"That looks as if it might suit my purse," thought Tom.

He walked in, and, approaching the desk, inquired: "How much do you charge at this hotel?"

"A dollar a day," answered the clerk. "Will you have a room?"

"Yes, sir."

"Please register your name." Tom did so.

"Cato," called the clerk--summoning a colored boy, about Tom's size--"take this young man to No. 18."

"All right, sar," said Cato, showing his ivories.

"When do you have dinner?" asked Tom.

"One o'clock."

Preceded by Cato, Tom walked up-stairs, and was ushered into a small, dingy room on the second floor. There was a single window, looking through dingy panes upon a back yard. There was a general air of cheerlessness and discomfort, but at any rate it was larger than the stateroom on the _River Belle_.

"Is this the best room you have?" asked Tom, not very favorably impressed.

"Oh, no, sar," answered Cato. "If your wife was with you, sar, we'd give you a scrumptious room, 'bout twice as big."

"I didn't bring my wife along, Cato," said Tom, amused. "Are you married?"

"Not yet, sar," answered his colored guide, with a grin.

"I think we can wait till we are a little older."

"Reckon so, sar."

"Just bring up a little water, Cato. I feel in need of washing."

"Dirt don't show on me," said Cato, with a guffaw.

"I suppose you do wash, now and then, don't you?"

"Yes, sar, sometimes," answered Cato equivocally.

When Tom had completed his toilet he found that it was but ten o'clock.

He accordingly went down-stairs, intending to see a little of the city before dinner.

CHAPTER XVI.

THE EVENTS OF A MORNING.

Graham and Vincent had kept quiet during the latter part of the voyage.

They had a wholesome fear of Mr. Waterbury, and kept aloof from him and Tom. They even exchanged their stateroom for one at a different part of the boat. All was satisfactory to Tom and his companion.

When the worthy pair reached Cincinnati they were hard up. Their united funds amounted to but seven dollars, and it seemed quite necessary that they should find the means of replenishing their purses somewhere. They managed to ascertain that Tom and his friend were going to separate, and this afforded them satisfaction, since it made their designs upon our hero more feasible. At a distance they followed Tom to the Alleghany House, and themselves took lodgings at a small, cheap tavern near-by.

Like Tom, they set out soon after their arrival in quest of adventure.

"We must strike a vein soon, Graham," said Vincent, "or we shall be in a tight place."

"That's so," answered Graham.

"Thus far our trip hasn't paid very well. It's been all outgo and no income."

"You're right, partner; but don't give up the ship," responded Graham, whose spirits returned, now that he was on dry land. "I've been in the same straits about once a month for the last five years."

"I've known you for three years, Graham, and, so far as my knowledge extends, I can attest the truth of what you say. By the way, you never say anything of your life before that date."

A shadow pa.s.sed over Graham's face.

"Because I don't care to think of it; I never talk of it," he said.

"Pshaw, man, we all of us have some ugly secrets. Suppose we confide in each other. Tell me your story, and I will tell you mine. It won't change my opinion of you."

"Probably not," said Graham. "Well, there is no use in holding back. For this once I will go back to the past. Five years ago I was a favorite in society. One day an acquaintance introduced me into a gambling house, and I tried my hand successfully. I went out with fifty dollars more than I brought in. It was an unlucky success, for it made me a frequent visitor. All my surplus cash found a market there, and when that was exhausted I borrowed from my employer."

"Without his knowledge?"

"Of course. For six months I evaded discovery. Then I was detected. My friends interceded, and saved me from the penitentiary, but I lost my situation, and was required to leave the city. I went to New York, tried to obtain a situation there, failed, and then adopted my present profession. I need not tell you the rest."

"My dear friend, I think I know the rest pretty well. But don't look sober. A fig for the past. What's the odds, as long as you're happy?"

"Are you happy?" inquired Graham.

"As long as I'm flush," answered Vincent, shrugging his shoulders. "I'm nearly dead-broke now, and of course I am miserable. However, my story comes next in order. I was a bank teller, appropriated part of the funds of the bank, fled with it, spent it, and then became an ornament to our common profession."

"Where was the bank?"

"In Canada. I haven't been there since. The climate don't suit me. It's bleak, but I fear it might prove too hot for me. Now we know each other."

"You don't allow it to worry you, Vincent," said Graham.

"No, I don't. Why should I? I let the dead past bury its dead, as Longfellow says, and act in the living present. That reminds me, we ought to be at work. I have a proposal to make. We won't hunt in couples, but separate, and each will try to bring home something to help the common fund. Is it agreed?"

"Yes."

"_Au revoir_, then!"

"That fellow has no conscience," thought Graham. "Mine is callous, but he goes beyond me. Perhaps he is the better off."