Sam's Chance, by Horatio Alger, Jr.

"Sam's Chance" is a sequel to the "Young Outlaw," and is designed to illustrate the gradual steps by which that young man was induced to give up his bad habits, and deserve that prosperity which he finally attains. The writer confesses to have experienced some embarrassment in writing this story. The story writer always has at command expedients by which the frowns of fortune may be turned into sunshine, and this without violating probability, or, at any rate, possibility; for the careers of many of our most eminent and successful men attest that truth is often-times stranger than fiction. But to cure a boy of radical faults is almost as difficult in fiction as in real life. Whether the influences which led to Sam's reformation were adequate to that result, must be decided by the critical reader. The author may, at any rate, venture to congratulate Sam's friends that he is now more worthy of their interest and regard than in the years when he was known as the "Young Outlaw."

SAM'S CHANCE.

CHAPTER I. — SAM'S NEW CLOTHES.

"If I'm goin' into a office I'll have to buy some new clo'es," thought Sam Barker.

He was a boy of fifteen, who, for three years, had been drifting about the streets of New York, getting his living as he could; now blacking boots, now selling papers, now carrying bundles—"everything by turns, and nothing long." He was not a model boy, as those who have read his early history, in "The Young Outlaw," are aware; but, on the other hand, he was not extremely bad. He liked fun, even if it involved mischief; and he could not be called strictly truthful nor honest. But he would not wantonly injure or tyrannize over a smaller boy, and there was nothing mean or malicious about him. Still he was hardly the sort of boy a merchant would be likely to select as an office boy, and but for a lucky chance Sam would have been compelled to remain a bootblack or newsboy. One day he found, in an uptown street, a little boy, who had strayed away from his nurse, and, ascertaining where he lived, restored him to his anxious parents. For this good deed he was rewarded by a gift of five dollars and the offer of a position as errand boy, at five dollars a week.

Sam decided that he must have some new clothes before he could enter upon his place. At present his costume consisted of a ragged shirt, and a pair of equally ragged pantaloons. Both were of unknown antiquity, and had done faithful service, not only to Sam, but to a former owner. It was quite time they were released from duty.

To buy a complete outfit with five dollars might have puzzled many an able financier. But Sam knew just where to go. Somewhere in the neighborhood of Baxter Street there was a second-hand clothing establishment, which he had patronized on previous occasions, and where he knew that the prices were low. It was to this place that he bent his steps.

A wrinkled old man—the proprietor—stood outside, scanning, with cunning eyes, the passers-by. If any one paused to examine his stock, he was immediately assailed by voluble recommendations of this or that article, and urgently entreated to "just step inside."

When Sam approached, the old man's shrewdness was at fault. He did not suspect that the ragged street boy was likely to become a customer, and merely suffered his glance to rest upon him casually.

"Who are you a-takin' to? I ain't your son, and I wouldn't be. My father's a member of Congress."

"I know that from your looks," said the old man, a grin illumining his wrinkled face, as he glanced at the rags Sam wore.

"Oh, you needn't look at these. My best clo'es is to home in the wardrobe. What have you got for shirts?"

"Now show me some of your nice suits," said Sam. "I've got a place, and I want to look like a gentleman."

"Have you got any money?" asked the old man, with the momentary suspicion that he might be throwing his time and trouble away upon a penniless purchaser.

Sam was about to answer five dollars, when a shrewd thought changed his intention.

"All right, my son," he said. "I'll give you some nice clo'es for four dollars."

"You'd better if you want me to come here again. If you do well by me I'll get all my clo'es here."

A young man of fashion could not have spoken more condescendingly, or with an air of greater importance than Sam. He was right in thinking that his patronage was of importance to the old man.

"I'll dress you so fine the gals will look at you as you go along the street," he said.

Without going into details, it may be said that our hero selected everything to his satisfaction except a coat. Here he was rather particular. Finally, he espied a blue coat with brass buttons, hanging in a corner.

"That costs too much. I can't give you that and the rest of the things for four dollars."

Putting it on, he surveyed himself with satisfaction, in a small, cracked mirror. True, it was about two sizes too large, but Sam felt that in getting more cloth he was getting a better bargain.

"I'll have to ask you twenty-five cents more for that coat," said the old dealer.

"Didn't I tell you I wasn't your son? I won't give you no twenty cents, but I'll tell you what I'll do—I'll give you these clo'es I've got on."

There was another critical inspection, and the decision was given in Sam's favor.

"No, they ain't, and you won't get it from me. Do you think I'm going to give you all the money I've got?"

The old man still looked dissatisfied. "I'm losin' money on these clo'es," he muttered.

"Oh, well if you don't want to sell 'em, you needn't," said Sam, independently. "There's another place round the corner."

"No, I won't. I won't give you another cent. I'll give you four dollars and these clo'es I have on. A bargain's a bargain. If you're goin' to do it, say the word; and if you ain't, I'm off."

"You needn't send the clo'es round to my hotel—I'll change 'em here," said our hero.

He set to work at once, and in five minutes the change was effected. The other clothes fitted him moderately well, but the blue coat—of the kind popularly called a swallow-tail—nearly trailed upon the ground. But for that Sam cared little. He surveyed himself with satisfaction, and felt that he was well dressed.

"I guess I'll do now," he said to himself, complacently, as he walked out of the shop.

CHAPTER II. — SAM'S FIRST DAY IN BUSINESS.

The speaker was Sam Barker, and the young man addressed was a clerk in the office of Henry Dalton & Co. He gazed with wonder and amusement at the grotesque figure before him.

Carefully parting the tails of his coat, Sam coolly deposited himself in an office chair, and looked about him.

"Of course he did. He's goin' to pay me five dollars a week. How much does he pay you?"

"Isn't it?" said Sam, proudly, and rising from the chair he turned around in order to display fully the admired garment.

"I forget his name, but he hangs out on Chatham Street. I only bought this coat yesterday."

"Maybe it is," said Sam, "but I don't mind it. I can cut it down if I want to. Maybe they've got another like it, if you want one."

"I'm supplied just at present," said the young man. "What do you expect to do here?"

"I brought home his little boy. The little chap was cryin' round the streets, when I met him and took him home."

"Oh! you're the boy I heard him speak of. Well, you're in luck, for Mr. Dalton is an excellent employer."

"That will depend a good deal upon yourself. If you work faithfully, no doubt he will."

Sam made a resolution to work faithfully, but then he found it easier to make resolutions than keep them.

Sam rose and faced his employer. The latter looked at him in some surprise, not immediately recognizing under the strange dress the boy whom he had engaged.

"I'm the new boy," said Sam. "Don't you remember you told me you'd hire me at five dollars a week?"

"Oh, you are the boy, are you? Why, you look like an old man! Where did you raise that coat?"

"You better exchange it. I don't want a boy in my employment to be dressed in that way. You'll be taken for an old gentleman from the country."

"Go and see. I'll give you a couple of dollars. He will change it if you pay him something extra."

"Yes, and come back when you have made the exchange. Get something suitable for a boy of your age, and not too large."

Sam left the counting-room, and made his way to the second-hand shop where he had made the purchase. He succeeded in effecting an exchange for a coat which was less noticeable, and that without paying any bonus.

"If the boss don't say anything about the two dollars," he thought, "I'll be so much in."

Much to his joy no questions were asked as to the terms on which he made the exchange, and he felt that he could afford to go to the Old Bowery that evening.

"Well, it makes no difference what you have been. You are now my errand boy. I have engaged you without knowing very much about you, because you have been of service to my little boy. I hope you will serve me faithfully."

"If you do your duty, I shall take an interest in you, and promote you as you deserve."

"Yes, if I find you deserve it. I would rather pay high wages to a boy who suits me than small wages to an inefficient boy."

"Them's my sentiments," said Sam, promptly; but whether his sentiments referred to the service or the pay he did not make quite clear.

"I am glad you agree with me," he said. "There is one other point I wish to speak of. As you are in my employment, I want you to have a regular boarding-place. I think it much better for a boy or young man. You ought to be able to get board and a decent room for four dollars a week."

"I will let you go at three o'clock this afternoon—two hours before our usual hour of closing. That will give you time to secure a place. Now go out, and Mr. Budd will set you to work."

The clerk whom Sam had first encountered was named William Budd, and to him he went for orders.

He rather liked this part of his duty. It seemed more like play than work to walk through the streets, and it was comfortable to think he was going to be paid for it, too.

As he turned into Nassau Street he met an old acquaintance, Pat Riley by name, with a blacking box over his shoulders.

"I had a tiptop coat—blue with brass buttons—but the boss made me change it. He ain't got no taste in dress."

"When I get money enough I'll buy it for best, to wear Sundays, he can't say nothing to that."

Sam continued on his way till he reached the old brick church which used to serve as the New York post office. He entered, and met with his first perplexity. He could not remember the number of the boX. — "Here's a go!" thought Sam. "What's that number, I wonder? There was a thirty-six to it, I know. I guess it was 836. Anyhow I'll ask for it."

