"I expect to get about twenty dollars for sewing next week. One of the ladies I work for is out of town, but is coming back on Wednesday."

"All right--take your time. When will you move? Maybe I can help carry some things for you."

"I've a good mind to move this afternoon. Those other rooms are all ready."

"Then do it, and I'll pitch right in," and in fun the young oarsman picked up several chairs.

"I will. Will you be kind enough to stay with Tommy a few minutes?"

"Certainly."

Nellie Ardell went off at once, and was back in ten minutes. When she returned she had rented three small rooms for less money than she now paid.

She had not many articles of furniture and it did not seem the least bit like working to our hero to a.s.sist her in transferring them across the way. The two worked together, and as they labored they talked, Jerry telling her a good deal about his mission to New York and the girl relating her own experiences in keeping the wolf from the door.

"We were not always poor," said Nellie Ardell. "When father was alive we lived in our own home in Brooklyn. But he grew interested in a Western land scheme and it took all of his money."

"That was our trouble. I came to New York to see what I could do toward making Alexander Sloc.u.m give an accounting of the money he put in a California land scheme for my uncle."

"Why, my father was in Sloc.u.m's land scheme!" she e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed.

"Perhaps it was the same. This land scheme I speak of was called the Judge Martin--why, I don't know."

"It is the same. It was so called because the land once belonged to a Judge Martin of Colorado."

Of course, Jerry was deeply interested, and, the moving finished, he and she sat down to talk the matter over.

From what our hero learned of Nellie Ardell he came to the conclusion that Alexander Sloc.u.m was every inch the villain he had taken him to be.

The real estate dealer had hoodwinked the girl completely, and she had surrendered to him all the doc.u.ments her parent had left behind at the time of his death.

"It's too bad," said Jerry. "We must work together against him. But nothing can be done until my missing papers are recovered."

Before he left, another matter was discussed and settled. In her new quarters Nellie Ardell had a small room she did not really need, and she offered to board Jerry at three dollars and a half a week. As this would be an acceptable saving just at present, our hero accepted the offer and agreed to make the change on the following Monday.

Sunday pa.s.sed quietly. Jerry spent part of the day in writing a long letter home, telling the folks just how matters stood and urging them not to worry, as he felt certain all would come out right in the end, and that he was quite content to remain in New York and support himself until he had settled matters with Alexander Sloc.u.m. The letter was finished late in the afternoon, and after taking supper he went out to post it.

The novelty of life in the city had not yet pa.s.sed, and, the letter put into a corner box, the young oarsman sauntered on and on, taking in the many strange sights.

He had gone a distance of half a dozen blocks when he came to a church.

The doors were wide open, and as the congregation were singing, he stopped to listen to the music.

When the music stopped, our hero pa.s.sed on down the street, which seemed to grow poorer as he advanced. The new houses gave place to those that were very old, and on all sides Jerry could see the effects of grinding poverty.

"It's a great city," he thought. "And it is true that one half doesn't know how the other half lives."

"Please, mister, will you give me five cents?"

Jerry stopped in his walk and looked down to see who had addressed him. It was a little girl, and she was crying bitterly.

"Five cents?" he repeated.

"Yes, mister; please don't say no. I've asked so many for the money already and they won't give me a cent."

"What are you going to do with five cents?"

"I've got to bring it home to daddy."

"To daddy--you mean your father?"

"He's a sort of a father, but he's not my real papa," sobbed the little girl. "He took me when papa died."

"What does your--your daddy want with the five cents?"

At this question the little girl's face flushed.

"I--I daren't tell you--daddy would whip me," she whimpered.

"Does he drink?"

"I daren't tell you."

"Does he send you out very often to beg?"

"He sends me out when he's--when he's--but I daren't tell you. He would whip me most to death."

"Where do you live?"

"Over there."

And the little girl pointed to a long row of rear tenements, the very worst-looking in the neighborhood.

"And what is daddy's name?"

"His real name is James MacHenry, but the folks around here all call him Crazy Jim," she answered.

Jerry started back in surprise. Crazy Jim was the tramp who had been seen walking off with his packet of doc.u.ments!

"So you live with Crazy Jim?" said our hero, to the little girl, slowly.

"Yes, sir."

"How long have you lived with him?"

"Oh, a long while, sir."

"Take me to him."

At this request she drew back in horror.