Henry Martin meanwhile had not stood still. Two years after Sam entered Mr. Brown's counting-room Henry became chief clerk in the office of his New York employer. Mr. Hamilton had permitted him to share in the general ventures of the firm, and this had enabled Henry, with his habits of prudence, combined with his savings from a largely increased salary, to lay up four thousand dollars, which were securely invested. His salary now was one hundred dollars a month, and he was promised, on the approaching first of January, further increase. His prudence, industry and self-denial had reaped their fitting reward.

He had never heard a word from Sam since the latter left New York for Boston.

It would be difficult to explain why Sam had not written, for he had learned to respect Henry, and to prize the traits he had formerly laughed at.

"I am afraid Sam has come to no good," Henry sometimes said to himself. "He was always a harum-scarum fellow, good-natured, but lazy and heedless. I wish I could do him a good turn. I have been so prospered that I could afford to help him along if I could only find him."

But months and years passed, and there were no tidings of Sam.

One day as Henry was engaged at his desk, a young man entered the counting-room. He was handsomely dressed, with a bright, intelligent look, and the appearance of one who was on good terms with the world. He glanced inquiringly at Henry, and then said: "Am I speaking to Mr. Henry Martin?"

"Yes, sir," said young Martin, politely. "What can I do for you?"

"I believe I used to know you, Mr. Martin," said Sam, smiling; for it was our old friend, the young outlaw.

"I beg your pardon," said Henry Martin; "I must apologize for my poor memory, but I cannot recall your face."

"I should have known you at once," said Sam. "You have the same sedate, grave manner that you had when a boy."

"Did you know me as a boy?" asked Henry, puzzled.

"Slightly," answered Sam, smiling again. "I used to room with you."

"You are not Sam Barker!" exclaimed Henry, in the deepest astonishment.

"Who says I am not?" said Sam.

Henry Martin jumped from his stool, and grasped Sam's hands cordially.

"I see it now," he said. "There is the same look, though you are five years older. I am delighted to see you, Sam. Where have you been all these years?"

"In and near Boston," answered Sam.

"You look as if you had prospered."

"I have. I am bookkeeper for a Boston merchant, with a handsome salary."

"Where on earth did you pick up bookkeeping?" asked Henry, in continued amazement.

"I studied under a private tutor for two or three years," answered Sam, enjoying his perplexity. "I have only been in business two years."

"Didn't it make your head ache?" asked Henry, slyly.

"It did at first, but I got over that after a while."

"I can't understand it at all, Sam. It seems like a romance. I never thought you would turn out like this."

"Nor I, Henry. But it is a long story. Come and see me this evening at the St. Nicholas, and I will tell you all. I must leave you now, as I have a little business to attend to."

That evening Henry and Sam met at the hotel, and each told his story, to the deep interest of the other.

"You have been very lucky, Sam," said Henry, at the end. "I never supposed you would reform so completely and thoroughly. You were a pretty hard case when I knew you."

"So I was," said Sam; "and I would have been to this day if I had not turned over a new leaf. Sometime I hope to introduce you to the two friends to whom I owe my reformation."

"Who are they?"

"A young lady of Boston, Miss Julia Stockton, and my most valued friend, Arthur Brown."

"So there is a young lady in the case, Sam?"

"I know what you are thinking of, Henry; but it isn't as you suppose. Julia Stockton will never be any more than a friend to me. Indeed, she is engaged to be married next month to Arthur's elder brother, Charlie, who has just been admitted to the bar. But I shall always feel indebted to her for first leading me to look upon myself as an ignorant and heedless boy. I never became ambitious till I met her."

"Then my lectures did no good, Sam?"

"Not at the time. Afterward I thought of them, and saw that you were right. And now that we have found each other, Henry, don't let us remain strangers. Can't you come and see me in Boston?"

"I am to visit Boston, on business, in October, Sam. I won't fail to look you up then."

Henry kept his word. Sam received him with cordial hospitality, and henceforth the two remained fast friends. It is not necessary to sketch their future. Both are on the right track, though Sam was much later in finding it; and the young outlaw, as well as his more prudent companion, is likely to prosper more and more as the years roll by.