"That ain't the name," thought Sam. "I guess I'm in a scrape, but anyhow I'll carry 'em to Mr. Dalton, so he'll know I went to the office."

CHAPTER III. — SAM FINDS A ROOM.

"What's all this?" he demanded. "This letter is for Ferguson & Co. And so are the rest. What does it mean?"

"Why did you take these letters? Did you think my name was Ferguson?" demanded Mr. Dalton.

"That's not the number," said the merchant, quietly. "You must return these letters instantly, and call for my mail. I will give you the number of my box on a card, and then you can't make any mistake. You have made a blunder, which must not be repeated."

At three o'clock Sam was permitted to leave the office and look out for a boarding-place. He had managed to scrape acquaintance during the day with Henry Martin, an errand boy in the next store, and went to consult him.

"I pay a dollar and seventy-five cents a week for my room, and get my meals out; but the old lady will let the two of us have it for two fifty."

"Look here, young fellow, you're smart, but that won't go down," said the other boy.

"I would have to pay more than you, and I don't mean to do it. If we pay two fifty, that will be just one twenty-five apiece. That's better than you can do alone."

Sam might have gone back and finished out his afternoon's work, but it did not occur to him as desirable, and he therefore remained with his new friend, till the latter was ready to go with him.

"When I've been at work two years I expect to get ten dollars a week," said Sam.

"No, I guess not," said Sam, assenting readily. "Do you have to work pretty hard?" he inquired.

"It must be jolly to be a boss, and only have to read letters, and write 'em," said Sam, who had rather an inadequate notion of his employer's cares. "I'd like to be one."

"I've got a rich uncle," said Henry Martin. "I wish he'd set me up in business when I'm twenty-one."

"Mine is more ornamental than useful, so far," said Henry. "Well, here we are at my place."

They stood before a shabby, brick dwelling, which bore unmistakable marks of being a cheap lodging-house.

"I'll call Mrs. Brownly," said Henry, after opening the front door with a latchkey. "We'll ask her about your coming in."

Mrs. Brownly, being summoned, made her appearance. She was a tall, angular female, with the worn look of a woman who has a hard struggle to get along.

"Mrs. Brownly," said Henry Martin, "here's a boy who wants to room with me. You said you'd let the room to two for two dollars and a half a week."

"Yes," said she, cheered by the prospect of even a small addition to her income. "I have no objection. What is his name?"

"I expect to be paid regularly," said Mrs. Brownly. "I'm a widow, dependent on what I get from my lodgers."

"I settle all my bills reg'lar," said Sam. "I ain't owin' anything except for the rent of a pianner, last quarter."

"Then can you give me anything on account?" asked Mrs. Brownly. "Half a dollar will do."

It was a hall bedroom on the second floor back which was to be Sam's future home. It appeared to be about six feet wide by eight feet long. There was a pine bedstead, one chair, and a washstand, which would have been improved by a fresh coat of paint. Over the bed hung a cheap print of Gen. Washington, in an equally cheap frame. A row of pegs on the side opposite the bed furnished conveniences for hanging up clothes.

"Well, I'm glad you like it," said his companion. "There's six pegs; you can use half of them."

"No, I haven't. I've been unfortunate, and had to sell my wardrobe to pay my debts."

CHAPTER IV. — FIRST LESSONS.

"Yes; but I need all of it for board, lodging and washing. So will you, too. I advise you to be careful about spending."

"Let me see about that. It costs a dollar and a quarter for the room, to begin with. Then our meals will cost us as much as forty or fifty cents a day, say three dollars a week. That will leave seventy-five cents for clothes and washing."

"I used to go sometimes when I was a newsboy, and I didn't earn so much money then."

"That isn't a very nice way to live. You're so old now you ought to be considering what you'll do when you are a man."

"So do I; but if I were a street boy, picking up my living by blacking boots or selling papers, I shouldn't expect to. Now we have a chance to learn business, and improve."

"Were you ever a street boy?" asked Sam, becoming interested in his companion's history.

"My father and mother both died, leaving nothing, and the people wanted to send me to the poorhouse; but I didn't like that, so I borrowed five dollars and came to New York. When I got here I began to think I should have to go back again. I tried to get a place and couldn't. Finally, I bought some papers and earned a little money selling them. It was better than nothing; but all the while I was hoping to get a place. One day, as I was passing the store where I am now, I saw some boys round the door. I asked them what was going on. They told me that Hamilton & Co. had advertised for an errand boy, and they were going to try for the place. I thought I might as well try, too, so I went in and applied. I don't know how it was, but out of about forty boys they took me."

"I couldn't afford it. I lived at the 'Newsboys Lodge,' and took my breakfast and suppers there. That cost me eighteen cents a day, or about a dollar and a quarter a week. Out of the rest I bought my dinners and clothes. So I got along till the second year, when my wages were raised to four dollars. At the beginning of the third year I got a dollar more."

"Yes, if you look ahead; but, after all, time goes fast. Next year I expect to lay up some money."

"Thirty dollars!" ejaculated Sam. "I'd feel rich if I was worth thirty dollars."

"I mean to, now that I pay fifty cents a week less rent on account of your coming in with me. I am going to save all that."

"I shall get along on two dollars and a half for meals. I always have, and I can do it now. You can do it, too, if you want to."

"I should starve to death," said Sam. "I've got a healthy appetite, and my stomach don't feel right if I don't eat enough."

"I don't like to stint myself any more than you, but if I am ever to be worth anything I must begin to save when I am a boy."

"It isn't good for a boy that is growing, and I don't believe it does men any good. Do you smoke?"

"Well, it isn't cold weather now, and you'll find plenty of other ways to spend your money."

Sam stopped at a cigar store, and bought a cheap article for three cents, which he lighted and smoked with apparent enjoyment.

The conversation which has been reported will give a clew to the different characters of the two boys, who, after less than a day's acquaintance, have become roommates. Henry Martin was about Sam's age, but much more thoughtful and sedate. He had begun to think of the future, and to provide for it. This is always an encouraging sign, and an augury of success. Sam had not got so far yet. He had been in the habit of living from day to day without much thought of the morrow. Whether he would be favorably affected by Henry's example remains to be seen.

Henry drew from under the bed a tattered arithmetic and a slate and pencil. He opened the arithmetic at interest, and proceeded to set down a problem on the slate.

"Yes; I've been at work ever since last October. I don't get on very fast, because I have only my evenings."

"I don't know about that. I always feel paid when I get the right answer at last."

"It must be dull work studyin' every night. I couldn't do it. It would make my head ache."

"Just let me see what sum you are tryin'." His roommate handed him the books, and he read the following example:

"John Smith borrowed $546.75 at 7 per cent., and repaid it at the end of two years, five months and six days. What amount was he required to pay?"

"Don't you see it's business? If you are going to be a business man, you may need to understand interest. I shouldn't expect to be promoted if I didn't know something about arithmetic. I am only an errand boy, now, and don't need it."

Henry drew out, from under the bed, a writing-book, which was more than half written through. He had evidently taken great pains to imitate the copy, and with fair success.

He got into bed, and while he was watching Henry doing sums, he fell asleep. His roommate devoted an hour to arithmetic, and wrote a page in his copy-book. Then he, too, undressed, and went to bed.

CHAPTER V. — SAM'S FINANCES.

Sam did not find it quite so pleasant being in a place as he had anticipated. He had been accustomed to roam about the streets subject only to his own control. Now he was no longer his own master. He must go and come at the will of his employer. To be sure, his earnings were greater than in his street life, and he had a regular home. He knew beforehand where he was going to sleep, and was tolerably sure of a meal. But before the end of the first week he got out of money. This was not strange, for he had begun without any reserve fund.

"To-morrow, after paying me and putting by enough to pay the rent of the room, you'll have two dollars and seventy-five cents left."

"I shall get along for two fifty, and you ought to find what you will have left enough."

"Well, there's no need of being so economical as that. You've got to eat enough, or you won't be fit for work. You'll have to be careful, though, if you want to come out even."

But Sam was mistaken. He proved himself far from a good calculator. On Sunday he gratified an unusually healthy appetite, besides buying two five-cent cigars. This made necessary an outlay of seventy-five cents. The next day also he overran his allowance. The consequence was that on Wednesday night he went to bed without a cent. He did not say anything about the state of his finances to Henry, however, till the next morning.

"I don't think you have. You have been extravagant, that's what's the matter. How much did you spend on Sunday?"

"I do, for I kept account. You spent seventy-five cents. That's twice as much as you could afford."

"At any rate, you have used up in four days as much as ought to have lasted you the whole week."

"I don't get enough pay," grumbled Sam, who was unprepared with any other excuse.

"I'll tell you what I will do. I'll lend you twenty-five cents every morning, and you'll have to make it do all day."

"I know I do; but if you spend twice as much as you ought one day, you've got to make it up another."

"That's your lookout. You wouldn't have had to live on it, if you hadn't been too free other days."

In spite of Sam's protestations, Henry remained firm, and Sam was compelled to restrain his appetite for the remainder of the week. I am ashamed to say that, when Saturday night came, Sam tried to evade paying his just debt. But this his roommate would not permit.

