"Did you wish to see Mr. Lawton about something important?" asked Mrs. Mead.

"Yes, I wish to ask his advice. I have lost my place."

"At Mr. Little's store?"

"Yes."

"I never liked Mr. Little. I am glad Willie has another position."

"Have you a small room vacant, Mrs. Mead? I have left Mr. Little's house also, and I must find a room somewhere."

"I have a small hall bedroom on the third floor."

"What rent do you charge?"

"Two dollars a week, usually, but to you I will make it a dollar and a half."

"Then I will take it. Can I go up at once and leave my valise?"

"Yes; I will show the way."

The room was small, as Mrs. Mead had described it, but it was scrupulously clean. Scott felt that he would be very well satisfied with it, if only he could continue to pay the rent. It was certainly pleasanter than the room he had occupied at Ezra Little's.

"You must dine with us to-night, Mr. Walton," said Mrs. Mead, hospitably. "Willie will be glad to see you, and then you can tell us how you came to leave the store."

As soon as he was settled, Scott went out and began to look for a position. He bought a morning paper, and looked over the advertisements of "Help Wanted."

He took down several names, and began to call in rotation. In several instances he found the places already filled. In one place he was offered two dollars and a half a week, which he knew it would be idle to accept, as it would do little more than pay his room rent.

In one place he was asked where he had worked last.

"At Little's dry-goods store on Eighth Avenue," he answered.

"Why did you leave?"

"Because of a disagreement with Mr. Little."

"I don't think we shall require your services," said the merchant, coldly.

He turned away, as if to intimate that the conference was at an end.

Scott was depressed. He saw that any explanation he might give of his leaving his former place would only injure him. Yet, almost everywhere the question would be asked.

This made him feel all the more that he had been very unjustly treated by Ezra Little. He had been required to plead guilty to a theft which he had not committed, and to replace the money lost with money of his own. He had very properly declined to do this, and now he was thrown out of employment, with very little chance of securing another place.

Several days passed, and Scott must have made application for a hundred situations. But his luck did not improve. One obstacle was a general business depression which made employers averse to hiring new employees.

And all the while his scanty funds were diminishing. He sought out cheap restaurants and limited his orders to the barest necessities, but still his money melted away till at length he was reduced to fifty cents. Besides, his week was about out and he would be called upon to pay a second week's rent.

This was, of course, out of the question. Poor Scott was deeply perplexed. He began to think it would have been better if he had complied with Ezra Little's demand for the five-dollar bill. It was about gone now, and he was without an income.

He chanced to be passing the Gilsey House at four o'clock in the afternoon, when he heard his name called.

Looking up, he recognized the familiar face of Justin Wood, whom he had not met for some weeks.

"I am glad to see you once more, Scott," said the young man, cordially. "Why haven't you called upon me?"

"I did call once, but I did not find you in."

"It must have been when I was making a short visit to Philadelphia. But now come in, and give an account of yourself. How does it happen that you are in the streets at this hour?"

"Because, Mr. Wood," answered Scott, gravely, "I have lost my place."

"Then you have a story to tell. Come in, and tell me all about it."

He led the way into the hotel, and Scott followed him into the reading room.

"Now take a seat at the window," said Justin Wood, pointing to an armchair, "and tell me why you were discharged."

Scott told the story in as few words as possible.

"This money which Mr. Little wished you to give up was a part of what you recovered from that swindler at Staten Island, I presume?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then I could certify to its belonging to you. Do you wish me to do so?"

"I don't want to go back to Mr. Little's if I can find another place. Besides, it will still be said that the pocketbook was found in my room."

"Have you any idea who put it there?"

"Yes, I think it was put there by Loammi."

"That is my own conclusion."

"But I don't see how I can bring it home to him."

"There will be a difficulty. If you get evidence of his having changed a five-dollar bill about that time, now——"

"I don't see how I can do that. It happened a week since."

"Where are you living now?"

"I have a room on West Sixteenth Street, at the house of a Mrs. Mead, but I shall have to leave it to-morrow."

"Why?"

"Because I have no money to pay the rent for a second week."

"How much is it?"

"A dollar and a half."

"I might be willing to lend you as much as that," said Justin Wood, smiling.

"Thank you, sir, but I shall need money to buy my meals besides."

"Then I think I shall have to come to your assistance."

Justin Wood put his hand in his pocket, and drew out two five-dollar bills.

"That will tide you over for the present," he said.

"But," said Scott, "ought I accept so much? I don't know when I shall be able to repay you."

"Then we had better consider it a gift."

"Thank you very much, sir."

"It is hardly worth mentioning," he said. "If it will do you good I am glad. Now, you must come in and take some dinner with me. I have eaten nothing since breakfast, and am almost famished."

The young man ordered a plain, but most appetizing dinner, to which Scott and himself did equal justice. Scott, too, had eaten nothing since breakfast, and that breakfast had been a meager one.

After dinner the two friends hailed a car and went uptown. They spent an hour in Central Park.

Mr. Wood proposed to walk back, and Scott accompanied him.

"Would you mind if I called at Mr. Little's house?" asked Scott. "There may be a letter for me from Cousin Seth."

"Do so, by all means, Scott."

Scott rang the bell, and the door was opened by Ellen. Her eye brightened when she saw Scott, whom she liked much better than Loammi.

"I am glad to see you, Scott," she said. "And where are you living, now?"

"I am boarding on West Sixteenth Street."

"And have you got another place?"

"Not yet. I suppose you heard why I left the house."

"Yes, I did, and it's a shame."

"Did you hear that Mrs. Little's pocketbook was found in my room?"

"Yes, I did, and I know who put it there."

"Who was it?" asked Scott, eagerly.

"Only an hour before, I myself saw Loammi coming out of your chamber. He pretended that he went there expecting to see you."

"Did you tell Mr. Little that?"

"No; but I will if you want me to."

"I may ask you to do it some time. Do you think Loammi took the money?"

"I do that. All this week he's been unusually flush of cash. It's easy to guess where it came from."

"And I have had to suffer for his theft. Oh, by the way, Ellen, has any letter come here for me?"

"There was one came this morning. I'll get it for you."

Scott looked at the postmark of the letter, and saw that it was from Chicago.