

"And I tell you he is not dead. I saw him only yesterday."

"You may have seen some one who pretended to be Ernest Ray."

"I should not be easily deceived. He is the image of his father."

"I don't believe the boy is alive."

"Shall I bring him here?"

"You need not trouble yourself. I can have nothing to say to him, whether he is really Ernest Ray or an impostor."

"I beg your pardon. If he is Ernest Ray, under the will which I have in my possession he is the owner of this property."

Bolton spoke firmly, and looked Ray resolutely in the eye.

Stephen Ray flushed and then paled. There was a great fear in his heart, but he resolved to brave it out.

"This is a base conspiracy," he ejaculated. "Your share in it ought to land you in State's prison."

"I am willing to take my chance of it," said the lawyer calmly. "Didn't you recognize the boy when you saw him?"

"What do you mean?"

"You saw him in the hotel at Buffalo. He recognized you, and had a conversation with your son."

"Had a conversation with Clarence? That is a lie. Clarence never spoke to me about it."

"You had better question him. But there is no need of sparring. I tell you confidently that Ernest Ray is alive, and demands the estate which you hold, under his grandfather's will."

"This is simply ridiculous. Of course there is but one answer to such a proposal."

"And what is that?"

"I refuse absolutely to make any concession to an impostor."

"That is your final answer?"

"It is."

"Then I give you notice that the boy will at once bring suit for the restoration of the estate and the vindication of his rights."

"I suppose you are his lawyer," sneered Ray.

"The firm with which I am connected has undertaken the case."

"What is the firm?" asked Stephen Ray, with an anxiety which he could not conceal.

"Norcross & Co.," answered Bolton.

Great drops of perspiration appeared on the brow of Stephen Ray. He knew very well the high reputation and uniform success of the firm in question.

He did not immediately answer, but began to pace the room in agitation. Finally he spoke.

"I don't know what to say. This has come upon me as a surprise. I thought the boy dead. I may be willing to make some arrangement. Bring him here some day next week say Tuesday and we will talk the matter over."

"You must do something more than talk the matter over, Stephen Ray. A great injustice has been done, and the wrong must be righted."

"Come here next Tuesday," was the only answer made.

The lawyer bowed and withdrew.



CHAPTER XXXVII.

CONCLUSION.

On Tuesday Bolton returned with Ernest. Two hours were spent in conference with Stephen Ray. The latter fought hard, but had to yield in the end. He understood perfectly well the strength of his opponent's case.

Ernest consented to receive the estate as it was bequeathed to his father, without any demand for back revenues. Whatever Stephen Ray had accumulated besides, he was allowed to retain.

As this amounted to a hundred thousand dollars, Ray felt that it might have been worse. Had he not been dissuaded by Bolton, Ernest would have consented to share the estate with the usurper, but the lawyer represented that this would be condoning the wrong done to his father.

In a month the whole matter was settled, and Stephen Ray departed, removing to Chicago, in which city he had some business interests.

"But what shall I do with this large house?" asked Ernest. "I don't want to live here."

"I know of a gentleman who would like to hire it for term of years," responded Bolton. "He will pay a rental of five thousand dollars a year. The bonds which you inherit will yield an income equally large."

"So that my income will be ten thousand dollars a year?" said Ernest, dazzled.

"Yes."

"What shall I do with it all?"

Bolton smiled.

"You are but seventeen," he said. "A few years hence you will probably marry. Then you can occupy the house yourself. Meanwhile—"

"I will go back to California. Luke will expect me. While I am away I appoint you my man of business. I wish you to have charge of my property at a proper commission."

"I will undertake the charge with pleasure."

Bolton knew how much this would increase his importance in the eyes of the firm by which he was employed. Still, Ernest could not have made a better choice. Bolton was no longer intemperate. He was shrewd and keen, and loyal to his young employer.

Ernest returned to California, but he had lost his old zest for business, now that his fortune was secure. He soon came East again, and entered upon a plan of systematic study, ending with a collegiate course. He brought with him Frank Fox, the son of the dead outlaw, who regarded him with devoted affection. They lived together, and he placed Frank at a well-known school, justly noted for the success of its pupils.

Of the many boys with whom Frank was associated not one suspected that the attractive lad, who was a favorite with all, was a son of the noted desperado whose deeds had been commemorated in dime novels and were a matter of common knowledge in the West. Ernest had cautioned the boy to say as little as possible of his past history.

Years have gone by, and what Bolton predicted has come to pass. Ernest is a young man, a college graduate, and he will soon be married to a young lady of high position in the city of New York. He will go abroad for a year, and on his return will take up his home on his ancestral estate.

