James Congreve was a dangerous companion for Philip. He was utterly unscrupulous, but took care to keep up a semblance of propriety, in order not to terrify the boy whom he was leading into mischief.

They had commenced playing cards for amusement—at least, that was Congreve's pretext—but it had led to playing for a stake.

Occasionally, when the stake was small, Congreve allowed Philip to win; but, when more than a dollar was staked on the game, he generally managed to win himself.

Of course, Philip did not know that he was a victim, and that his chosen friend, Congreve, was a skillful sharper, who had practiced his art on Western steamboats, and was sure to get the better of him.

Why had he remained in this country village so long? Surely, it didn't pay him to fleece one victim, and that one a boy.

I can give the explanation.

He had been leading a fast life for a year back, and a physician whom he consulted had recommended country air and quiet for the summer.

"Unless you follow my directions, Mr. Congreve," he said, "I won't answer for your life. You have been going at too quick a pace altogether."

James was sensible enough to follow this advice, and that is why we find him a guest at the quiet village hotel.

The physician's advice proved to be good. His wasted energies were recuperated, his thin cheeks filled out and showed a healthy color, his appetite improved, and he felt himself again.

When the first week in September arrived, he felt that he was well enough to go back to the city, to more congenial scenes. He was heartily tired of the country, and anxious to get away. Only one thing remained to be done, and that was to collect what Philip owed him.

"I can't wait any longer," he said to himself. "I must compel the boy to pay up. It will liquidate my hotel bill and leave me something over. I can't let the thing stand any longer."

Soon after he had come to this conclusion, Philip entered his friend's chamber.

"How are you, Phil?" said Congreve, carelessly.

"All right!"

"By the way, I've got some news for you."

"What is it?"

"I'm going away."

"Going away? Where?"

"Back to the city first. I have an urgent summons from my friends there."

"How soon do you go?"

"That depends upon you."

"Upon me? I don't understand!" said Philip, puzzled.

"You ought to. As soon as you have paid me what you owe me. I need it to enable me to settle up at the hotel."

Philip turned pale. It was just what he had worried over many a time—this terrible debt, which he felt utterly unable to liquidate.

"How much is it?" he asked, nervously.

"How much? Really, I haven't reckoned it up yet; but I will," said Congreve, carelessly.

He took out his wallet, and drew out a variety of papers, to which Philip's signature was attached.

Then he sat down at a table, took a pencil from his pocket, set the different sums on paper, and added them up deliberately. All this was humbug, for he had added it up before Philip came in, and knew to a dollar how much it amounted to. Philip stood by, feeling miserably uncomfortable, while the reckoning went on.

"Really," said Congreve, looking up at length, in assumed surprise, "I had no idea it amounted to so much!"

"How much does it come to?" questioned his wretched dupe.

"One hundred and thirty-six dollars," was the calm response.

"A hundred and thirty-six dollars!" gasped Philip.

"Yes; surprising, isn't it? Little sums count up, you know. However, we've had some fun out of it, haven't we?"

"I don't see where the fun comes in," said Philip, bitterly. "Of course, it's fun for you to win so much."

"You won some of the time, Phil. Think how many games we have had, and how exciting it was. You play a good deal better game than you did."

"But I have lost a big pile of money."

"Oh, yes. Experience costs money, you know. You'll get it all back, and more, too, some day."

"How can I, when you are going away?"

"I don't mean out of me. I suppose my game is better than yours. I mean out of somebody else."

Philip was silent. The hope held out did not seem to comfort him much.

"When will you pay me that money, Phil?" asked Congreve, abruptly.

"When? I'm sure I don't know. I haven't any money, you know."

"That won't do. It isn't satisfactory," said Congreve, assuming a sternness he had never before exhibited toward his friend.

"What do you mean?" asked Philip, half frightened, half offended.

"I mean that I need the money, and must have it."

"I'd pay it to you if I had it, but I haven't."

"You must get it."

"How can I? My father won't give it to me."

"Listen to me. I am in earnest. I want to ask you a question. Suppose you had won, wouldn't you have expected me to pay you?"

"Why, yes, I suppose so."

"Well, it's a poor rule that doesn't work both ways. I tell you, Phil, I need that money. I need it to pay my hotel bill."

"Was that what you depended upon to pay your bills?" asked Philip, with awakening suspicion. "I thought you had plenty of money."

This was what Congreve had represented to his dupe, but the question by no means disconcerted him.

"Of course," he said; "but a man can't always command his resources. I have sent in two different directions for money, but they have put me off, so I have to fall back on you."

"I'd like to pay the money, and get it off my mind," said Philip, uncomfortably, "but the fact of it is I can't."

"This is a debt of honor. Gentlemen always pay their debts of honor. It takes precedence of all other claims."

"I have no other claims. That is all I owe to anybody."

"Well, when can you let me have the money?"

"I am sure I don't know," returned Philip, sullenly. "I didn't expect you were going to press me so."

James Congreve saw that Philip had reached the point which he desired.

"I press you because I have to," he said. "I have already told you how you can settle the claim."

"How?" asked Philip, uneasily.

He could guess, for there had been conversation on that point before.

"You know what I mean. Get hold of some of your father's government bonds," said Congreve, insinuatingly.

"I don't want to become a thief."

"Pooh! Isn't he your father, and ain't you an only son? Won't it all be yours sometime?"

"Yes, but——"

"Oh, don't bother with buts! That makes all the difference in the world."

"I couldn't do it without being suspected," objected Philip, with whom this was the principal consideration.

"Yes, you can. You'll give the bonds to me, and I will dispose of them. If you could get hold of two hundred-dollar bonds, I would give you the balance, after deducting the amount of my debt."

"But I am sure to be suspected."

"Unless you throw the suspicion upon some one else."

"How can I?"

"There's your friend, Harry Gilbert——"

"He isn't my friend."

"Well, your enemy, then. So much the better. You can say you saw him prowling round the house. If you could get him arrested, it would be a satisfaction, even if he wasn't convicted."

"That's true. I should like to get even with him."

"So you can. You can throw suspicion on him, and get off free yourself. It will be a splendid revenge."

Philip began to think favorably of the scheme, arid before he left the hotel had agreed to it.