"It's better for both of us that you pay it now," said Henry. "If you didn't, you'd spend it."

"It would be rather inconvenient living on four dollars, I admit, but you would feel paid for it afterward. Besides, Sam, you need some shirts and stockings. I can't keep lending you mine, as I have been doing ever since you came here."

"I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll buy some for you, if you'll agree to pay me up at the rate of fifty cents a week."

"All right!" said Sam, who was very ready to make promises. "Give me the money, and I'll buy some to-night."

"I'd rather go with you, and see that you get them," said Henry, quietly. "You might forget what you were after, and spend the money for something else."

Perhaps Sam recognized the justice of his companion's caution. At any rate, he interposed no objection.

I hope my young readers, who are used to quite a different style of living, will not be shocked on being told that Sam purchased second-hand articles at a place recommended by his roommate. Considering the small sum at his command, he had no choice in the matter. Boys who have to pay their entire expenses out of five dollars a week cannot patronize fashionable tailors or shirt makers. So for three dollars Sam got a sufficient supply to get along with, though hardly enough to make a display at a fashionable watering place.

Sam put the bundle, containing this important addition to his wardrobe under his arm, not without a feeling of complacency.

"Now," said Henry, "it will take you six weeks to pay me for these, at half a dollar a week."

He was not one to be disturbed about a debt and his companion was shrewd enough to see that he must follow Sam up, if he wanted to get his money paid at the periods agreed upon.

Henry Martin continued to devote a part of every evening to study. He tried to prevail upon Sam to do the same, but without success.

"I get too tired to study," said Sam, and while his roommate was at home he was in the habit of strolling about the streets in search of amusement.

On the next Tuesday evening he met a boy of his acquaintance, who inquired where he was going.

Sam yielded, and they commenced playing, Both being novices, the game occupied an hour, and Sam, who was beaten, found to his dismay that he had to pay sixty cents.

"So it is," said his companion; "but if you had beaten me you would have got off for nothing."

"I don't see how I'm goin' to live on five dollars a week," thought Sam, uncomfortably, "I wonder when they'll raise me."

CHAPTER VI. — SAM'S LUCK.

When towns and cities find their income insufficient to meet their expenditures, they raise money by selling bonds. Sam would gladly have resorted to this device, or any other likely to replenish his empty treasury; but his credit was not good. He felt rather bashful about applying to his roommate for money, being already his debtor, and, in his emergency, thought of the senior clerk, William Budd.

"Then suppose I lend you a dollar, I don't see that you will be able to repay me."

"Yes. Have you got any houses or lands, any stocks or bonds, which you can put in my hands as collateral?"

"I guess not," said Sam, scratching his head. "If I had any houses, I'd sell 'em, and then I wouldn't have to borrer."

"I've had to pay a lot of money for clothes," Sam explained, brightening up with the idea.

"Well, I had to buy the suit I have on, and then I had to get some shirts the other day."

"I guess you're mistaken, then," said Sam, more boldly, concluding that it was only a conjecture of his fellow clerk.

"I don't think I am. I had occasion to go into French's Hotel, to see a friend in the office, and I glanced into the billiard room. I saw you playing with another boy of about your age. Did he beat you?"

"And you had to pay for the game. Don't you think, as your income is so small, that you had better stop playing billiards till you get larger pay?"

"I advise you not to let Mr. Dalton know that you play at all. He would be apt to think that you were receiving too high pay, since you could afford to pay for this amusement."

Sam was disappointed. He had five cents left to buy lunch with, and his appetite was uncommonly healthy.

"Why wasn't I born rich?" thought Sam. "I guess I have a pretty hard time. I wish I could find a pocket-book or something."

Sam was a juvenile Micawber, and trusted too much to something turning up, instead of going to work and turning it up himself.

Restricted to five cents, Sam decided to make his lunch of apples. For this sum an old woman at the corner would supply him with three, and they were very "filling" for the price. After eating his apples he took a walk, being allowed about forty minutes for lunch. He bent his steps toward Wall Street, and sauntered along, wishing he were not obliged to go back to the office.

All at once his eye rested on a gold ring lying on the sidewalk at his feet. He stooped hurriedly, and picked it up, putting it in his pocket without examination, lest it might attract the attention of the owner, or some one else who would contest its possession with him.

"That's almost as good as a pocket-book," thought Sam, elated. "It's gold—I could see that. I can get something for that at the pawnbroker's. I'll get some supper to-night, even if I can't borrer any money."

Some boys would have reflected that the ring was not theirs to pawn; but Sam, as the reader has found out by this time, was not a boy of high principles. He had a very easy code of morality, and determined to make the most of his good fortune.

There was a solitary diamond, of considerable size, set in it. Sam did not know much about diamonds, and had no conception of the value of this stone. His attention was drawn chiefly to the gold, of which there was considerable. He thought very little of the piece of glass, as he considered it.

"I'd orter get five dollars for this," he thought, complacently. "Five dollars will be a great help to a poor chap like me. I'll go round to the pawnbroker's just as soon as I get out of the store."

William Budd was rather puzzled by Sam's evident good spirits. Considering that he was impecunious enough to require a loan which he had been unable to negotiate, it was rather remarkable.

"Have you succeeded in borrowing any money, Sam?" he asked, with some curiosity.

"There's a little room left," answered Sam, "if you'd like to try the experiment."

"Thankful for small favors. I'm afraid it'll be lonely if you don't give me another."

"He's a good-natured boy, after all," thought the young clerk. "Some boys would have been offended with me for having refused to lend."

He did not understand the cause of Sam's good spirits, but thought him unusually light hearted.

When the office closed, and Sam was released from duty, he took his way at once to a small pawn office with which he had become familiar in the course of his varied career, though he had not often possessed anything of sufficient value to pawn.

The pawnbroker, a small old man, a German by birth, scanned Sam attentively, regarding him as a possible customer.

The pawnbroker started in surprise and admiration when his eye fell on the sparkling brilliant.

"So so," answered the old man. "I have seen much better. How much do you want for it?"

"That is too much," said the old man, from force of habit. "I'll give you four."

"No, you won't. You'll give me five; and I won't sell it for that, neither. I may want to get it back, as it was my aunt's."

"So she did," answered Sam, unabashed; "but she left it to my aunt first. When my aunt died it came to me."

Without dwelling upon the efforts which the pawnbroker made to get the ring cheaper, it is sufficient to say that Sam carried his point, and marched out of the store with five dollars and a pawn ticket in his pocket.

CHAPTER VII. — TWENTY-FIVE DOLLARS REWARD.

Henry Martin was rather surprised at not receiving from Sam another application for a loan that evening. He had watched Sam's rate of expenditure, and decided that he must be at the bottom of his purse. He was surprised, therefore, to find that his roommate ordered an unusually expensive supper, and paid for the same out of a two-dollar bill.

Henry Martin was surprised, but his surprise was of an agreeable character. He was convinced that Sam must have obtained money from some other quarter, but decided not to inquire about it. He would wait till Sam chose to tell him.

"You must have a sweet time working all day, and studying all night," said Sam, rather contemptuously.

"I don't think you ever will, Sam. I'll be willing to insure you from dying in that way."

Sam laughed. "I guess you're right there," he said. "Well, if you won't go, I'll leave you. I s'pose you'll be asleep when I get home, so good-night."

The next morning, when Sam reached the office, he found William Budd glancing at the Herald.

"By the way, you haven't found a diamond ring, have you?" asked Budd, his eyes fixed upon the paper.

Sam was startled, but his fellow clerk was scanning the paper, and did not observe his embarrassment.

"Here's an advertisement from a man who has lost such a ring, offering twenty-five dollars reward to the finder."

"Twenty-five dollars!" ejaculated Sam, in excitement. "Does he say where he lost it?"

Sam read it carefully, and impressed the address upon his memory—No. 49 Wall Street. The advertiser was John Chester.

"I guess there wouldn't be much show for me. Probably somebody has picked it up already."

"Of course not till after you have swept the office. Did you expect me to do that?"

Sam probably never swept so quickly before. He was anxious to get out, and see what chance he had of earning the twenty-five dollars, for he was convinced that the ring advertised for was the one he had found. He was provoked to think he had been so quick in pawning it. If he only had it in his possession now he would have nothing to do but to call on Mr. Chester and receive twenty-five dollars. With that amount he would feel as rich as a millionaire. Now the problem was to get hold of the ring, and this, in Sam's circumstances, was not an easy problem to solve. Of the five dollars he had received from the pawnbroker he had but three left, and it was idle to expect to recover it unless he should pay the full price and the commission besides.

"What shall I do?" thought Sam, perplexed. "Here is a chance to make twenty dollars extra if I only had three dollars more."

A bright idea dawned upon him. If he would only get his week's wages in advance he would be able to manage. He would broach the subject.

"Do you think, Mr. Budd, Mr. Dalton would be willing to pay me my week's wages to-day instead of Saturday?" he inquired.

"But it is important for me to have the money to-day," pleaded Sam. "Don't you think he would do it if I told him that?"

