James Martin, after his unsatisfactory interview with Rough and Ready, found it necessary to make some plans for the future. He had been forced to leave the rooms in Leonard Street; he had no longer the newsboy's earnings to depend upon, and, disagreeable as it was to work for his own living, there really seemed no other way open to him. On the whole, as he had no home and no money, he was not particular about resuming the care of Rose at once.

He was willing that her brother should retain the charge of her at present at his own expense, but none the less was he angry with Rough and Ready for defying his authority.

"I'll get hold of the girl yet, in spite of him," he said to himself. "He'll find out what I am before I get through with him."

In the mean time, he thought of the work which had been offered him in Brooklyn, and resolved, as a matter of necessity, to go over and see if he could not effect an engagement. The new houses he remembered were on Fourth Avenue, in Brooklyn. He did not know exactly where, but presumed he could find out.

He crossed Fulton Ferry, luckily having two cents about him. Fourth Avenue is situated in that part of Brooklyn which is known as Gowanus, and is at least two miles from the ferry. The fare by the horse-cars was six cents, but James Martin had only three left after paying his ferriage. He could not make up his mind to walk, however, and got into the Greenwood cars, resolved to trust his luck. The cars started, and presently the conductor came round.

Martin put his hand into his pocket unconcernedly, and, starting in apparent surprise, felt in the other.

"Some rascal must have picked my pocket," he said. "My pocket-book is gone."

"How much money did you have in it?" asked his next neighbor.

"Forty-five dollars and twenty-five cents," said Martin, with unblushing falsehood. "It's pretty hard on a poor man."

The conductor looked rather incredulous, observing his passenger's red nose, and that his breath was mingled with fumes of whiskey.

"I'm sorry for you if you've lost your pocket-book," he said; "but can't you raise six cents?"

Martin again thrust his hand into his pocket, and drew out three cents.

"That's all I've got left," he said. "You'll have to take me for half price."

"Contrary to orders," said the conductor. "Couldn't do it."

"What am I to do then?"

"If you can't pay your fare, you'll have to get off the cars."

"It seems to me you're rather hard," said a passenger.

"I have to obey orders," said the conductor. "I don't make the regulations myself."

"If you will allow me," said a lady opposite, "I will pay your fare, sir."

"Thank you, ma'am," said Martin. "I'll accept your kind offer, though I wouldn't need to be beholden to anybody, if it hadn't been for my loss. It's pretty hard on a poor man," he added, complainingly.

"Will you accept a trifle towards making up your loss?" said an old gentleman, who had more benevolence than penetration.

"Thank you, sir," said James Martin, accepting the two-dollar bill which was tendered him, without feeling the least delicacy in so doing.

"You're very kind. I wouldn't take it if I hadn't been so unfortunate."

"You're quite welcome," said the old gentleman, kindly. "You'd better report your loss to the police."

"So I shall, as soon as I return to-night."

James Martin looked round among the other passengers, hoping that some one else might be induced to follow the example of the charitable old gentle man. But he was disappointed. There was some thing about his appearance, which was not exactly engaging or attractive, and his red nose inspired suspicions that his habits were not quite what they ought to have been. In fact, there was more than one passenger who had serious doubts as to the reality of his loss.

When the cars reached the entrance of Fourth Avenue, Martin descended, and walked up the street.

"Well," he said, chuckling, as he drew out the bill from his pocket, "I'm in luck. I'd like to meet plenty as soft-headed as that old chap that gave it to me. He swallowed down my story, as if it was gospel. I'll try it again some time when I'm hard up."

Martin began to consider whether, having so large a sum on hand, he had not better give up the idea of working till the next day; but the desire to find himself in a position in which he could regain Rose prevailed over his sluggishness, and he decided to keep on.

He had not far to walk. He soon came in sight of a row of wooden houses which were being erected, and, looking about him, he saw the man he had met in the streets of New York only a day or two before.

"Hallo, Martin!" he called out, seeing the new arrival; "have you come over to help us?"

