Stephen Palmer left the residence of his step-mother in a state of furious indignation against the whole family, but his anger was hotter against Paul than either of the other two members. It is rather mortifying for a young man to find himself worsted by a boy ten years his junior, and Stephen was obliged to confess that he himself had come off second best. The worst of it was, that he had lost the gold coin which he so much coveted. He was really hard up, his whole available funds amounting to only ten cents. The gold piece would have been to him a real bonanza. He had counted upon taking a cheap seat at Hooley's Theater, and thus passing a pleasant evening, but of course that must be given up, and there was nothing to do but to go back to his dingy little room, since anywhere else he would need to spend money.

"Confound the boy!" ejaculated Stephen. "I'd like to wring his neck. How dare he talk up to me as he did? But for him," he continued, dolefully, "I would have got off with the gold. I'll get even with him sometime, see if I don't."

Stephen thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and moodily made his way to his lodging-house. It was a shabby brick house of three stories, not far from the lake. He had been up late the night before, and thought he would lie down for awhile to rest. Later in the evening, perhaps, he would go out, and might have the good fortune to fall in with some one of his companions who was better fixed than himself financially.

He opened the door with a latch-key, and was making his way up stairs when a little girl of twelve called out from the back stairs in a shrill voice:

"Mr. Palmer, my mother wants to see you."

"Well, she can see me if she comes where I am," said Stephen, not very good-naturedly.

He paused on the stairs, and a woman in a faded calico dress soon made her appearance, coming up from below.

"What's wanted, Mrs. Jones?" asked Stephen, uncomfortably, for he could guess what his landlady wished to see him about.

"I'd be thankful, Mr. Palmer, if you'd pay me your rent. You're owin' for two weeks and a half, and I need the money very much."

"I can't pay you to-night," said Stephen."That's what you're always a-sayin'. Didn't you promise me the money last Tuesday, when the two weeks was up?"

"I've been disappointed of some money that I expected," muttered Palmer. "If I had it I'd give it to you."

"That don't pay for my groceries and fuel," said Mrs. Jones, evidently much dissatisfied with his answer.

"Who said it did?"

"If you'll pay me some money on account," said the landlady, beginning to understand the character of her lodger, "I'll wait a little longer."

"I tell you I haven't got any money by me, except this," and Stephen drew out the dime which constituted his sole wealth. "I suppose you don't want that."

"I'll take it on account."

"No, you don't. I ain't going to strip myself of every penny to oblige a cormorant of a lodging-house keeper."

"Is that all you've got to say to me, Mr. Palmer?" asked Mrs. Jones, indignantly.

"What more do you want? Don't I promise to pay you when I have the money?"

"Do you do any work?" demanded the landlady. "Do you earn anything?""Yes."

"At what business?"

"That's my affair. However, I don't mind telling you that I—speculate."

"Speculate—on ten cents!" retorted the landlady, in a sarcastic tone.

"All my capital's locked up in stocks at present," said Stephen, with ready falsehood. "I may have five hundred dollars coming in next week."

"I don't know whether to believe you or not," said Mrs. Jones, with justifiable skepticism.

"Do you doubt the word of a gentleman?" blustered Stephen.

"If you call yourself a gentleman, act accordin'. I've got just one thing to say, Mr. Palmer—if you don't pay me three weeks' lodgin' by next Tuesday, out you go, or my name isn't Jones. I can't afford to let my rooms to them as don't pay me."

"It'll be all right next Tuesday," said Stephen, glad of the reprieve. "There's two or three parties that owe me more than the amount of your bill, but they don't pay up."

This was an utter fabrication, as there was no one in the city or elsewhere whom Stephen could rightfully claim as a debtor, but then a regard for truth was not one of his strong points.

Stephen went up stairs to his room, and lay down on the bed. He soon fell asleep, and was still sleeping, when he was aroused by a loud pounding at his door.

"Who's there?" he cried out, only half awake.

"Come and see," was the reply, in an impatient voice.

Stephen tumbled out of bed and opened the door.

"Luke Denton!" he said. "Why, what on earth's the matter with you?"

Luke Denton it was, but by no means in as good trim as when we first made his acquaintance in the railroad car. There were patches of mud on his coat and pantaloons; there was a long scratch on one of his hands, and a bruise on his forehead, while his nose appeared to have been bleeding. For a man who was generally very careful of his appearance it was certainly rather a strange plight to be in.

"Have you been in a fight?" Stephen asked, not unnaturally.

"No, but I'd like to be in just one," growled Denton.

"Who do you want to fight with?"

"Look here, Stephen! isn't that boy—the train boy, I mean, on the Milwaukee road—a brother of yours?"

"Yes.""I can't help it—I'd like to mash him, and I will if I get the chance."

"You have my permission," said Stephen, "and I'd like to stand by and see you do it."

"Then there isn't much love lost between you two?"

"You'd better believe there isn't. But what has he been doing to you? You don't mean to say he is the cause of all that?" and he pointed to Luke's disordered dress.

"Yes, he is."

"How did it happen?"

"He made me jump out of the train when it was going fifteen or twenty miles an hour."

"But how did he make you do it?" asked Stephen, puzzled. "I can't understand."

"You see, I was sitting near a nice young lady, who had a purse pretty well filled. I noticed it when she took out a gold coin and gave it to the boy for his sister."

"Oh, that's the way Grace came by her gold, then!"

"What! do you know about it?"

"The girl showed it to me this evening," said Stephen. "But go on."

"It occurred to me that I stood more in need of the money than she, and I managed to slip my hand into her pocket and draw it out."

"I wish I could do it," said Stephen, "but I can't. My fingers are too clumsy. I should be sure to be caught."

"I would have got off well enough—in fact, I had made up my mind to get off at Libertyville, when that sneak of a boy came up and exposed me."

"Did he see you take the purse?"

"It seemed so. I didn't know any one was looking when I took the money."

"What did you do?"

"The young lady jumped up in a fright. I saw my opportunity. I had the inside seat, so I sprang for the door, and, without much thought of the risk I ran, made a flying leap from the train."

"You might have been killed. I wouldn't dare to risk it."

"Perhaps I wouldn't if I had had time to think; but I didn't. Well, I landed and rolled over two or three times, enough to get these bruises and stain my clothes. I suppose I was lucky to escape without breaking my neck or limbs, but I feel too sore to be very thankful."

"There's a later train, starting from Libertyville. I walked to Deerfield, and a hard time I had of it. If the train hadn't been nearly an hour late, I wouldn't have caught it. As it was I did, and here I am."

"I suppose you didn't save the money?"

"Yes, but I did," chuckled Luke. "Look at this."

He drew out the purse, and displayed it to his companion, whose eyes glistened as he saw the gold.

"How much is there?"

"Nearly fifty dollars."

"I'd be willing to be bruised a little for that sum."

"I would have got it without a bruise but for that brother of yours—dash him!"

"I owe him a grudge myself. I'm with you."

"You must hide me for a day or two till this blows over. The police may be on my track."

"That depends on whether my landlady will let me stay. She's been driving me for back rent."

"How much do you owe her?"

"Two weeks and a half at two dollars a week."

"Here, take that and pay her."

Stephen took the five-dollar gold coin which his companion flung on the bed, but no part of it found its way into the hands of Mrs. Jones.