"It wouldn't be a good plan to ask him," he said. "He would conclude that you were living beyond your means, and that he doesn't like."

"I told you yesterday I couldn't, that is, I am not willing to. I don't approve of the way you spend your money."

"I may as well be frank with you," said the young man. "If you were economical, and were short o money from sickness, or any other cause which you could not control, I would say 'Yes'; but while you complain of your salary as insufficient, you play billiards, and spend the evening at the theater; and these things I don't approve. I didn't do that when I was in your position. How do I know but you want your money in advance to spend in the same way?"

"You can wait till Saturday, when you receive your wages. You have a coat on, and certainly cannot need the other. I didn't know that you had another, by the way."

Sam was beginning to see that he had only got himself into a scrape by his false statement, and he did not know how to extricate himself.

"The fact is," said Sam, "there's a fellow wants to buy it from me, and he wants it to-day, or he won't take it."

"It seems to me you are managing very poorly. Rather than economize, you pawn your coat, and then try to sell it. So you are continually getting yourself into trouble."

"If you'll take my advice you will leave your coat where it is till you are able to redeem it. Don't think of selling it, for a new one would cost you more than you will get for it."

This advice was good, but it did not apply to Sam's case, since he had no coat to pawn. It will easily be understood, therefore, that it proved unsatisfactory to him. He didn't reply, but finished his sweeping, and then, putting on his hat, he went to the post office for letters.

CHAPTER VIII. — AN UNEXPECTED OBSTACLE.

As Sam walked rapidly to the post office he tried to think of some way of raising the money he needed. If his credit had been better Henry Martin might have accommodated him; but Sam was conscious that he had not treated his roommate in such a way as to inspire confidence. Then it occurred to him that he might obtain the ring back by giving the pawnbroker what money he had, and leaving his vest on deposit with him. At any rate, it would do no harm to try.

There was no time to go round to the pawnbroker's now, for his employer was very particular about receiving his letters promptly, and so great a delay might lead to his dismissal. He waited, therefore, until dinner time and then went round.

The pawnbroker recognized him at once, and regretted to see him. He knew the value of the ring, and was afraid Sam wished to redeem it.

Sam was glad to hear this. Evidently the man, so he thought, did not understand the value of the ring, and would be glad to let him have it again. It was for his interest to let him think so.

"I guess you're right," he said. "The ring wasn't worth much, but my grandfather left it to me, and so I like it."

"You said it was your grandmother yesterday," remarked the pawnbroker, shrewdly.

"Did I? Well, it's all the same," said Sam, getting over the little difficulty. "I should like to have it again."

"I want to ask of you a favor," said Sam. "I haven't got money enough here, but I'll pay you what I've got and bring you the rest tomorrow."

"Oh, no, you won't," said the old man, smiling, and wagging his head. "Do you think I am a fool? That isn't the way I do business, my boy."

"But I swear to you I will bring you the money," said Sam, earnestly. "I'll give you a little extra besides, to pay you for waiting."

"You are very kind," said the pawnbroker, revealing his yellow teeth in a cunning smile; "but I can't do it."

"Then," he proposed, "I'll pay you all the money I have, and give you my vest besides to keep till to-morrow."

"Twenty-five cents!" repeated Sam, looking insulted. "Do you think I would wear a twenty-five cent vest?"

"It is all it is worth to me. I lent you five dollars, and you want to put me off with three dollars and a quarter."

"Well, if you get the money to-morrow you can come round to-morrow," said the old man, with the air of one who had announced his ultimatum.

"I'm going to a party to-night," said Sam, whose imagination was always to be relied upon. "I want to wear the ring there."

"You'll have to do without the ring till you bring me the money," said the pawnbroker, finally.

Sam saw from his manner that he was in earnest, and as perplexed as ever he left the shop.

"What am I going to do now?" he thought. "It's a shame to give up the reward on account of that mean old man. Why can't he trust me, I'd like to know? Does he think I would cheat him?"

The pawnbroker might see the reward, and himself go to the advertiser and claim it.

Something must be done, and at once. It was quite impossible to let such a golden chance slip by. So, finally, he determined to see Henry Martin, and if absolutely necessary tell him the whole story, and get him to accompany him to the pawnbroker's shop.

On his way back he happened to overtake Henry in the street, and broached the subject to him. Henry listened to him attentively.

"I thought you must have raised some somewhere, or you would have been borrowing of me."

"I want to borrow three dollars of you now, or three fifty, to make sure I have enough."

"You had no right to pawn that ring, Sam. You ought to have remembered that it was not yours."

"I want you to lend me money enough to get back the ring. Then I'll go round to Wall Street and return it and get the twenty-five dollars reward, and pay you back every cent I owe you."

"I don't know but that's the best way," he said; "but I must go with you to see that it's all right."

"We can't go now, for there isn't time. Come into my place as soon as you get away, and we'll go round together."

"All right, Henry. You're a trump, and no mistake. I thought you'd help me out."

Sam's cheerfulness returned, and he went to work with more alacrity. All the afternoon he was forming plans for the disposal of the reward when it came into his hands.

The latter was not particularly pleased to see Sam, and his countenance showed it.

"Then," said Henry, quietly, "you've got yourself into trouble. You can be arrested for receiving stolen goods."

"My friend didn't tell you the truth," continued Henry. "He found the ring, and now he has found the owner. He wants to return it, and that is why he is here. Unless you give it up, I will myself call a policeman."

Henry's quiet, assured manner produced its effect. With great reluctance the pawnbroker produced the ring, the charges were paid, and the two boys retired triumphant.

CHAPTER IX. — RESTORING THE RING.

"Now," said Henry, "we had better go down to Wall Street and see the advertiser at once. If we can restore the ring to-night we shall avoid the risk of losing it."

"What makes you say we?" asked Sam, uneasily. "You don't expect any of the reward, do you?"

"I only expect you to pay me back what you owe me, Sam. The ring was found by you, and you are entitled to the reward."

"Of course I'll pay you all I owe you, as soon as I get the twenty-five dollars," he said.

"Have you got the advertisement? Can you tell the name and number of the advertiser?"

The boys hurried to the office, which was on the third floor of the building. A young man, of eighteen or nineteen, was in sole possession. It may be remarked, by the way, that Mr. Chester was a lawyer, and this young man had just entered the office as student.

"That can't be Mr. Chester," said Henry, in a low voice, as the young man turned upon their entrance, and fixed his eyes inquiringly upon them.

"Mr. Chester has gone home," he answered, consequentially; "but, perhaps, I can do well. Do you come on business?"

"Ahem! law business, I suppose," said the lawyer's assistant, looking wise. "State your case, and I may be able to assist you. Is it a case of trespass, or do you wish to obtain a habeas corpus, or a caveat, or a nisi prius?"

"What a lot he knows!" thought Sam, respectfully. "I don't want none of those things."

"Perhaps you want to obtain a divorce," said the budding barrister, in a jocular tone. "I am afraid we can't manage that for you."

"Mr. Chester lost a ring in Wall Street yesterday and advertised it in the Herald. I didn't know but you had found it."

"Then I'll find out in the 'Directory' and let Mr. Chester know you wouldn't tell us."

"Yes; it is no doubt very valuable, and the sooner we get it into the hands of the owner, the better."

They took the University Place cars, and in a little more than half an hour reached Thirty-fifth Street. They heard the neighboring clocks strike six as they rang the bell.

"Mr. Chester don't like to be disturbed when he's at dinner. You can come round again in an hour."

"Tell Mr. Chester," said Henry, "that we have found something belonging to him, and wish to return it to him."

Presently a pleasant-looking man of middle age came from the dining-room, and looked inquiringly from one to the other.

"The fact is," said he, "I pawned it, and it was some trouble for me to get it again."

Henry and Sam looked at each other in blank astonishment. How could that little ring be worth so much?

"I am glad we didn't know how much it was worth," said Henry. "It would have made us feel nervous."

"I am surprised that the pawnbroker gave it back to you at all," said Mr. Chester. "He must have known something of its value."

"He didn't want to give it up. He said it was stolen, and he would call the police."

"Henry asked him if he thought it was stolen when I brought it to him, and he said yes. Then Henry threatened to have him taken up for receiving stolen goods."

"Good!" said Mr. Chester, laughing. "Your friend would make a good lawyer. At any rate, I am glad I have got it back. Have you had dinner, boys?"

"Then come in and dine with me. My family are all away except my wife, and there is plenty of room."

Sam began to feel bashful, but he obeyed directions, and followed Mr. Chester into a handsome dining-room in the rear extension, where a lady was already sitting at one end of the table.

"I bring you two guests, Mrs. Chester," said her husband. "These two young gentlemen have brought me my diamond ring."

"You are, indeed, fortunate in recovering it," said his wife. "Young gentlemen, you can sit, one on this side, the other opposite. I think, John, you will have to introduce them by name."

Sam stared and wanted to laugh. It seemed so droll to be called "Mr. Barker," but he managed to answer properly.

