After parting with Allan Roscoe and Guy, Hector kept on his way downtown. He did not expect to meet any more acquaintances, but he was again to be surprised. Standing on the sidewalk having his boots blacked, he recognized the schoolfellow he had least reason to like—Jim Smith.

“What brings Jim here?” he asked himself, in some surprise.

He did not feel inclined to go up and claim acquaintance, but it chanced that he became witness of a piece of meanness characteristic of Jim.

When the young bootblack had finished polishing his shoes, he waited for his customary fee.

Jim fumbled in his pockets, and finally produced two cents.

“There, boy,” he said, placing them in the hand of the disgusted knight of the brush.

“What’s that for?” he asked.

“It’s your pay.”

“Look here, mister, you’ve made a mistake; here’s only two cents.”

“I know it.”

“Do you think I work for any such price as that?”

“Perhaps you expect a dollar!” sneered Jim.

“No, I don’t; but a nickel’s my lowest price. Plenty of gentlemen give me a dime.”

“That’s too much; I’ve paid you all I’m going to.”

“Wait a minute. That boot don’t look as well as the other.”

Jim unsuspiciously allowed the boy to complete his work, but he had occasion to regret it. The bootblack hastily rubbed his brush in the mud on the sidewalk and daubed it on one of Jim’s boots, quite effacing the shine.

“There, that’ll do,” he said, and, scrambling to his feet, ran round the corner.

Then, for the first time, Jim looked down, and saw what the boy had done. He uttered an exclamation of disgust and looked round hastily to see where the offender had betaken himself. His glance fell upon Hector, who was quietly looking on, and not without a sense of enjoyment.

It often happens that we greet cordially those for whom we have even a feeling of aversion when we meet them unexpectedly away from our usual haunts. Jim, who was beginning to regret that circumstances had forced him to leave the serene sanctuary of Smith Institute, since now he would be under the necessity of making his own living, was glad to see our hero.

“Is it you, Roscoe?” he said, eagerly.

“Yes,” answered Hector, coolly.

“What are you doing?”

“Walking about the city, just at present.”

“Suppose we go together.”

Hector hardly knew how to refuse, and the two boys kept down Broadway in company.

“You’re surprised to see me, ain’t you?” asked Jim.

“Rather so.”

“You see, I got tired of the school. I’ve been there three years, so I told my uncle I would come to New York and see if I couldn’t get work.”

“I hope you may succeed,” said Hector, for he would not allow his dislikes to carry him too far. He felt that there was room in the world for Jim and himself, too.

“Are you going to work?” asked Jim.

“I hope so.”

“Got anything in view?”

“Not exactly.’”

“It would be a good thing if we could get into the same place.”

“Do you say that because we have always agreed so well?” asked Hector, amused.

“We may be better friends in future,” said Jim, with a grin.

Hector was judiciously silent.

“Where are you staying?”

“Up on Forty-second Street.”

“That’s a good way uptown, isn’t it?”

“Yes, pretty far up.”

“Are you boarding?”

“No; I am visiting some friends.”

“Couldn’t you get me in there as one of your school friends?”

This question indicated such an amount of assurance on the part of his old enemy that at first Hector did not know how to reply in fitting terms.

“I couldn’t take such a liberty with my friends,” he said. “Besides, it doesn’t strike me that we were on very intimate terms.”

But Jim was not sensitive to a rebuff.

“The fact is,” he continued, “I haven’t got much money, and it would be very convenient to visit somebody. Perhaps you could lend me five dollars?”

“I don’t think I could. I think I shall have to say good-morning.”

“I can’t make anything out of him,” said Jim to himself, philosophically. “I wonder if he’s got any money. Uncle Socrates told me his uncle had cast him off.”

Going up Broadway instead of down, it was not long before Jim met Allan Roscoe and Guy, whom he immediately recognized. Not being troubled with immodesty, he at once walked up to Mr. Roscoe and held out his hand.

“Good-morning, Mr. Roscoe!” he said, in an ingratiating voice.

“Good-morning, young man. Where have I met you?” asked Allan Roscoe, puzzled.

“At Smith Institute. I am the nephew of Mr. Smith.”

“What! Not the nephew who—”

Mr. Roscoe found it hard to finish the sentence. He didn’t like to charge Jim with stealing to his face.

“I know what you mean,” said Jim, boldly. “I am the one whom your nephew charged with taking money which he took himself. I don’t want to say anything against him, as he is your nephew, but he is an artful young—but no matter. You are his uncle.”

“He is not my nephew, but was only cared for by my brother,” said Allan Roscoe. “You may tell me freely, my good fellow, all the truth. You say that Hector stole the money which your uncle lost.”

“Yes; but he has made my uncle believe that I took it. It is hard upon me,” said Jim, pathetically, “as I was dependent upon my uncle. I have been driven forth into the cold world by my benefactor because your nephew prejudiced his mind against me.”

“I believe him, papa,” said Guy, who was only too glad to believe anything against Hector. “I have thought all along that Hector was guilty.”

“Is that your son?” asked the crafty Jim. “I wish he had come to the institute, instead of Hector. He is a boy that I couldn’t help liking.”

There are few who are altogether inaccessible to flattery. At any rate, Guy was not one of this small number.

“I feel sure you are not guilty,” said Guy, regarding Jim graciously. “It was a very mean thing in Hector to get you into trouble.”

“It was, indeed,” said Jim. “I am cast out of my uncle’s house, and now I have no home, and hardly any money.”

“Hector is in the city. Have you seen him?” asked Allan Roscoe.

“Yes; I met him a few minutes since.”

“Did you speak to him?”

“Yes; I reproached him for getting me into trouble, but he only laughed in my face. He told me he hated you both,” added Jim, ingenuously.

“Just like Hector!” said Guy. “What have I always told you, papa?”

“I am sorry you have suffered such injustice at the hands of anyone in any way connected with my family,” said Mr. Roscoe, who, like Guy, was not indisposed to believe anything to the discredit of Hector. “I do not feel responsible for his unworthy acts, but I am willing to show my sympathy by a small gift.”

He produced a five-dollar note and put it into Jim’s ready hand.

“Thank you, sir,” he said. “You are a gentleman.”

So the interview closed, and Jim left the spot, chuckling at the manner in which he had wheedled so respectable a sum out of Allan Roscoe.

Meanwhile Hector, after looking about him, turned, and, getting into a Broadway stage, rode uptown as far as Twenty-third Street, where the stage turned down toward Sixth Avenue. He concluded to walk the remainder of the way.

As he was walking up Madison Avenue, his attention was drawn to a little girl in charge of a nursemaid. The latter met an acquaintance and forgot her charge. The little girl, left to herself, attempted to cross the street just as a private carriage was driven rapidly up the avenue. The driver was looking away, and it seemed as if, through the double neglect of the driver and the nurse, the poor child would be crushed beneath the hoofs of the horses and the wheels of the carriage.