"Do you need any help?" asked Martin.

"Badly. One of my men is sick, and I am shorthanded."

"What do you give?"

"Two dollars a day."

Wages are higher now, but this was before the war.

"Come, what do you say?"

"Well, I might as well," said Martin.

"Then I'll tell you what I would like to have you begin on."

The directions were given, and James Martin set to work. He was in reality an excellent workman, and the only thing which had reduced him to his present low fortune was the intemperate habits which had for years been growing upon him. Mr. Blake, the contractor, himself a master carpenter, understood this, and was willing to engage him, because he knew that his work would be done well as long as he was in a fit condition to work.

Martin kept at work till six o'clock, when all the workmen knocked off work. He alone had no boarding-place to go to.

"Where do you board, Tarbox?" he asked of a fellow-workman.

"In Eighth Street," he answered.

"Is it a good place?"

"Fair."

"Who keeps the house?"

"Mrs. Waters."

"What do you pay?"

"Four dollars a week."

This again was lower than the price which mechanics have to pay now.

"Is there room for another?"

"Yes, the old lady'll be glad to get another. Will you come?"

"Well, I'll try it."

So James Martin walked home with Tarbox, and was introduced to Mrs. Waters,—a widow who looked as if it required hard work and anxious thought to keep her head above water. Of course she was glad to get another boarder, and her necessities were such that she could not afford to be particular, or possibly Mr. Martin's appearance might have been an objection.

"I suppose," she said, "you won't have any objection to go in with Mr. Tarbox."

"No," said Martin, "not at present; but I may be bringing my little girl over here before long. Do you think you can find room for her?"

"She might sleep with my little girl," said Mrs. Waters; "that is, if you don't object. How old is she?"

"She is seven."

"And my Fanny is eight. They'd be company for each other."

"My little girl is in New York, at present," said Mr. Martin, "stopping with—with a relative. I shall leave her there for a while."

"You can bring her any time, Mr. Martin," said Mrs. Waters. "If you will excuse me now, I will go and see about the supper."

In ten minutes the bell rang, and the boarders went down to the basement to eat their supper.

Considering Mrs. Waters' rate of board, which has already been mentioned, it will hardly be expected that her boarding establishment was a very stylish one. Indeed, style would hardly have been appreciated by the class of boarders which patronized her. A table, covered with a partially dirty cloth, stood in the centre of the room. On this were laid out plates and crockery of common sort, and a good supply of plain food, including cold meat. Mrs. Waters found that her boarders were more particular about quantity than quality, and the hearty appetite which they brought with them after a day's work in the open air caused them to make serious inroads even upon the most bountiful meal which she could spread before them.

James Martin surveyed the prospect with satisfaction. He had lived in a slip-shod manner for some months, and the table set by Mrs. Waters, humble as it was, seemed particularly attractive. On the whole, he could not help feeling that it was better than Leonard Street. Indeed, he felt in particularly good spirits. He had two dollars in his pocket, and had worked three quarters of a day, thus earning a dollar and a half, though he would not be paid for his labor till the end of the week. The thought did come to him once, that after all he was well rid of Rose, as she would be an expense to him, and this expense the newsboy had voluntarily assumed. Now he had only himself to take care of. Why should he not give up the thought of reclaiming her?

But then, on the other hand, Rough and Ready's independent course had offended him, and he felt a desire to "come up" with him. He knew that nothing would strike the newsboy a severer blow than to deprive him of his sister, and leave him in uncertainty as to her fate. Revenge he felt would be sweet, and he fully determined that he would have revenge.

"Let him look out for himself!" said James Martin. "I'll plague him yet. He'll be sorry for his cursed impudence, or my name isn't James Martin."

After supper Martin strolled out, and was not long in finding a liquor-shop. Here he supplied himself with a vile draught, that had the effect of making his red nose yet redder when he appeared at the breakfast-table the next morning. However, he didn't drink to excess, and was able to resume work the following day.

We must now leave him, awhile, and turn to little Rose and her brother.