Mr. Chester was a man of some humor, and he enjoyed Sam's evident embarrassment. He took pains to be ceremoniously polite. Sam, who was used to the free and easy ways of a restaurant, hardly knew how to act. Henry Martin, though now thrown upon his own exertions, had been well brought up, and betrayed no awkwardness.

At the close of the meal, to which Sam, despite his bashfulness, did full justice, Mr. Chester opened his pocket-book and produced twenty-five dollars in bills.

"Allow me to offer you five dollars, also," said the lawyer, who was pleased with Henry's manner.

CHAPTER X. — SAM'S INVESTMENT.

"What a fool you were not to take the money he offered you!" said Sam when they were in the street.

"I say, wasn't that a tiptop dinner?" said Sam, smacking his lips as he thought of it. "It beats the restaurant all hollow. We'd have had to pay a dollar apiece for such a lot of things, and then they wouldn't have been so good."

"There's one thing seems funny, Henry—them bowls of water they bring on at the end to wash your hands in. I was just goin' to drink mine when I saw Mr. Chester wash his fingers in his. It don't seem nice to have wash bowls on the dinner-table."

"We never have been much into fashionable society, Sam. I've no doubt there are a good many things that would seem strange to us if we did."

"We have never been much into fashionable society, Sam. I've no doubt there are a good many things that would seem strange to us if we did."

"You ought to be able to save fifteen dollars, at any rate. I'll go with you to the savings-bank, and you can put it in to-night, I know a bank that keeps open till eight o'clock."

"I guess I'll wait and see how much I need to carry me through the week," he said.

"At any rate, pay me what you owe me, and I'll deposit a part of it on my own account."

Settlement was made, and Henry, accompanied by Sam, went round to the Sixpenny Savings-Bank, then established on Astor Place, in a part of the Mercantile Library Building. It is kept open every day in the week from 10 A. M. till 8 P. M., thus affording better accommodation to depositors than most institutions of the kind. Sam had never been in a savings-bank before, and he looked about him with curiosity.

Henry took the five-dollar bill which Sam had paid him, and handed it with his bankbook to the receiving clerk, saying: "I want to deposit three dollars of this."

An entry was made in the book, which was returned to him, with two dollars change.

"Go to that other clerk, and tell him how much you wanted to draw. He would give you a paper to sign, and then he'd give you the money."

"You have no idea how independent it makes me feel," said Henry. "Now, if I am sick I know I shan't have to suffer, for a time at least. I could live for seven or eight weeks on what I've got here in the bank."

"You may have it after a while if you'll do as I do—be economical and saving."

"I'll think about it," said Sam. "I'd like to have something to fall back upon in my old age."

Henry commended this plan, though he knew Sam too well to have much hope of his carrying it out. As it turned out, not a dollar of the reward which he had been paid found its way to the savings-bank. How it was disposed of we shall see.

The next day, as Sam was going to the office, he met a young man with whom he had lately become acquainted.

"Yes, but it's only six per cent. The interest on twenty-five dollars would only come to a dollar and a half in a year. That's too slow for me."

"What would you advise me to do, then?" asked Sam. "Is there any way of making money?"

"I'll tell you what I'd do if I were you. I'd buy part of a ticket in the Havana lottery."

"Say you bought a fifth of a ticket; that would come to ten dollars. Now the biggest prize is a hundred thousand dollars!"

"Why, that would make me rich!" exclaimed Sam, in excitement. "I'd never have to work no more."

"I guess I'll go round and buy one," he said. "It must be better than putting the money in the savings-bank."

"That's what I think. You may not get a big prize the first time, to be sure, but it's worth waiting for."

Sam was not much of a financier, nor did he know how little real chance there was of drawing the large prize he desired. He did not know that it was about the most foolish use he could make of his money. He was deceived by the consideration that somebody would win the prize, and that his chance was as good as anybody. It is always unlucky for a boy or young man when he yields for the first time to the fatal fascination of the lottery. He may fail time after time, but continue to hug the delusion that the next time will bring him luck. There are clerks in New York and other large cities who have not only squandered all their own savings, but abstracted money from their employers, led on by this ruinous passion.

During his noon intermission Sam went round to the lottery office, and returned with the coveted ticket.

He put it away with great complacency, and gave himself up to dreams of future wealth. If he could only win that twenty thousand dollars, how rich he would be! How he would triumph over Henry, with his poor thirty-five dollars in the savings-bank!

"Poor Henry! I'll do something for him, if I only win the prize," he thought. "Maybe I'll buy out some big business, and make him my clerk, with a good salary. Won't it be jolly?"

No doubt it would, but Sam was counting chickens that were not very likely to be hatched.

There was another bad consequence of his purchase. It made him lavish of the money he had left. It amounted to nine dollars and some odd cents. Had he followed Henry's advice, a part of this would have been deposited in the bank; but Sam's dreams of wealth led him to look upon it as a mere trifle, hardly worth taking into account. So day by day it melted away till there was none left.

CHAPTER XI. — HENRY BECOMES A MERCHANT.

While Sam was impatiently awaiting the drawing of the Havana lottery, Henry; too, made an investment, but of an entirely different character.

He was in the employ of a shipping house, which dispatched vessels to different parts of the world with assorted cargoes. The head of the firm was James Hamilton, a man who stood deservedly high, not only in the mercantile world, but as a citizen. He had served his native city as an alderman, and had been offered the nomination for mayor by the party to which he belonged, but had declined, on account of the imperative claims of his private business.

Mr. Hamilton had long noticed, with a feeling of approval, Henry Martin's faithful performance of duty. Though he had not promoted him rapidly, he was observing him carefully, fully determined to serve him in the future if he should deserve it. This Henry did not know. His employer was not a man of many words, and he was not aware that he had attracted his attention. Sometimes even he felt depressed by the thought that he was getting on so slowly. But it did not so affect him as to make him careless or neglectful of his duties. Even if he did not obtain promotion, he meant to deserve it.

One morning, about this time, a clerk came to Henry, and said: "Mr. Hamilton wishes to see you in his private office."

Henry was a little startled. The idea came to him that he might have done something which had displeased his employer, and that he was to be reprimanded, perhaps discharged. This would be so disastrous to him that the thought of it made him turn pale. Still, think as he might, he could not call to mind any error he had committed, and this somewhat encouraged him.

It may be remarked that it was Mr. Hamilton's custom to be as polite to his subordinates as to his social equals.

"Yes, sir, earlier than I wished, but I was obliged to earn my living, and had no choice."

"It is a good deal for a boy in your circumstances to save," said Mr. Hamilton, with emphasis. "How much do I pay you?"

"Thank you, sir," said Henry, his face showing the delight he felt. "You are very kind. I shall feel quite rich now."

"That is well. I commend your self-denial and prudence. How much interest does the savings-bank pay you?"

"I will propose a different investment. I am about to send a cargo of goods to Rotterdam. The venture will, I think, prove a paying one. Would you like to join in it?"

Henry stared at his employer in surprise. How could he, a boy with thirty-five dollars capital, join in such an enterprise?

"I don't see how I can," he replied. "I am afraid you take me for a capitalist."

"Perhaps not, and, therefore, if you are going to take part in my venture, I suggest that you borrow five hundred dollars."

Henry was surprised once more. He began to think Mr. Hamilton was out of his head. Yet he did not look so. On the contrary, as he smiled kindly upon Henry, he looked what he was, a shrewd, kindly, long-headed man of business. Still, he had just advised an almost penniless boy to borrow five hundred dollars.

"Then I answer yes, upon conditions. First, let me explain why I advise you to borrow. I have little doubt that you will find the venture a profitable one. Next, you may place your savings-bank book in my hands as security. Thirty-five dollars will pay a year's interest on the five hundred dollars I lend you; so my interest is secure."

"As to that, I know so much about it that I am willing to take the risk. I do not scruple to say that if the money were to be placed in your hands for investment, according to your own judgment, I should have some doubts as to your being able to repay it to me at the end of the year."

"I was only thinking," said Henry, "that I might want to save up more money from my wages; but if you have the book I could not have them entered."

"There will be no trouble about that. Though you leave this book with me, you can start another account in another savings-bank. Indeed, I would advise you to do so. There is an old saying: 'Never put all your eggs in one basket.' So it may be as well to divide your money between two banks."

"I don't know that I have any more to say to you. We understand each other now. I will put you down on my books as a partner, to the extent of five hundred dollars, in my Rotterdam shipment, and you may place the savings-bank book in my hands tomorrow."

"That is a good boy one of the right stamp," soliloquized the merchant. "A boy who has the prudence and self-denial to save money out of a weekly income of five dollars is bound to succeed in life. I will push him as he deserves."

"Well, Henry," asked the clerk, curiously, "have you been receiving a lecture from the boss?"