Last week he received a letter from a patient in a New York City hospital. It was signed John Franklin, a name with which he was not familiar.

In some wonder he answered the call, and was led to a bed on which lay a gaunt, spectral man, evidently in the last stage of existence.

"Is this John Franklin?" asked Ernest, doubtfully.

"That is the name I go by now," answered the dying man.

"Do I know you? Have I ever met you?"

"Yes."

"I don't remember you."

"If I tell you my real name, will you keep it secret?"

"Yes."

"Then I am John Fox."

"What! the noted outlaw?"

"I am all that is left of him. You will not betray me?"

"No; certainly not. Can I do anything for you?"

"Yes; you were left the guardian of my brother's child?"

"Yes."

"Is he alive? Is he well?"

"Yes."

"Will you bring him here? Will you let me see him before I die?"

"I will. I cannot refuse the request of a dying man."

So Ernest brought Frank to the bedside of his dying uncle. It was a sad interview. Frank was moved, but John Fox, seeing him strong, handsome, robust, felt comforted.

"He at least has profited by the fate that overtook his father and myself. I shall die content, for I leave him in good hands. Don't let him think too hardly of us!"

"I will not. And so far as I can compass it, his future life shall be happy."

The dying outlaw reached out his hand and pressed Ernest's gratefully. A day later, and he was dead.



THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO.'S POPULAR JUVENILES.



L. T. TROWBRIDGE.

Neither as a writer does he stand apart from the great currents of life and select some exceptional phase or odd combination of circumstances. He stands on the common level and appeals to the universal heart, and all that he suggests or achieves is on the plane and in the line of march of the great body of humanity.

The Jack Hazard series of stories, published in the late Our Young Folks, and continued in the first volume of St. Nicholas, under the title of "Fast Friends," is no doubt destined to hold a high place in this class of literature. The delight of the boys in them (and of their seniors, too) is well founded. They go to the right spot every time. Trowbridge knows the heart of a boy like a book, and the heart of a man, too, and he has laid them both open in these books in a most successful manner. Apart from the qualities that render the series so attractive to all young readers, they have great value on account of their portraitures of American country life and character. The drawing is wonderfully accurate, and as spirited as it is true. The constable, Sellick, is an original character, and as minor figures where will we find anything better than Miss Wansey, and Mr. P. Pipkin, Esq. The picture of Mr. Dink's school, too, is capital, and where else in fiction is there a better nick-name than that the boys gave to poor little Stephen Treadwell, "Step Hen," as he himself pronounced his name in an unfortunate moment when he saw it in print for the first time in his lesson in school.

On the whole, these books are very satisfactory, and afford the critical reader the rare pleasure of the works that are just adequate, that easily fulfill themselves and accomplish all they set out to do. —Scribner's Monthly.

JACK HAZARD SERIES. 6 vols. By J.T. TROWBRIDGE $7.25

Jack Hazard and His Fortunes The Young Surveyor. Fast Friends. Doing His Best. A Chance for Himself. Lawrence's Adventures.

CHARLES ASBURY STEPHENS.

"This author wrote his "Camping Out Series" at the very height of his mental and physical powers.

"We do not wonder at the popularity of these books; there is a freshness and variety about them, and an enthusiasm in the description of sport and adventure, which even the older folk can hardly fail to share." —Worcester Spy.

"The author of the Camping Out Series is entitled to rank as decidedly at the head of what may be called boys' literature."—Buffalo Courier.

CAMPING OUT SERIES. By C. A. STEPHENS. All books in this series are 12mo. with eight full page illustrations. Cloth, extra, 75 cents.

CAMPING OUT. As Recorded by "Kit."

"This book is bright, breezy, wholesome, instructive, and stands above the ordinary boys books of the day by a whole head and shoulders." —The Christian Register, Boston.

LEFT ON LABRADOR; OR, THE CRUISE OF THE SCHOONER YACHT "CURLEW." As Recorded by "Wash."

"The perils of the voyagers, the narrow escapes, their strange expedients, and the fun and jollity when danger had passed, will make boys even unconscious of hunger." —New Bedford Mercury.

OFF TO THE GEYSERS; OR THE YOUNG YACHTERS IN ICELAND. As Recorded by "Wade."

"It is difficult to believe that Wade and Read and Kit and Wash were not live boys, sailing up Hudson Straits, and reigning temporarily over an Esquimaux tribe." —The Independent, New York.

LYNX HUNTING: From Notes by the Author of "Camping Out."

