"Do you say that because we have always agreed so well?" asked Hector, amused.

"We may be better friends in future," said Jim, with a grin.

Hector was judiciously silent.

"Where are you staying?"

"Up on Forty-second Street."

"That's a good way uptown, isn't it?"

"Yes, pretty far up."

"Are you boarding?"

"No; I am visiting some friends."

"Couldn't you get me in there as one of your school friends?"

This question indicated such an amount of a.s.surance on the part of his old enemy that at first Hector did not know how to reply in fitting terms.

"I couldn't take such a liberty with my friends," he said. "Besides, it doesn't strike me that we were on very intimate terms."

But Jim was not sensitive to a rebuff.

"The fact is," he continued, "I haven't got much money, and it would be very convenient to visit somebody. Perhaps you could lend me five dollars?"

"I don't think I could. I think I shall have to say good-morning."

"I can't make anything out of him," said Jim to himself, philosophically. "I wonder if he's got any money. Uncle Socrates told me his uncle had cast him off."

Going up Broadway instead of down, it was not long before Jim met Allan Roscoe and Guy, whom he immediately recognized. Not being troubled with immodesty, he at once walked up to Mr. Roscoe and held out his hand.

"Good-morning, Mr. Roscoe!" he said, in an ingratiating voice.

"Good-morning, young man. Where have I met you?" asked Allan Roscoe, puzzled.

"At Smith Inst.i.tute. I am the nephew of Mr. Smith."

"What! Not the nephew who--"

Mr. Roscoe found it hard to finish the sentence. He didn't like to charge Jim with stealing to his face.

"I know what you mean," said Jim, boldly. "I am the one whom your nephew charged with taking money which he took himself. I don't want to say anything against him, as he is your nephew, but he is an artful young--but no matter. You are his uncle."

"He is not my nephew, but was only cared for by my brother," said Allan Roscoe. "You may tell me freely, my good fellow, all the truth. You say that Hector stole the money which your uncle lost."

"Yes; but he has made my uncle believe that I took it. It is hard upon me," said Jim, pathetically, "as I was dependent upon my uncle. I have been driven forth into the cold world by my benefactor because your nephew prejudiced his mind against me."

"I believe him, papa," said Guy, who was only too glad to believe anything against Hector. "I have thought all along that Hector was guilty."

"Is that your son?" asked the crafty Jim. "I wish he had come to the inst.i.tute, instead of Hector. He is a boy that I couldn't help liking."

There are few who are altogether inaccessible to flattery. At any rate, Guy was not one of this small number.

"I feel sure you are not guilty," said Guy, regarding Jim graciously.

"It was a very mean thing in Hector to get you into trouble."

"It was, indeed," said Jim. "I am cast out of my uncle's house, and now I have no home, and hardly any money."

"Hector is in the city. Have you seen him?" asked Allan Roscoe.

"Yes; I met him a few minutes since."

"Did you speak to him?"

"Yes; I reproached him for getting me into trouble, but he only laughed in my face. He told me he hated you both," added Jim, ingenuously.

"Just like Hector!" said Guy. "What have I always told you, papa?"

"I am sorry you have suffered such injustice at the hands of anyone in any way connected with my family," said Mr. Roscoe, who, like Guy, was not indisposed to believe anything to the discredit of Hector. "I do not feel responsible for his unworthy acts, but I am willing to show my sympathy by a small gift."

He produced a five-dollar note and put it into Jim's ready hand.

"Thank you, sir," he said. "You are a gentleman."

So the interview closed, and Jim left the spot, chuckling at the manner in which he had wheedled so respectable a sum out of Allan Roscoe.

Meanwhile Hector, after looking about him, turned, and, getting into a Broadway stage, rode uptown as far as Twenty-third Street, where the stage turned down toward Sixth Avenue. He concluded to walk the remainder of the way.

As he was walking up Madison Avenue, his attention was drawn to a little girl in charge of a nursemaid. The latter met an acquaintance and forgot her charge. The little girl, left to herself, attempted to cross the street just as a private carriage was driven rapidly up the avenue. The driver was looking away, and it seemed as if, through the double neglect of the driver and the nurse, the poor child would be crushed beneath the hoofs of the horses and the wheels of the carriage.

CHAPTER x.x.x. A BRAVE DEED.

Hector's heart stood still as he realized the peril of the child. He dashed forward on the impulse of the moment, and barely succeeded in catching up the little girl and drawing her back out of harm's way.

The driver, who had done his best to rein up his horses, but without success, e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed with fervent grat.i.tude, for he, too, had a child of his own about the age of the little girl, "G.o.d bless you, boy."

The little girl seemed less concerned than anyone of the spectators. She put her hand confidently in Hector's, and said: "Take me to Mary."

"And who is Mary?" asked Hector, kindly.

He did not require an answer, for the nurse, who, rather late in the day, had awakened to the fact that her charge was in danger, came running forward, crying: "Oh! Miss Gracie, what made you run away?"

"The little girl would have been killed but for this boy's timely help,"