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

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

CHAPTER XII. — HOW SAM SUCCEEDED.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XIII. — HENRY'S GOOD FORTUNE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XIV. — THE SAVINGS BANK BOOK.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XV. — SAM IS FOUND OUT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XVI. — SAM LOSES HIS PLACE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XVII. — TIM IS UNMASKED.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XVIII. — THE FALL RIVER BOAT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XIX. — MUTUAL CONFIDENCES.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XX. — TOO LATE FOR THE TRAIN.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XXI. — ARRIVED IN BOSTON.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XXII. — FIRST EXPERIENCES IN BOSTON.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XXIII. — SAM FINDS A ROOMMATE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XXIV. — AN UNPLEASANT SURPRISE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XXV. — IN PURSUIT OP A PLACE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XXVI. — ABNER BLODGETT AGAIN.

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

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

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

"I don't believe two voices can be so much alike," he said to himself. "I must look more carefully."

The voice was heard again, and this time Sam perceived that the speaker was playing billiards on the second table to the right. But it did not appear to be Abner. His personal appearance was very different, and he had a black mustache. But when Sam scanned the upper part of the face, he saw a strong resemblance. He suspected the truth at once, Abner was disguised.

"He's spending my money," said Sam to himself, indignantly. "No wonder he can afford to play billiards when he gets his money so easy. I won't lose sight of him."

By this time Abner—for it was he—had finished his game, and laid down his cue. He had no money to pay, for he had beaten his adversary. He sauntered up to the door, and was about to pass Sam, whom he had not noticed, when our hero laid his hand upon his arm.

Abner started when he recognized Sam, and changed color slightly, but immediately his disguise occurred to him, and he decided to brazen it out.

He changed his voice as well as he could in uttering these words, and this confirmed Sam's previous suspicion.

"I said I should like to speak to you on business, Mr. Blodgett," Sam repeated, in an emphatic tone.

"You have made a mistake in the person," said Abner, shrugging his shoulders. "My name is not Blodgett."

"Come out into the street, and I will talk to you," said Abner, not wishing the conversation to be heard.

"Really, I should think you must be from the country yourself, to make such a mistake."

"I am from the city of New York, if you call that the country," said Sam, in rather an important tone.

"I am sorry for you, but you've made a great mistake about me, my dear young friend. My name is John Warburton, and I am a student of Harvard College, in Cambridge. I only just came into Boston this morning. I haven't been here before for a week."

He spoke so volubly and confidently that Sam was staggered for a minute. Was it possible that he was mistaken, after all? Was this really a Harvard student, whose voice happened to resemble that of Abner Blodgett? Abner saw that he was mystified, and a gleam of exultation appeared in his face. When Sam detected this, he felt sure that he had got the right man, after all. Abner even ventured to ask: "Why do you wish to see this Abner Blodgett, whom I have the honor of resembling?"

"Stole your money!" repeated Abner, with mock indignation. "Do you dare to take me for a thief—me, a Harvard student, belonging to one of the first families! Why, it is an insult and an outrage! I have a great mind to chastise you."

"I don't know whether you belong to one of the first or one of the second families," answered Sam, unterrified; "and I don't believe you are a Harvard student at all. Just give me back them ten dollars you stole out of my pocket or I'll make it hot for you."

"You young scamp!" said Abner, now really angry; "you've insulted me long enough. Now, clear out, or I'll kick you!"

"This is an outrage," said Abner, who noticed the approach of a policeman; "but if you are really in want I'll give you fifty cents, though you don't deserve it."

"I don't want your fifty cents, I want the money you stole from me," persisted Sam, who was not to be bought so cheap.

"For Heaven's sake, hush!" said Abner, nervously. "One of the professors is inside, and I am afraid he'll come out and hear you. Here's the fifty cents."

"That won't go down, Mr. Blodgett," said Sam. "How much of my money have you got left?"

By this time the policeman was within hearing distance. Sam saw him now, and determined to press his claim vigorously.

The policeman was now passing them. He glanced casually at the pair, rather to the discomfort of Abner, whose face was not wholly unknown to the force.

"Hand it over, then," said Sam, who had not expected to get back so much of the stolen property.

"Don't call me Blodgett. It isn't my name. I told you my name was John Wharton, of Harvard College."

"You didn't understand me," said Abner, rather embarrassed. "The names sound alike."

"I don't believe any of the names belong to you. Now, when are you going to pay the rest of that money?"

"By the way, Mr. Blodgett," said Sam, slyly, "what do you use to make your mustache grow so quick?"

"When I saw you two days ago you had none. It's grown pretty well for so short a time."

"I can't stop talking with you any longer. I must go out to Cambridge. I have a recitation in Latin in two hours."

Abner unwillingly started with his unwelcome companion, and walked slowly to Bowdoin Square.

"There's the cars," he said, "just in front of the Revere House. Jump in, and I'll be with you in a minute."

"Just as I expected," thought he. "That fellow isn't a Harvard student any more than I am. I'm lucky to get back part of my money. Perhaps I'll get the rest out of him some time."

He got into the car which had been pointed out to him and inquired of the driver: "Does this car go to Harvard College?"

"I guess it's all right," said Sam to himself. "I might as well go out and see Harvard, as I've got nothing else to do."

CHAPTER XXVII. — SAM IS INITIATED INTO A COLLEGE SOCIETY.

Before Sam reached Harvard Square he caught sight of the college yard and the numerous buildings of brick and stone which had been erected within it for the accommodations of the students.

"It's a pretty big place," thought Sam. His ideas of a college were very vague. He had fancied that it consisted of one large brick building, like the New York public schools.

"I wonder what they want of so many buildings, anyway?" said Sam to himself. "There must be a lot of students."

He got out at Harvard Square, and crossing the street entered the college yard, or campus, as it is sometimes more ambitiously called. There were very few students about, for it was Saturday, when there was a morning exercise only, and, the rest of the day being a holiday, many of the students were accustomed to go to Boston, or to visit their friends elsewhere. Sam knew nothing of this, and was surprised to see so few young men about.

Now it happened that three sophomores, having nothing more important to occupy their attention, had made up their minds, by way of a lark, to play a trick on some freshman, who, from inexperience, looked like an easy victim. For convenience's sake I will call them Brown, Jones and Robinson.

As these three young men were walking arm-in-arm in front of University Hall, they saw Sam approaching. Of course, where the classes are so large, it is impossible for all to be personally acquainted, which accounts for their instantly mistaking Sam for a freshman.

"There's a fresh," said Brown. "He looks green enough for our purpose. Suppose we take him?"

Sam was rather surprised when the three college boys stopped and Brown addressed him.

"All right!" said Robinson, in a low voice. "There's a Barker in the freshman class. I've noticed his name in the catalogue."

He was not a little flattered at being mistaken for a collegian, and nodded assent.

"We have heard of you, Mr. Barker," said Jones, in the most favorable manner. "We belong to the senior class, and at our last meeting we elected you unanimously a member of the Alpha Zeta Society."

"We have inquired of the faculty concerning your scholarship, and have been told that you are one of the best scholars in the class."

"All your modesty, Mr. Barker," said Robinson. "We are convinced that you are a first-class man, and will be an acquisition to our society."

"We are a committee of the society appointed to initiate you by the usual impressive ceremonies," said Brown. "It is very fortunate we have met with you, for Saturday is our day for initiations."

"Then we will at once proceed to the society room and take you to the initiation. Are you ready?"

The three sophomores looked at each other doubtfully. Perhaps their intended butt was not as verdant as they supposed.

"That formality is not necessary," said Jones, after a pause, "unless you desire to leave any money to the society."

Robinson offered his arm, and the four proceeded to one of the older college halls, and ascended to a room on the third floor.

"Ain't they sold, though!" thought Sam, with an inward chuckle. "They think I'm a student, and I'll find out all about their society—I can't think of the outlandish name."

The door was locked, and then Brown said: "Mr. Barker, you will not object to be blindfolded, of course."

He was blindfolded by Brown and seated in the center of the room. He heard various movements, lasting for perhaps five minutes. Then the bandage was removed, and Sam saw that his three companions were metamorphosed. All wore masks. The light of day had been shut out, and four candles were burning on the table. In the center was a skull, and beside it was a large book, a photograph book, by the way.

"Barker," said one of the masked figures in a sepulchral voice, "do you desire to join our mystic band?"

"No levity," was the stern reply. "Before you are admitted you must swear solemnly not to divulge the secrets of the association."

"It is the skull of a freshman who joined our society five years since, and divulged the secrets."

"He disappeared," said Brown, impressively. "He was found dead in his bed one morning, with a dagger in his heart."

"You shall know all. Our society was founded hundreds of years ago by the emperor Charlemagne."

This didn't impress Sam as much as was expected, since he had never heard of the Emperor Charlemagne.

"Kings, nobles, prime ministers have belonged to our mystic ranks," proceeded Brown.

"That book," indicating the photograph album, "contains the records of the society."

"No," said Jones, hurriedly, laying his hand upon the book. "The time may come, but not yet."

Brown proceeded to read a chorus from Euripides, which impressed Sam as much as anything yet, for the Greek seemed but a strange and barbarous jargon to his unaccustomed ears.

Jones and Robinson proceeded to lift Sam, one by the head, the other by the heels, rather to his alarm.

The two students bore Sam about the room, chanting discordantly as they went. At length they set him down again in a chair. Then Brown passed his hand several times over Sam's face, explaining that this was one of the necessary formalities also. Then the bandage was taken off, and a Greek book was handed to Sam.

