It was a bright, pleasant morning when Andy left Seneca for the town of Cato, where his great-uncle lived. He had arrived in Seneca the evening previous, and passed the night at the village inn, where he had obtained two meals and lodging for seventy-five cents.

“Where be you going?” asked the landlord—a stout and good-natured looking man.

“I guess I’ll travel a little further,” said Andy, smiling.

For obvious reasons he did not like to say he was going to Cato, as the inquisitive landlord would undoubtedly ask him why.

“Ain’t you got no folks?”

“I have no wife and family,” said Andy, laughing.

“Sho, that isn’t what I mean! Isn’t your father or mother living?”

“Yes; I have a mother.”

“Where does she live?”

“Down East.”

“I s’pose you’re seeking your fortune, ain’t you?”

“A little of that,” said Andy; “but, you see, I like to travel.”

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do. You seem a spry, active boy. If you’ll stay here and make yourself useful about the house and stable, I’ll give you all you can eat and five dollars a month. Now, what do you say?”

“I wouldn’t mind working for you,” said Andy, “only I want to travel a little further.”

“‘A rolling stone gathers no moss,’ as the schoolmaster says.”

“That is true. But, you see, I am not ready to settle down yet. I’m much obliged to you for you kind offer!”

“You talk as if you’d got money. A boy like you wouldn’t give up a good place if he didn’t see his way clear enough to eat.”

“I’m not very rich, Mr. Jenkins, but I am not afraid of starving. Perhaps I will stop on my way back.”

“That’s right; but you’d better stay now.”

“On the whole,” thought Andy, “I think I could get something to do if I needed it. I have no doubt I should find the good-natured landlord a pleasanter man to work for than Mr. Brackett; but I must not forget my errand.”

So Andy began to trudge along the road toward Cato. It was rather a lonely road, with only here and there a house, but there were signboards, so that there was no danger of losing the way. Andy took it easy, now and then throwing himself down by the side of the road to rest.

“I’ve got all day before me,” he reflected. “There’s no need to hurry and use myself up.”

So it happened that it took him four hours to accomplish ten miles. By this time he was quite hungry, and would have been glad to come across a hotel. There was none, however, short of Cato, and Andy didn’t think he could wait till then before satisfying his hunger.

It was at this point that he saw approaching him a boy, apparently about his own age, with a shock of bright red hair, a freckled face, and a suit of clothes of unknown antiquity. He, too, had a small bundle, put up in a red cotton handkerchief.

“Must be my twin brother!” thought Andy. “I’ll speak to him.”

The newcomer stared at Andy, but whether he would have spoken is not quite certain, if our hero had not taken the initiative.

“Good-morning, Johnny!” said Andy.

“My name ain’t Johnny; it’s Peter. Who be you?” returned the other.

“I’m a traveler, just at present,” answered Andy.

“They calls ’em tramps round our way,” said Peter.

“Then I suppose you’re a tramp,” said Andy.

“That’s so, and I’m blest if I like it!”

“Where do you come from?”

“From Cato.”

“Just what I wanted,” thought Andy. “He can give me some information. Won’t you sit down and rest a little while with me?”

“I dunno but I will. Where are you goin’?” asked Peter, his face expressing curiosity.

“What is the nearest place?”

“Cato.”

“Then I guess I’ll go there.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Don’t you like the place?”

“The place is good enough; but I worked for an awful mean man.”

“Who was it?” asked Andy, with a presentiment of what the answer might be.

“His name is Brackett. Ain’t he mean, though? But his wife’s jest as bad. Jaw, jaw, jaw, all the time! I couldn’t stand it, so I left.”

“That’s encouraging,” thought Andy. “Was there any one else in the family?”

“There was four children—reg’lar terrors! I’d like to choke ’em.”

“Come, Peter, you’re not in earnest?”

“Ain’t I, though! They’re the wust behaved youngsters I ever come across.”

“I suppose there was no one else in the family?”

“Yes, there was an old gentleman—a nice old man, he was! I wouldn’t have minded workin’ for him. He always had a good word for me, but old Brackett and his wife was scoldin’ all the time.”

“What was the name of the old man?”

“Mr. Dodge. I guess it’s he that owns the property; but Lor’! he don’t have anything to say about it. Brackett and his wife have things all their own way.”

“How long were you working for Mr. Brackett?”

“About six weeks.”

“I suppose he paid you well?”

“Paid me well!” repeated Peter, scornfully. “How much do you calc’late he paid me?”

“About two dollars a week,” said Andy, demurely.

Peter burst into a scornful laugh.

“Much you know old Brackett, if you think he’d pay that figger,” he said. “He paid me seventy-five cents a week, and kept groanin’ over the big wages he was a-payin’! He wanted to get me for fifty cents!”

“He is certainly not a very generous man, Peter.”

“No; I guess not.”

“Did you save enough to retire on a fortune?” asked Andy, laughing.

Poor Peter looked sad.

“Blest if I’ve got more’n twenty-five cents in the world!” he said; “and I’m awful hungry.”

“So am I, Peter. But I don’t see any chance to get dinner, even if we had ever so much money.”

“We could git some over yonder,” said Peter, pointing to a farmhouse some way back from the road. “Only we might have to pay for it.”

“Then come along,” said Andy. “Let’s go there.”

Peter hung back.

“You see, I don’t want to spend all my money,” he said. “I ain’t got but twenty-five cents.”

“It shan’t cost you a cent. I will pay for both our dinners.”

“You will?” exclaimed Peter, gladly. “Have you got money enough?”

“Oh, yes, I’ve got enough for that.”

“Then, come along!”

Five minutes later they were knocking at the door of the farmhouse.

A woman, who had evidently been busy getting dinner, her face being flushed with the heat of the kitchen stove, came to the door and surveyed the boys with suspicion.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“Madam,” said Andy, pulling off his hat politely, “my friend and I are hungry, and——”

“We ain’t got anything for tramps,” said the woman, sourly.

“But,” said Andy, in unfailing good humor, “we are not what you suppose.”

“You mean to say you ain’t tramps? I’ll bet a ninepence that you’d steal the spoons, jest as soon as my back was turned.”

Peter was about to return an angry answer, but Andy checked him.

“We don’t want you to give us a dinner,” he said; “but to sell us one. I have money and will pay you in advance if you like.”

The woman—by the way, she was a close-fisted widow, who was always ready to turn a penny, but not to give even a penny’s worth away—was surprised and incredulous.

“Have you any money?” she asked.

“To be sure! How much shall I pay you?” and Andy brought out his pocket-book.

“A quarter apiece, I reckon. I’ve only got sassidges and pie for dinner, but it ought to be wuth that.”

Andy was not over fond of sausages, but the smell of them frying was particularly appetizing just then, and he very readily produced half a dollar and put it into the hands of the Widow Simpson.

“Step right in,” said the widow, with sudden civility. “Dinner will be ready in a jiffy. Here, you Mary Ann, dish up them sassidges, and fry some more. There’s two young gentlemen goin’ to dine with us.”

“We were tramps a minute ago,” thought Andy, amused.