The conductor waited while Grit was searching for his ticket. He was not the same one who started with the train, so that he could not know whether our hero had shown a ticket earlier in the journey.

"I can't find my ticket or my money," said Grit, perplexed.

"Then you will have to leave the train at the next station," said the conductor suspiciously.

"It is very important that I should proceed on my journey," pleaded Grit. "I will give you my name, and send you the money."

"That won't do, youngster," said the conductor roughly. "I have heard of that game before. It won't go down."

"There is no game about it," said Grit. "My ticket and pocketbook have been stolen."

"Of course," sneered the conductor. "Perhaps you can point out the thief."

"No, I can't, for he has left the train. He got out at Exeter."

"Very likely. You can take the next train back and find him."

"Do you doubt that I had a ticket?" asked Grit, nettled by the conductor's evident incredulity.

"Yes, I do, if you want the truth. You want to steal a ride; that's what's the matter."

"That is not true," said Grit. "I am sure some of these passengers have seen me show my ticket. Didn't you, sir?"

He addressed this question to a stout old gentleman who sat in the seat behind him.

"Really, I couldn't say," answered the old gentleman addressed. "I was reading my paper, and didn't take notice."

The conductor looked more incredulous than ever.

"I can't waste any more time with you, young man," he said. "At the next station you must get out."

Grit was very much disturbed. It was not pleasant to be left penniless at a small station, but if he had been left alone he would not have cared so much. But to have the custody of thirty thousand dollars' worth of government bonds, under such circumstances, was certainly embarrassing. He could not get along without money, and for a tramp without money to be in charge of such a treasure was ample cause of suspicion.

What could he do?

The train was already going slower, and it was evident that the next station was near at hand.

Grit was trying in vain to think of some way of securing a continuation of his journey, when a stout, good-looking lady of middle age, who sat just opposite, rose from her seat and seated herself beside him.

"You seem to be in trouble," she said kindly.

"Yes, ma'am," answered Grit. "My ticket and money have been stolen, and the conductor threatens to put me off the train."

"So I heard. Who do you think robbed you?"

"The man who sat beside me and got out at Exeter."

"I noticed him. I wonder you didn't detect him in the act of robbing you."

"So do I," answered Grit. "He must be a professional. All the same, I am ashamed of being so taken in."

"I heard you say it was important for you to reach Boston."

"It is," said Grit.

He was about to explain why, when it occurred to him that it would not be prudent in a crowded car, which might contain suspicious and unprincipled persons, to draw attention to the nature of his packet.

"I can't explain why just at present," he said; "but if any one would lend me money to keep on my journey I would willingly repay the loan two for one."

At this point the train came to a stop, and the conductor, passing through the car, addressed Grit:

"Young man, you must get out at this station."

"No, he needn't," said the stout lady decidedly. "Here, my young friend, pay your fare out of this," and she drew from a pearl portemonnaie a ten-dollar bill.

Grit's heart leaped for joy. It was such an intense relief.

"How can I ever thank you?" he said gratefully, as he offered the change to his new friend.

"No," she said; "keep the whole. You will need it, and you can repay me whenever you find it convenient."

"That will be as soon as I get home," said Grit promptly. "I have the money there."

"That will be entirely satisfactory."

"Let me know your name and address, madam," said Grit, taking out a small memorandum-book, "so that I may know where to send."

"Mrs. Jane Bancroft, No. 37 Mount Vernon Street," said the lady.

Grit noted it down.

"Let me tell you mine," he said. "My name is Harry Morris, and I live in the town of Chester, in Maine."

"Chester? I know that place. I have a cousin living there, or, rather, I should say, a cousin of my late husband."

"Who is it, Mrs. Bancroft?" asked Grit. "I know almost everybody in the village."

"Mr. Courtney. I believe he has something to do with the bank."

"Yes, he is a director. He was once president."

"Exactly. Do you know him?"

"Yes, ma'am. I saw him only a day or two before I left."

"I presume you know his son Philip, also."

"Oh, yes, I know Phil," said Grit.

"Is he a friend of yours?" asked the lady curiously.

"No, I can't say that. We don't care much for each other."

"And whose fault is that?" asked the lady, smiling.

"I don't think it is mine. I have always treated Phil well enough, but he doesn't think me a suitable associate for him."

"Why?"

"Because I am poor, while he is the son of a rich man."

"That is as it may be," said the lady, shrugging her shoulders. "Money sometimes has wings. So you are not rich?"

"I have to work for a living."

"What do you do?"

"I ferry passengers across the Kennebec, and in that way earn a living for my mother and myself."

"Do you make it pay?"

"I earn from seven to ten dollars a week."

"That is doing very well for a boy of your age. What sort of a boy is Phil? Is he popular?"

"I don't think he is."

"Why?"

"He is your nephew, Mrs. Bancroft, and I don't like to criticize him."

"Never mind that. Speak freely."

"He puts on too many airs to be popular. If he would just forget that his father is a rich man, and meet the rest of the boys on an equality, I think we should like him well enough."

"That is just the opinion I have formed of him. Last winter he came to make me a visit, but I found him hard to please. He wanted a great deal of attention, and seemed disposed to order my servants about, till I was obliged to check him."

"I remember hearing him say he was going to visit a rich relative in Boston," said Grit.

Mrs. Bancroft smiled.

"It was all for his own gratification, no doubt," she said. "So your name is Harry Morris?"

"Yes, but I am usually called Grit."

"A good omen. It is a good thing for any boy—especially a poor boy—to possess grit. Most of our successful men were poor boys, and most of them possessed this quality."

"You encourage me, Mrs. Bancroft," said our hero. "I want to succeed in life, for my mother's sake especially."

"I think you will; I have little knowledge of you, but you seem like one born to prosper. How long are you going to stay in Boston?"

"Till to-morrow, at any rate."

"You will be in the city overnight, then. Where did you think of staying?"

"At the Parker House."

"It is an expensive hotel. You had better stay at my house."

"At your house?" exclaimed Grit, surprised.

"Yes; I may want to ask more questions about Chester. We have tea at half-past six. That will give you plenty of time to attend to your business. I shall be at home any time after half-past five. Will you come?"

"With pleasure," said Grit politely.

"Then I will expect you."

Mrs. Bancroft returned to her seat. Our hero mentally congratulated himself on making so agreeable and serviceable a friend.

"What will Phil say when he learns that I have been the guest of his fashionable relatives in Boston?" thought he.

In due time the train reached Boston, and Grit lost no time in repairing to the bank.