Sam stared at the Greek page in bewilderment, turning the book upside down, but not finding it any more intelligible.

"You need not render it into English," said Brown. "Pronounce it in the original."

"What! Are you not Barker, of the freshman class?" asked the three sophomores in chorus.

"Sold!" exclaimed the three in concert. "I guess this has gone far enough," said Brown. "Let's unmask."

Masks were removed, the curtains raised, Sam was invited to wash his face, which Brown, in his manipulations, had blacked, and there was a hearty laugh all round. Sam was invited to tell his story and did so. The three students were wealthy, and took up a contribution for his benefit, amounting to ten dollars.

"The next time we initiate a freshman, it'll be the genuine article. All the same, we've had some fun. Won't you stay and dine with us? We shall have dinner in an hour."

"We'll take you round to see the college before dinner. We can't do less by a member of the Alpha Zeta Society."

Sam laughed. "I guess you'll have to put down the name on a piece of paper," he said, "or I'll forget what society I belong to."

Sam's good humor and droll observations made him a favorite with the three students. He learned, to his surprise, that Brown was a cousin of Julia Stockton, whose acquaintance he had made on the Fall River boat.

"I was in town yesterday, and Julia mentioned you—said you were very polite to her. It is very strange we should run across each other so soon after."

"That's so," said Sam, and, calling to mind the ten dollars in his pocket, he could not help adding to himself: "It's mighty lucky, too."

CHAPTER XXVIII. — BROWN'S PLAN.

Brown, Jones and Robinson roomed in one of the college dormitories, but took their meals at a private boarding-house not far from the college yard. Memorial Hall had not yet been erected, and there was no public dining-place, as now. They paid a high price and enjoyed in return a luxurious table. About twenty students boarded at the same place, but less than half that number were present when Sam and the three sophomores entered the house.

"There's something about his left eyebrow that reminds me of you," said Bates, reflectively. "Yes, I should know he was your brother."

"I never saw him before," continued Brown. "He's been traveling ever since he was a baby, but this morning witnessed his happy restoration to my arms."

Sam listened to this chaffing with amusement. He relished it better than a discussion which followed upon the relative merits of two Greek authors which the students had been occupied with since entering college. This talk seemed very dry to Sam, whose previous life had hardly fitted him to take an interest in such subjects.

"I think, Sam," said Brown, as the dessert came on, "that there is one society you will like better than the Alpha Zeta."

"I can eat a pie as well as anybody," answered Sam, who, however, not being acquainted with the Greek alphabet, did not quite comprehend the joke.

"I should never think of doubting your word on that score. Here, Mary, bring this young man an extra large slice of apple pie. He has been working hard this morning."

"I shan't need any help in ordering it," said Jones. "I may need help in paying for it."

"I'd rather help order it," said Robinson. "Are you going into the city, Brown?"

"Not till four o'clock. I have a little work to do first. Sam, are you in any hurry to go back to Boston?"

"No," answered Sam. "I've made ten dollars this forenoon, and can afford to take it easy the rest of the day."

The three students parted; Jones and Robinson jumping on board a street car, while Brown took Sam to his room. It was not the one in which Sam's initiation had taken place, but another in the same dormitory, and was handsomely furnished. The walls were lined with fine engravings, and various ornaments adorned the mantel.

"I'm going to read a little Greek," said Brown. "I was away two days last week, and I want to make up the lessons. You may find something on that bookcase to amuse you. Stretch yourself out in that armchair and make yourself comfortable."

Sam accepted the invitation willingly. He was not particularly bashful, and made himself quite at home. Most of the books on Brown's shelves struck him as very dry; but he finally found one profusely illustrated, and this entertained him till Brown, after an hour's silence and turning over the pages of his Greek dictionary, closed his books and said: "Well, thank goodness, that job's over!"

"I don't study hard enough to endanger my head," he answered. "I am not likely to become a martyr to science."

"You must know a lot," said Sam, opening the Greek book, and surveying the pages with admiring awe.

"My Greek professor does not appear to be of that opinion," said Brown, "judging from the way he marks me. However, it is quite possible that he is prejudiced, and can't appreciate modest merit. What have you got there?"

"Yes, I'm about as poor as I want to be. I've been lookin' round for a fortune for five or six years; but I haven't found it yet."

"I am afraid it would be hard to get that in Boston. Are you not fit for anything better?"

"That's in your way. If you wrote a good hand, and were good at figures, you might perhaps do better than become an errand boy, though even then it is doubtful whether you could obtain more than five dollars a week."

"It would be rather hard," said the student. "I have twice that for spending money."

Sam looked despondent. Brown appeared to take an interest in him, and he had hoped that he might do something for him.

"I have a young brother of fourteen at home—there are only two of us; but he is small and delicate. He is lame, besides, having met with an accident when quite young. He is unable to go to school, as it would prove too great a tax upon one in his delicate state of health. He takes lessons at home, however, of a visiting tutor, as in this way his studies can be arranged to suit his varying strength. Now, I have been long of opinion that he requires a boy companion, older than himself, who is naturally lively and cheerful, to share with him in his amusements, to accompany him in his walks, and share with him in his studies. From what I have seen of you, I think you are just the companion my brother wants. Have you any bad habits?"

Sam had shrewdness enough to perceive that it would be better for him to be truthful. Besides, to do him justice, Brown's kindness had made an impression upon him, and he would have felt ashamed to deceive him.

"Lying is very ungentlemanly, to say the least. Do you think you can get over that?"

"Then, I will ask my father to take you on trial. I am going over to Brookline to supper this afternoon, and I will take you over, and talk with him about it. Will you go?"

CHAPTER XXIX. — ARTHUR BROWN.

At half-past five Sam and his companion reached the home of the latter in Brookline. It was a handsome mansion, with ample grounds, standing some rods back from the street.

"It's an elegant place," said Sam, admiringly "I hope your father'll take me. I'd like to live here ever so much."

Brown pointed out a boy considerably smaller than Sam, who was hurrying to the gate as fast as his lameness would admit. His thin, pale face was lighted up with joy, as he espied his brother.

"I am glad you have come, Charlie," he said. "It's so lonely here during the week."

"And how are you feeling, Arthur?" asked his brother, laying his hand caressingly on the shoulder of the younger boy.

"I am glad to see you," he said, politely extending his hand. "Are you a friend of Charlie's?"

"Yes, Arthur," the student replied, anticipating our hero. "This is my friend, Sam Barker."

"Please call me Sam," said our hero. "I am only a boy, and I don't begin to know enough to be in college."

"Come into the house," said the elder brother. "Has father got back from the city?"

"No; he sent word that he should not be back till evening. We are to take supper without him. You are going to stop over Sunday, I hope, Charlie?"

"Yes, till to-morrow evening. Sam will stay, too. Won't you take him up to the little room next to yours? He will want to wash before supper."

"Won't it be too much trouble for you?" he asked, thinking of Arthur's lameness.

"Oh, no," said the lame boy. "I can go upstairs almost as quick as if I wasn't lame. Come this way, please."

Sam followed him upstairs. He was shown to a small, but handsomely furnished chamber.

"You'll find everything you need, I think," said Arthur. "That room," pointing to one adjoining, "is mine; so we shall be near neighbors."

"I am glad of that. If burglars get in in the night, I'll come to you for protection."

"I am afraid I couldn't do you much good. You are a great deal stronger than I."

"I have passed through New York on my way to Saratoga. I went up the Hudson River on a steamboat."

"How long have you been lame, Arthur?" inquired Sam, who had naturally a kind heart, and was already beginning to feel an interest in his new friend.

"Yes, Charlie's got muscle," said Arthur, proudly. "He's one of the strongest fellows in his class. He goes to gymnasium regularly. You ought to feel his arm. He's going to belong to the boat club next year."

"Come downstairs, and I'll show you the stable," said Arthur. "I guess there'll be time before supper."

"Three carriage horses. Father would buy me a pony, but he's afraid I might fall, and not be able to help myself."

"No; my health is not good enough. The doctor says I must be out in the open air a good deal, and must not overtax my brain. I suppose you have been to school a good deal."

Arthur laughed. "I don't think, from your looks, that you need feel afraid," he said.

"I should think you might be," said Arthur, merrily; "but you are very successful in not showing it."

"That's why I don't get any sympathy. What do you do all day long if you don't go to school?"

"I study some, and recite to a tutor who comes out from Boston; but I have a good deal of time to myself. I've been very lonely since my mother died," he added, soberly.

"A year ago. Her death was a great loss to me, as Charlie has been away from home so much, and father is all day in the city."

"I wonder whether he will like the idea of my staying with him," thought Sam. "We could have good times together."

They went out to the stable, and looked about till the supper-bell rang. Everything was well arranged, and on a scale which indicated that Mr. Brown was a man of wealth.

Entering the dining-room, where the supper was provided, they found the older brother already present.

"Take a seat there, Sam; Arthur, you know your place. I must preside in father's absence."

