"My new clerk, Henry? I don't understand you."

"Ben, show your letter."

"That is a forgery," said the uncle rather indignantly.

Poor Ben! Manly as he was, he felt ready to cry.

"I am sorry," he said faltering.

"Have you any idea who wrote it?" asked Mr. Porter.

"Yes," answered Ben. "It's Sam Archer."

"In fun?"

"No, in spite. He is always glad to injure me."

"What can be his motive?"

Ben explained his relations with Sam.

"Do you need the position?" asked Mr. Porter.

"Yes, sir, I am poor, and can ill afford the money I have spent in coming to Boston. Sam knows this, and it is mean for him, a rich boy, to fool me so."

Mr. Porter was a kind-hearted man. More than once he had kept on a clerk whom he did not need.

"Go into the store a minute, my boy," he said, "while I speak with my nephew."

Of course Ben obeyed.

"What do you think of this boy, Henry?"

"I think very favorably of him. He seems honest and straightforward, and I think he is smart."

"I like his looks myself; I wish we had a vacancy."

"We shall have very soon."

"To whom do you refer?"

"Frank Robinson is going to leave at the beginning of next month.

His father thinks it will be better for him to go to school a year or two longer."

"So you would recommend hiring this boy?"

"Yes, sir; I have so good an opinion of him that I am quite willing to guarantee him. If you will take him on immediately, I will myself pay his wages till the end of the month, when Robinson leaves."

"Bravo, Henry! That shows a kind heart. I won't accept that, but will give you leave to help him outside as much as you please."

Chapter XXV

Sam Gives Himself Away

Ben was looking with interest at a row of new books when he was summoned into the private office.

"My young friend," said Mr. Porter, senior, "we are not responsible for the letter that brought you here."

"No, sir," said Ben. "I am sorry to have troubled you. I'll go home this afternoon."

He looked sober enough, poor Ben, for it would not be pleasant facing his aunt and friends in Milltown, and explaining matters.

Even the "licking" which he determined to give Sam Archer, if he should prove the author of the decoy letter, would be a poor satisfaction.

"You may as well stay," said Mr. Porter. "My nephew thinks we can find a place for you in the store."

"Will you really take me?" asked Ben.

"We will try you. My nephew thinks you will suit us."

"Thank you, sir," said Ben warmly.

"Your friend, who wrote the letter, will be rather disappointed, eh?"

said young Porter, smiling.

"Yes," said Ben, who could smile now. "I should like to see him when he learns that his malicious letter has procured me a situation.

"What do we pay you Robinson?"

"Six dollars a week."

"Then Benjamin shall have the same. He has no knowledge of the business, to be sure----"

"I will have soon," said Ben confidently.

"That's right, my lad. Make yourself useful to us, and you won't have cause to regret it."

He was set to work dusting books, and young Porter went to his own desk; he was chief bookkeeper.

"When the store closes," he said, "come to me. I shall take you to my room to-night."

In the evening, at his friend's room, Ben wrote the following letter to his friend, James Watson:

"Boston, July 18, 19--.