"You want to see me?" queried the latter with an expression in which the sunshine seemed overdue.

"Yes," answered Dennis as his employer stepped aside to hear what he had to say.

As Dennis proceeded the look of perplexity which he had noted upon the face of his listener seemed to give way to one of unmistakable relief, and when Dennis had stated his case he exclaimed: "Shure, now, it's an aisy way out av a bad muss, so it is. Here, Phil!" he shouted, turning to the young fellow in the background, who had witnessed this brief interview with scowling interest, "here, you two can t'row th' gloves down an' shake; Muldoon here wants to hand yure job back to ye."

At this announcement, the disfavor in the countenance of the other disappeared and was replaced by an expression which indicated that he regarded such liberality as something in the nature of a freak.

Some evidences of his debauch still clung to him.

His eyes were moist and heavy-lidded; his lips dry and tremulous, and the hand which he extended to Dennis shook somewhat.

"Come, now!" exclaimed the foreman, "that's well over"; and addressing the one he called Phil he added: "Now get to work."

Dennis looked his astonishment.

He had not calculated upon such a prompt acceptance of his resignation.

He felt that he presented an absurd appearance, and that the foreman did not appear to his usual bluff advantage.

"Come this way," said the latter to Dennis, who followed him into his office with a strange sinking at heart.

"I did not mean to hand over everything right off!" exclaimed Dennis.

"Well," replied the foreman, "Phil's wife came here early this mornin'

an' put up a few tears, an' Phil made all sorts av promises; an' you have no children an' he has, an--oh, the divil!" cried the foreman, weary of the series of explanations in which he was getting involved. "I can't kape th' two av ye, an' Phil there is an ould hand at th'

paint-pot."

"Then," cried Dennis, "you mean that I must leave at once?"

"That's about th' size of it."

"Why," exclaimed Dennis, indignant at this injustice, "I tried to be fair with you, and you haven't----"

"Here," interrupted the foreman, in evident haste to conclude a disagreeable interview; "there's no use talking about it, it's got to be done"; and turning to a drawer in the desk he extracted Monday's pay and placed it in the young man's hand.

At that moment a burly porter filled up the doorway.

"What is it?" asked the foreman, glad of the interruption, as he hastened, with unnecessary and suspicious promptness, to attend to the wants of the intruder.

In a little while Dennis realized that he waited in vain for the return of the foreman, and that, in so far as he was concerned, he was out of a job.

Dennis had been, at various times in his life, subjected to some rugged experiences, but could not recall any treatment quite so heartless as this.

It upset all his calculations.

He must exist somehow between the unhappy realities of the present and the blissful expectations of the approaching Monday.

He recalled, with the self-accusation of a repentant prodigal, his needlessly elaborate breakfast, the extravagance of the necktie.

His return led him past the cheap amusement district of the Bowery.

Never had their tawdry invitations seemed so alluring.

By that singular perversity which opens up every suggestion of riotous expenditure to destitution, the poor fellow felt inclined to indulge himself regardless.

An obese nymph pictured in the foam of a beer sign, apparently elaborated with a whitewash brush and finished in the throes of an epileptic fit, solicited a share of his patronage.

Long rows of slot machines offered all sorts of libidinous suggestions in placards, which proposed to debauch his morals for a penny a sight.

And with absurd propriety a vender of shoddy jewels presented the chance of his lifetime in bizarre decoration.

But somehow Dennis reached Broadway at last, and faced the unpleasant prospect of the next few days with despairing calculation.

As Dennis looked up and down this busy thoroughfare, with its thousands speeding oppositely in preoccupied interest, as if all that was vital and worthy was to be found at either extreme of its splendid distances, he paused for a moment to account his meager finances.

He found that he possessed just four one-dollar bills and about eighty cents in small change.

Since he was compelled to pay a half dollar each night in advance for his lodgings, a little over two dollars would remain to him.

With rigid economy and almost miserly abstemiousness this sum would suffice for his meals, unless he developed a mania for Delmonico's, and for his carfare, provided he did not venture outside the possibilities of the elevated.

As he was about to return his resources to his pocket there was a rattle and clamor up the street, and looking in that direction he beheld a glittering engine, drawn by a splendid team of white horses, speed along with plunging dash and portent rumble.

Along the sidewalk directly in his rear the usual mob of men and boys who have nothing more to do apparently than to attend fires and scramble with a morbid curiosity to behold the misery of some victim of accident, ran in scuffling uproar.

With a pathetic realization of his own idleness, Dennis turned to join the speeding throng, when suddenly he became aware of a desperate clutch at his hand, heard the rattle of scattering change at his feet, and felt the bills which he held slip away from his grasp and disappear in the rush.

It was over in a second. Apparently no one noticed him or his loss. He was as abandoned as the unfortunate marooned by rushing waters; as unheeded as a lame lamb in the multitude of the flock.

Not a head turned, and by the time he realized precisely what had happened and prepared to give chase to the thief, a score of other men and boys formed an unconscious barricade between the unfortunate boy and the rogue.

His suddenly created interest in the fire vanished and was replaced by the despair of his own disaster.

The nap of his providence was developing into a sound slumber, and since this deity never gets up before noon Dennis had still two hours of despair before him.

And what despair!

Of his pitiful hoard of a few moments since only a few dimes and nickels remained.

And just across the street was the Third National Bank with barrels of them.

The whimsies of the contrast almost amused him; but there was not enough of the Tapley about him to detect its humor.

Again he counted his resources.

Fifty-eight cents!

He could lodge to-night, at any rate, and dine on one of those sidewalk pretzels.

"The darkest hour is just before the dawn." Dennis tried to cheer himself with this reflection, but the only dawn upon which he could calculate was five days off.