They talked together socially during the meal, Sam getting to feel better and better acquainted as time went on. After supper they took another walk, and then Arthur asked: "Do you play backgammon, Sam?"

The backgammon board was brought out, and the two boys had a pleasant evening. As the older brother heard their lively laughter, and noticed how Arthur seemed brightened up by Sam's companionship, he felt more and more that it would be a good plan to keep him there. When his father reached home, a little before nine o'clock, he made the proposal to him.

"I am convinced," he said, "that Arthur needs a young companion, of a cheerful temperament, who will brighten him up, and keep him in good spirits.

"Not much, except that Arthur appears to fancy him. His education has been neglected."

"That would not matter. He could study regularly with Arthur, and recite to his tutor."

"Of that I am sure. Indeed it would be a great thing for him, as he is poor, and has no friends to help him along."

CHAPTER XXX. — HOW IT WAS ARRANGED.

"Sam," said the young student, the next morning, "I have spoken to my father about your remaining here as a companion to Arthur."

"That you may stay a month on trial. If the arrangement proves satisfactory, you can remain longer."

"I hope you will, too, for Arthur's sake. You must bear in mind that we expect you to lay aside all your bad habits, and try to become refined and gentlemanly."

"You will take lessons of Arthur's tutor, and study with him. Though considerably younger than you are he is much more advanced in his studies, and will be able to help you in any difficulties."

"On the contrary, it will interest and amuse him to be so occupied. There is no reason why you should not improve fast."

"I want to know something," said Sam. "Ever since I met that girl on the boat I've been ashamed of being such a know-nothing."

"I am glad to hear you say that. It is encouraging to find that you are sensible of your deficiencies. It is the first step toward remedying them."

The student smiled. "He wouldn't do that," he answered, "but he will inform my father—that is, if you persist in neglecting your lessons—and that might lead to your being dismissed."

"I'll study," said Sam. "You see if I don't, even if it makes my head ache awful."

"You look as if you could stand a mode amount of study," said the sophomore, smiling good-naturedly. "If your head aches very bad we can give you some pills."

"I guess it won't," said Sam, hastily, for he had a distinct remembrance of having been dosed with some very nauseous pills in his early days.

"My father will see that you are provided with suitable clothes," proceeded Brown; "and you shall have a little spending money also; but you must not spend any of it for cigars."

"It seems almost like a dream," he added, "to think of my having a private tutor, with nice clothes and spending money. I wonder what Henry Martin would say."

"I used to room with him in New York. He is a nice boy, Henry is, a good deal better'n me. He used to save his money and put it in the bank, and study evenings."

"No. I was a fool; but I won't be any longer. I'm going to turn over a new leaf."

"Will you, really?" asked Arthur, his pale face brightening up with evident pleasure.

"He shall stay if you would like to have him," said his brother, "and study with you every day. I think Prof. Taylor will be willing to take one additional pupil."

"I am sorry to say Sam's studies have been neglected, and he may require some assistance in getting his lessons."

So it was arranged, and so it was that Sam; after drifting about for years, found at last a good home.

CHAPTER XXXI. — TWO YEARS LATER.

More than two years have elapsed. In the fine old home at Brookline, Sam and Arthur are sitting out on the lawn. Both have changed. Arthur looks stronger and better than when Sam first made his acquaintance, His thin face is more full, his pallor has been succeeded by a faint tinge of color, and he looks contented and happy. But the greatest change has come over Sam. He is now a young man of eighteen, well-formed and robust, handsomely dressed, with a face not only attractive, but intelligent. These two years have improved him greatly, as we shall see.

"He was a sophomore when I first met him," said Sam. "How little I thought that the meeting would be so important to me!"

"You didn't know much, to be sure," said Arthur, smiling. "I remember how I had to drill you in the multiplication table."

"I should say it was; it was original, at least," said Arthur. "To tell the truth, I was rather dismayed when I found how little you knew. But you have made it up bravely."

"But not your only acquisition. You are a good English scholar. I don't mind telling you, however, that in the first three months I never expected you would be."

"Yes; I sympathized with you at first, till I began to suspect that it was all put on."

"It was harder for me to apply myself than you, Arthur. My street life made it so. It was only by degrees that I got the habit of application."

"It was a good thing for me that I had to assist you. It gave me an object in life. Besides, it made me work harder myself in order to continue able to do it. I used to get low-spirited, and feel that I was of no use in the world."

"You don't feel so now," said Sam, with a look of affection; for Arthur seemed to him like a dear, younger brother, whom it was his duty to care for and protect.

"Oh, no," said Arthur, cheerfully. "I am much better and stronger now. And that leads me to a little secret which affects both you and me. Would you like to hear it?"

"Father is going to take both of us into the office, to learn business. I shall only be there about half the day, but you will have full hours. How will you like that?"

"It is the very thing I would like above all others," said Sam, with animation. "I want to be doing something. I want to earn my own living. When are we to go into the office?"

"No; we are to spend the summer at the White Mountains. Late in August Charlie will sail for Europe, where he is to travel for a year, and we two are to be disposed of as I have told you."

"It was a lucky day for me, Arthur, when I became your companion. But for that I might have been the same shiftless fellow I was before, fit for nothing except to run errands or sell newspapers."

"Are you sure you are fit for anything better now?" asked Arthur, mischievously.

The arrangement indicated was carried out. Sam, through his bright, sunny disposition, had become a favorite with all the Browns, who, besides, felt grateful to him for the good effect his companionship had had upon Arthur's health and happiness. It had long been understood between Charlie and his father that Sam was eventually to be taken into the office, and promoted as rapidly as his abilities would justify. He was allowed a liberal salary, and continued a member of Mr. Brown's family.

CHAPTER XXXII. — CONCLUSION.

Henry Martin meanwhile had not stood still. Two years after Sam entered Mr. Brown's counting-room Henry became chief clerk in the office of his New York employer. Mr. Hamilton had permitted him to share in the general ventures of the firm, and this had enabled Henry, with his habits of prudence, combined with his savings from a largely increased salary, to lay up four thousand dollars, which were securely invested. His salary now was one hundred dollars a month, and he was promised, on the approaching first of January, further increase. His prudence, industry and self-denial had reaped their fitting reward.

It would be difficult to explain why Sam had not written, for he had learned to respect Henry, and to prize the traits he had formerly laughed at.

"I am afraid Sam has come to no good," Henry sometimes said to himself. "He was always a harum-scarum fellow, good-natured, but lazy and heedless. I wish I could do him a good turn. I have been so prospered that I could afford to help him along if I could only find him."

One day as Henry was engaged at his desk, a young man entered the counting-room. He was handsomely dressed, with a bright, intelligent look, and the appearance of one who was on good terms with the world. He glanced inquiringly at Henry, and then said: "Am I speaking to Mr. Henry Martin?"

"I believe I used to know you, Mr. Martin," said Sam, smiling; for it was our old friend, the young outlaw.

"I beg your pardon," said Henry Martin; "I must apologize for my poor memory, but I cannot recall your face."

"I should have known you at once," said Sam. "You have the same sedate, grave manner that you had when a boy."

"I see it now," he said. "There is the same look, though you are five years older. I am delighted to see you, Sam. Where have you been all these years?"

"Where on earth did you pick up bookkeeping?" asked Henry, in continued amazement.

"I studied under a private tutor for two or three years," answered Sam, enjoying his perplexity. "I have only been in business two years."

"I can't understand it at all, Sam. It seems like a romance. I never thought you would turn out like this."

"Nor I, Henry. But it is a long story. Come and see me this evening at the St. Nicholas, and I will tell you all. I must leave you now, as I have a little business to attend to."

That evening Henry and Sam met at the hotel, and each told his story, to the deep interest of the other.

"You have been very lucky, Sam," said Henry, at the end. "I never supposed you would reform so completely and thoroughly. You were a pretty hard case when I knew you."

"So I was," said Sam; "and I would have been to this day if I had not turned over a new leaf. Sometime I hope to introduce you to the two friends to whom I owe my reformation."

"A young lady of Boston, Miss Julia Stockton, and my most valued friend, Arthur Brown."

"I know what you are thinking of, Henry; but it isn't as you suppose. Julia Stockton will never be any more than a friend to me. Indeed, she is engaged to be married next month to Arthur's elder brother, Charlie, who has just been admitted to the bar. But I shall always feel indebted to her for first leading me to look upon myself as an ignorant and heedless boy. I never became ambitious till I met her."

"Not at the time. Afterward I thought of them, and saw that you were right. And now that we have found each other, Henry, don't let us remain strangers. Can't you come and see me in Boston?"

"I am to visit Boston, on business, in October, Sam. I won't fail to look you up then."

Henry kept his word. Sam received him with cordial hospitality, and henceforth the two remained fast friends. It is not necessary to sketch their future. Both are on the right track, though Sam was much later in finding it; and the young outlaw, as well as his more prudent companion, is likely to prosper more and more as the years roll by.

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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Sam's Chance, and How He Improved It

SAM'S CHANCE

And How He Improved It

By Horatio Alger, Jr.

PREFACE.