THE TOWN of Wilton, aside from the manufacture of shoes, had no other branch of industry employing a considerable number of men and boys. This accounts for the difficulty Tom experienced in finding employment.

However, he did have one offer. In passing Abel Babcock’s blacksmith’s shop, the smith, who had just finished shoeing a horse, called out to him:

“Come here a minute, Tom.”

Tom entered the smithy.

“I hear you are out of a job, Tom.”

“Yes, Mr. Babcock. I am looking for work.”

“It was mean of John Simpson to turn you off, and I wouldn’t mind telling him so.”

“It was unlucky for me.”

“How would you like to learn my business?” asked Abel Babcock.

“The business of a blacksmith?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t think it would suit me,” said Tom, slowly.

“You’ve got to do something, Tom. You can’t afford to be particular.”

“I know that. Suppose I said yes, what would you be willing to pay me?”

“Well,” said the smith, slowly, “I couldn’t pay you much—that is the first year. You couldn’t do much just at first.”

“But how much?” persisted Tom.

“Well, maybe I could afford to pay a dollar a week the first year.”

Tom shook his head.

“That wouldn’t do,” he said. “I have to help support my mother and sister. Mr. Simpson paid me three dollars a week, and it was all we could do to get along on that. Why doesn’t your son, James, learn the business?”

“I wish he would,” said the blacksmith, “but he prefers to work in a shoe shop. If he’d learn my business, he could earn more after awhile. Then you don’t think you’d like to go in with me?”

“Even if I did like it, I couldn’t afford to do it. But I’m much obliged to you for the offer.”

“Oh, you’re welcome, as far as that goes,” and Abel Babcock returned to his work.

“That boy’s goin’ to make a smart man some of those days,” said he to himself. “It’ll take more’n John Simpson to keep him down. He’s comin’ out at the top of the heap some time.”

It might have afforded Tom some satisfaction if he had been aware of Abel Babcock’s high opinion of him, but it is doubtful whether he would have been complacent enough to agree with him. The fact was, Tom began to feel sober. He was willing enough to work, but there seemed to be no opening for him—that is, in Wilton. For the first time he began to think of other places.

He picked up in the village store a stray copy of the New York Herald, and he ran his eye eagerly over the advertising column headed “Help Wanted.” It was clear, so he thought, there were places open in New York. But New York was thirty miles away, and he could not leave his mother and sister. On the other hand, he could be of little service to them while he remained out of work.

We need not dwell upon this time of discouragement. After Tom had fully satisfied himself that there was no one in Wilton who required his services, his friend Harry, authorized by his father, proposed to him to spend three hours a day in copying his old sermons, as already mentioned.

“He will pay you fifty cents a day,” said Harry, “I believe that is the same you received in the shop.”

“Yes, but I am afraid I can’t write well enough.”

“You write a good, plain hand, and that is all that is required. Do you accept?”

“I shall be very glad to,” answered Tom, with a sigh of relief. “I’m tired of doing nothing.”

“Then report at father’s study to-morrow morning at nine o’clock.”

Tom promised to do so.

It must be admitted that our hero did not find his employment very interesting. The Rev. Mr. Julian’s sermons were of a dogmatic character, and though he was a most excellent man, his pulpit discourses were undeniably dry. Yet Tom felt a degree of satisfaction in feeling that he was again earning something toward the support of his mother, and he felt especially glad when one morning, on the way to the parsonage, he encountered Rupert Simpson.

Rupert smiled superciliously.

“You don’t find it very easy to get work, I see,” said Rupert.

“How do you see it?”

“You have plenty of leisure to walk about now.”

“That is true. I don’t work as many hours as I did in your father’s shop,” returned Tom.

“Are you working at all?” demanded Rupert, quickly.

“Yes.”

“What are you doing?”

“Writing for Mr. Julian.”

“Perhaps you are writing his sermons,” said Rupert, with a sneer.

“That is exactly what I am doing,” answered Tom, with a smile at Rupert’s bewilderment.

“Come, that’s nonsense. You are only trying to fool me.”

“If you want to see me at work, you can come with me. I am going to the minister’s study now.”

“I suppose you are copying for him,” said Rupert, with sudden enlightenment.

“You have guessed right.”

“What does he pay you?” inquired Rupert, curiously. “I am paid fifty cents for three hours’ work. That is what your father paid me for the whole day.”

“It won’t last long,” said Rupert, shortly, comforting himself with this thought, as he walked away.

That was exactly what Tom told himself. It would not last long. He felt that he must be looking out for something else, and, though at present employed, he felt uneasy.

He had the afternoon to himself, and occasionally he got a small job to do, which made a trifling addition to his income. But, of course, this was precarious.

The post-office was located in the village store, and the storekeeper, or one of his clerks, distributed the mail. Tom went there one afternoon to buy a half-pound of tea, and a couple of pounds of sugar for his mother, for their purchases were necessarily of an economical character, when the clerk who was waiting upon him, said:

“I believe there’s a letter for you in the office.”

“Is there?” asked Tom, rather surprised, for the family correspondence was very limited.

“Yes; here it is—a letter from New York; and it’s for you.”

Tom opened the letter and hurriedly glanced at the signature.

His heart gave a sudden bound.

It was signed by the man who, he supposed, had perished in the flames at the recent fire—Darius Darke!

Over the top was written:

“Strictly confidential.” It ran thus:

“This will seem to you like a voice from the grave. Doubtless you supposed that I was consumed in the burning barn. I wish all except yourself to believe this. When, therefore, you have read this letter, burn or otherwise destroy it, so that there may be no chance of my secret being discovered. I wish to see you as soon as possible, for reasons which I will explain when we meet. Come to New York on Monday, and meet me at twelve o’clock noon, or if you cannot reach the city so early, at three o’clock, in front of the Astor House. I inclose money to defray your expenses.

“Darius Darke.”

This letter occupied one page of commercial note-paper. Between the two leaves was tucked a ten-dollar bill.

“Who was your letter from?” asked the clerk.

“An acquaintance of mine,” answered Tom, briefly, as he thrust the bank-note hurriedly into his vest-pocket.