Frank was more fortunate than the generality of the telegraph boys in obtaining fees from those who employed him. He was not allowed to solicit gifts, but was at liberty to accept them when offered. In one way or another he found his weekly receipts came to about seven dollars. Out of this sum he would have been able to save money, even if he had been obliged to pay all his expenses, that is by the exercise of strict economy. But, as we know, he was at no expense for room or board, with the exception of a light lunch in the middle of the day. Making a little calculation, he found that he could save about four dollars a week. As it had only been proposed to him to stay at Mrs. Vivian's while Fred was in the country, it seemed prudent to Frank to "make hay while the sun shone," and save up a little fund from which he could hereafter draw, in case it were necessary.

So when he had saved ten dollars he presented himself at the counter of the Dime Savings-Bank, then located in Canal street, and deposited it, receiving a bank-book, which he regarded with great pride.

"I begin to feel like a capitalist," he said to himself. "I am rather better off now than I was when I led round old Mills, the blind man. I wonder how he is getting along."

As Frank entered Broadway from Canal street, by a strange coincidence he caught sight of the man of whom he had been thinking. Mills, with the same querulous, irritable expression he knew well, was making his way up Broadway, led by a boy younger than Frank.

"Pity a poor blind man!" he muttered from time to time in a whining voice.

"Look out, you young rascal, or you will have me off the sidewalk," Frank heard the blind man say; "I'll have a reckoning with you when I get home."

The boy, who was pale and slight, looked frightened.

"I couldn't help it, Mr. Mills," he said. "It was the crowd."

"You are getting careless, that's what's the matter," said Mills, harshly. "You are looking in at the shop windows, and neglect me."

"No, I am not," said the boy, in meek remonstrance.

"Don't you contradict me!" exclaimed the blind man, grasping his stick significantly. "Pity a poor blind man!"

"What an old brute he is!" thought Frank; "I will speak to him."

"How do you do, Mr. Mills?" he said, halting before the blind man.

"Who are you?" demanded Mills, quickly.

"You ought to know me; I am Frank Kavanagh, who used to go round with you."

"I have had so many boys—most of them good for nothing—that I don't remember you."

"I am the boy who wouldn't pass counterfeit money for you."

"Hush!" said the blind man apprehensively, lest some one should hear Frank. "There was some mistake about that. I remember you now. Do you want to come back? This boy doesn't attend to his business."

Frank laughed. Situated as he was now, the proposal seemed to him an excellent joke, and he was disposed to treat it as such.

"Why, the fact is, Mr. Mills, you fed me on such rich food that I shouldn't dare to go back for fear of dyspepsia."

"Or starvation," he added to himself.

"I live better now," said Mills. "I haven't had any boy since, that suited me as well as you."

"Thank you; but I am afraid it would be a long time before I got rich on the wages you would give me."

"I'll give you fifty cents a week," said Mills, "and more if I do well. You can come to-day, if you like."

"You are very kind, but I am doing better than that," said Frank.

"What are you doing,—selling papers?"

"No; I have given that up. I am a telegraph boy."

"How much do you make?"

"Seven dollars last week."

"Why, you will be rich," said the blind man, enviously. "I don't think I get as much as that myself, and I have to pay a boy out of it."

His poor guide did not have the appearance of being very liberally paid.

"Then you won't come back?" said Mills, querulously.

"No, I guess not."

"Come along, boy!" said Mills, roughly, to his little guide. "Are you going to keep me here all day?"

"I thought you wanted to speak to this boy."

"Well, I have got through. He has deserted me. It is the way of the world. There's nobody to pity the poor, blind man."

"Here's five cents for old acquaintance' sake. Mr. Mills," said Frank, dropping a nickel into the hand of the boy who was guiding him.

"Thank you! May you never know what it is to be blind!" said Mills, in his professional tone.

"If I am, I hope I can see as well as you," thought Frank. "What a precious old humbug he is, and how I pity that poor boy! If I had a chance I would give him something to save him from starvation."

Frank walked on, quite elated at the change in his circumstances which allowed him to give money in charity to the person who had once been his employer. He would have given it more cheerfully if in his estimation the man had been more worthy.

Frank's errand took him up Broadway. He had two or three stops to make, which made it inconvenient for him to ride. A little way in front of him he saw a boy of fourteen, whom he recognized as an errand-boy, and a former fellow-lodger at the Newsboy's Lodging-House. He was about to hurry forward and join John Riley,—for this was the boy's name,—when his attention was attracted, and his suspicions aroused, by a man who accosted John. He was a man of about thirty, rather showily dressed, with a gold chain dangling from his vest.

"Johnny," he said, addressing the errand-boy "do you want to earn ten cents?"

"I should like to," answered the boy, "but I am going on an errand, and can't spare the time."

"It won't take five minutes," said the young man. "It is only to take this note up to Mr. Conant's room, on the fourth floor of this building."

They were standing in front of a high building occupied as offices.

The boy hesitated.

"Is there an answer?" he asked.

"No; you can come right down as soon as the letter is delivered."

"I suppose I could spare the time for that," said John Riley.

"Of course you can. It won't take you two minutes. Here is the ten cents. I'll hold your bundle for you while you run up."

"All right!" said the errand-boy, and, suspecting nothing, he surrendered his parcel, and taking the note and the dime, ran upstairs.

No sooner was he out of sight than the young man began to walk off rapidly with the bundle. It was an old trick, that has been many times played upon unsuspecting boys, and will continue to be played as long as there are knavish adventurers who prefer dishonest methods of getting a living to honest industry.

In this case, however, the rogue was destined to disappointment. It may be stated that he had been present in the dry-goods store from which the parcel came, and, knowing that the contents were valuable, had followed the boy.

No sooner did Frank understand the fellow's purpose than he pursued him, and seized him by the arm.

"What do you want of me?" demanded the rogue, roughly. "I am in a hurry and can't be detained."

"I want you to give me that bundle which you are trying to steal from my friend, John Riley."

The rogue's countenance changed.

"What do you mean?" he demanded, to gain time.

"I mean that I heard your conversation with him, and I know your game. Come back, or I will call a policeman."

The young man was sharp enough to see that he must give up his purpose.

"There, take the bundle," he said, tossing it into Frank's arms. "I was only going for a cigar; I should have brought it back."

When John Riley came downstairs, with the letter in his hand,—for he had been unable to find any man named Conant in the building,—he found Frank waiting with the parcel.

"Holloa, Frank! Where's that man that sent me upstairs? I can't find Mr. Conant."

"Of course you can't. There's no such man in the building. That man was a thief; but for me he would have carried off your bundle."

"What a fool I was!" said the errand-boy. "I won't let myself be fooled again."

"Don't give up a bundle to a stranger again," said Frank. "I'm only a country boy, but I don't allow myself to be swindled as easily as you."

"I wish that chap would come here again," said Johnny, indignantly. "But I've come out best, after all," he added, brightening up. "I've made ten cents out of him."