Andy had to consider what name he would assume in place of his own.

His mother did not like the idea of his changing his name.

“It looks as if you had something to be ashamed of,” she said.

“But I haven’t, mother.”

“Generally, only criminals who are engaged in breaking the laws change their names,” persisted Mrs. Gordon.

“Do you think, mother,” laughed Andy, “that changing my name will make me a law-breaker?”

“No, Andy; but——”

“But, mother, it seems to be necessary. That man Brackett knows that uncle Simon has relations, and it is likely that he knows our name. If I should appear as Andy Gordon he would know the name, and be suspicious of me, so that I could not help uncle at all.”

Mrs. Gordon had to admit that Andy was right.

“I suppose it must be, then,” she said. “What name have you thought of?”

“I have not thought of any yet, but it can’t be very hard to find one. Names are plenty enough.”

This was true. Still, after suggesting a dozen, Andy seemed no nearer a choice than he had been in the first place.

“I’ll tell you what, mother,” he said at last. “Haven’t you an old paper here, somewhere?”

One was found.

“I am going to find a name somewhere in this paper,” said Andy, and forthwith he began to examine critically the crowded columns.

He paused at a paragraph, recording the bravery of a boy named Henry Miller, who had saved a younger boy from drowning, somewhere in Massachusetts. This struck Andy favorably.

“Mother,” he said, “let me introduce myself to you as Henry Miller.”

“Do you like the name?” asked his mother, doubtfully.

“Not particularly, but it is the name of a brave boy, and so is an honorable name. I shouldn’t like a bad name, like Benedict Arnold, for instance.”

“What did Henry Miller do?”

“He saved a boy from drowning.”

So it was decided that Andy, as soon as he left Hamilton, should be known as Henry Miller.

He had, as we know, intended to buy a new suit of clothes, but as he was about to assume the character of a poor boy, wandering about the country in search of employment, that would hardly be worth while.

He decided to wear his everyday clothes, and carry his best in a bundle, with some necessary underclothing.

Andy found on inquiry that the town of Cato, where his great-uncle lived, was nearly four hundred miles distant.

Of course, there would be no occasion to assume his character till he got nearly there.

From a railroad guide he ascertained the name of a place about fifteen miles from Cato, and bought a ticket to that place.

We will call this place Seneca, though that was not the name.

Before leaving Hamilton it was not only proper but incumbent on Andy to call on Dr. Euclid, and resign his post as janitor.

“Going to leave us, Andrew?” said the doctor, in a tone of regret. “I am sorry to hear it. Can’t you stay till the end of the term?”

“No, sir; I shall have to go at once,” answered Andy.

“If it is any money embarrassment,” said the doctor, kindly, “don’t let that influence you. I shall be very glad to assist you, if you will allow me.”

Dr. Euclid spoke in a tone of kindness and delicate sympathy which could hardly have been expected of the stern master at whose frown so many boys trembled.

Andy was exceedingly grateful, and felt that he ought to say so.

“Thank you for your great kindness, Dr. Euclid,” said Andy; “but it isn’t that—though it does relate to money. Though it is a secret, I have a great mind to tell you.”

“Do as you please, Andrew. I shall, of course, respect your confidence, and perhaps I may be able to advise you for your benefit.”

Upon this, Andy told the doctor the whole story, reading him his uncle’s letter, which he happened to have in his pocket.

“It is a serious undertaking, my boy,” said the doctor. “Do you think you are equal to it?”

“I may be self-conceited, Dr. Euclid, but I think I am,” answered Andy.

“I would not call it self-conceit,” said the doctor, slowly, “but a spirit of confidence which may be justified by events. Have you any plan of proceedings?”

“No, sir; except to follow uncle Simon’s instructions, and try to get a place in Mr. Brackett’s employ, where I can be ready to be of service.”

“I suspect you won’t find the place an easy one. Probably this Mr. Brackett will make you work hard.”

“I am afraid so,” laughed Andy; “but I will remember that I am working for a higher reward than the fifty cents a week which uncle writes that I may be paid.”

“On the whole,” said the doctor, “I think you are acting right. You have a good end in view, and, what is very important, you are leaving home with your mother’s knowledge and with her permission. Were it otherwise, I should think you were acting decidedly wrong.”

“I should not think of leaving home without mother’s permission,” said Andy, promptly.

“Quite right, my boy,” said the doctor, kindly. “I am sorry to say that in these days of juvenile independence not all boys are so considerate. Well, Andrew, you have my best wishes for your success. I hope we may soon see you home again, and your uncle with you.”

“That is what I shall try for,” answered Andy. “I would like to get him out of the clutches of that man Brackett.”

On his way home, Andy did not take the most direct route, but, crossing the fields, walked along the shores of Brewster’s Pond—a sheet of water only half a mile across, but quite deep in parts.

As he reached the shore of the pond, he heard a scream, and, quickly looking round, saw a boat, bottom up, and a boy clinging desperately to it. The boat was only a hundred and fifty feet away.

Andy was an expert swimmer, and he did not hesitate a moment. Throwing off his coat, he plunged into the water and swam out to the boat with a strong and sturdy stroke.

He reached the boy just in time, for he was about to let go his hold, his strength having been overtaxed.

Then, for the first time, Andy saw that the boy whom he was attempting to rescue was Herbert Ross.

“Rest your hand on my shoulder, Herbert,” he said, “but don’t grasp me so that I can’t swim.”

Herbert gladly obeyed instructions, and, with some difficulty, Andy helped him to land.

“Now, Herbert, go home at once, or you will catch your death of cold,” said Andy.

“I’m much obliged to you,” replied Herbert, shivering. “Here, take that.”

Andy could hardly believe his eyes when the boy, whose life he had saved, offered him a twenty-five cent piece.

“No, thank you!” he said, smiling. “I don’t need any reward.”

“I would rather you would take it.”

“It is quite impossible,” said Andy, shortly. “I advise you to go home as fast as you can.”

“What a mean boy!” exclaimed Mrs. Gordon, when Andy, who came home wet through, told her of the munificent sum offered him.

“I don’t know,” said Andy, smiling. “Herbert understands best the value of his own life. But, mother, now that this has happened, I shall feel quite justified in taking the name of Henry Miller, for I, too, have saved a boy from drowning.”

The next day he started on his journey.