"Of first quality as a boys' book, and fit to take its place beside the best." —Richmond Enquirer.

Fox HUNTING. As Recorded by "Raed."

"The most spirited and entertaining book that has as yet appeared. It overflows with incident, and is characterized by dash and brilliancy throughout." —Boston Gazette.

ON THE AMAZON; OR, THE CRUISE OF THE "RAMBLER." As Recorded by "Wash."

"Gives vivid pictures of Brazilian adventure and scenery." —Buffalo Courier.



HARRY CASTLEMON.

HOW I CAME TO WRITE MY FIRST BOOK.

When I was sixteen years old I belonged to a composition class. It was our custom to go on the recitation seat every day with clean slates, and we were allowed ten minutes to write seventy words on any subject the teacher thought suited to our capacity. One day he gave out "What a Man Would See if He Went to Greenland." My heart was in the matter, and before the ten minutes were up I had one side of my slate filled. The teacher listened to the reading of our compositions, and when they were all over he simply said: "Some of you will make your living by writing one of these days." That gave me something to ponder upon. I did not say so out loud, but I knew that my composition was as good as the best of them. By the way, there was another thing that came in my way just then. I was reading at that time one of Mayne Reid's works which I had drawn from the library, and I pondered upon it as much as I did upon what the teacher said to me. In introducing Swartboy to his readers he made use of this expression: "No visible change was observable in Swartboy's countenance." Now, it occurred to me that if a man of his education could make such a blunder as that and still write a book, I ought to be able to do it, too. I went home that very day and began a story, "The Old Guide's Narrative," which was sent to the New York Weekly, and came back, respectfully declined. It was written on both sides of the sheets but I didn't know that this was against the rules. Nothing abashed, I began another, and receiving some instruction, from a friend of mine who was a clerk in a book store, I wrote it on only one side of the paper. But mind you, he didn't know what I was doing. Nobody knew it; but one day, after a hard Saturday's work—the other boys had been out skating on the brick-pond—I shyly broached the subject to my mother. I felt the need of some sympathy. She listened in amazement, and then said: "Why, do you think you could write a book like that?" That settled the matter, and from that day no one knew what I was up to until I sent the first four volumes of Gunboat Series to my father. Was it work? Well, yes; it was hard work, but each week I had the satisfaction of seeing the manuscript grow until the "Young Naturalist" was all complete.

—Harry Castlemon in the Writer.



GUNBOAT SERIES. 6 vols. BY HARRY CASTLEMON. $6.00

Frank the Young Naturalist. Frank on a Gunboat. Frank in the Woods. Frank before Vicksburg. Frank on the Lower Mississippi. Frank on the Prairie.

ROCKY MOUNTAIN SERIES. 3 vols. BY HARRY CASTLEMON. $3.00

Frank Among the Rancheros. Frank in the Mountains. Frank at Don Carlos Rancho.

SPORTSMAN'S CLUB SERIES. 3 vols. BY HARRY CASTLEMON. $3.75

The Sportsman's Club in the Saddle. The Sportsman's Club Among the Trappers. The Sportsman's Club Afloat.

FRANK NELSON SERIES. 3 vols. BY HARRY CASTLEMON. $3.75

Snowed up. Frank in the Forecastle. The Boy Traders.

ROUGHING IT SERIES. 3 vols. BY HARRY CASTLEMON. $3.00

George in Camp. George at the Fort. George at the Wheel.

ROD AND GUN SERIES. 3 vols. BY HARRY CASTLEMON. $3.00

Don Gordon's Shooting Box. The Young Wild Fowlers. Rod and Gun Club.

GO-AHEAD SERIES. 3 vols. BY HARRY CASTLEMON. $3.00

Tom Newcombe. Go-Ahead. No Moss.

WAR SERIES, 6 vols. BY HARRY CASTLEMON. $6.00

True to His Colors. Marcy the Blockade-Runner. Rodney the Partisan. Marcy the Refugee. Rodney the Overseer. Sailor Jack the Trader.

HOUSEBOAT SERIES. 3 vols. BY HARRY CASTLEMON. $3.00

The Houseboat Boys. The Mystery of Lost River Canon. The Young Game Warden.

AFLOAT AND ASHORE SERIES. 3 vols. BY HARRY CASTLEMON. $3.00

Rebellion in Dixie. A Sailor in Spite of Himself. The Ten-Ton Cutter.



COMPLETE CATALOG OF BEST BOOKS FOR BOYS AND GIRLS MAILED ON APPLICATION TO THE PUBLISHERS

THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO., PHILADELPHIA

THE END