Leaving Tony for a short time, we must return to Rudolph, whom we left in charge of a self-constituted body of police on his way to the station-house.

Of course there was no regular prison in the village. There was not properly even a station-house. But under the engine house was a basement room, which was used as a lock-up. It was not often used, for few rogues of a serious character disturbed the tranquility of the village. Occasionally a man was put in who had disturbed the peace while under the influence of liquor, but even such cases were rare.

When first arrested Rudolph was disposed to be violent and abusive. His disappointment was keen, for he was just congratulating himself on the possession of the miser's gold. Five minutes later, and he would probably have been able to make good his escape. Mingled with his disappointment was a feeling of intense hostility against Tony for his part in defeating his plans.

"I'll be revenged upon him yet," he muttered between his teeth.

"What did you say?" asked one of his captors.

"Nothing," answered Rudolph.

"I thought I heard you say something."

"I said I was tired."

"Then you will have a chance to rest in the lock-up."

Rudolph frowned, but said nothing.

They reached the lockup. The door was opened, and he was led in. A small oil lamp was lighted, and set on the floor.

"Where are the handcuffs?" asked one of the captors.

"I don't know. They haven't been needed for so long that they have been mislaid."

"They won't be needed now. The man can't get out."

Rudolph's face betrayed satisfaction, but he thought it prudent to say nothing.

"There's your bed," says Moses Hunt, who had Rudolph by the arm, pointing to a rude cot in the corner.

Rudolph threw himself upon it.

"I'm dead tired," he said, and closed his eyes.

"He'll be quiet enough. We can leave him alone," said Hunt.

"All right."

The door was locked, and Rudolph was left alone.

When five minutes had elapsed—time enough for his captors to get away—he rose in bed, and looked about him.

Beside the bed in which he was lying there was no other furniture in the room than a wooden chair.

He got up and walked about.

"I must get away from this if I can," thought the tramp, "and before morning. I am glad they didn't put on handcuffs. Let me see, how shall I manage it."

He looked about him thoughtfully.

It was a basement room, lighted only by windows three feet wide and a foot high in the upper part of the room.

"I should like to set fire to the building, and burn it up," thought the tramp. "That would cost them something. But it wouldn't be safe. Like as not I would be burnt up myself, or, at any rate, be taken again in getting away. No, no; that won't do."

"I wonder if I can get through one of those windows?" was the next thought that came into his mind.

He stood on the chair, and as the room was low-slatted he found he could easily reach the windows in question.

He shook them, and found to his joy that it would be a comparatively easy thing to remove one of them.

"What fools they are," he muttered contemptuously. "Did they really expect to keep me here. They must think I am a green hand."

He removed the window, and by great effort succeeded in raising himself so that he might have a chance of drawing himself through the aperture. It did not prove so easy as he expected. He did, however, succeed at length, and drew a long breath of satisfaction as he found himself once more in the possession of his liberty.

"I'm a free man once more," he said. "What next?"

He would have been glad to return to the miser's house, and possessed himself of some of his gold, but the faint gray of dawn was already perceptible, and there was too much risk attending it. He felt that this must be deferred to a more fitting occasion.

A few days later the tramp found himself in the streets of New York.

For the time he had given up the pursuit of Tony. Indeed, he had wholly lost the clew. Moreover, prudence dictated his putting as great a distance as possible between himself and the village where he had been arrested.

The hundred miles intervening between New York and that place he had got over in his usual way, begging a meal at one house, and a night's lodging at another. He was never at a loss for a plausible story. At one place where he was evidently looked upon with suspicion, he said:

"I ain't used to beggin'. I'm a poor, hard-workin' man, but I've heard that my poor daughter is sick in New York, and she's in the hospital. Poor girl! I'm afraid she'll suffer."

"What took her to New York?" asked the farmer whom he addressed.

"She went to take a place in a store," said Rudolph readily, "but she's been taken sick, and she's in the hospital. Poor girl! I'm afraid she'll suffer."

"I'm sorry for you," said the farmer's wife, sympathizingly. "Ephraim, can't we help along this poor man?"

"If we can believe him. There's many impostors about."

"I hope you don't take me for one," said Rudolph, meekly. "Poor Jane; what would she think if she knew how poor father was so misunderstood."

"Poor man! I believe you," said the farmer's wife. "You shall sleep in Jonathan's bed. He's away now."

So Rudolph was provided with two abundant meals and a comfortable bed. The farmer's wife never doubted his story, though she could not help feeling that his looks were not prepossessing. But, was her charitable thought, the poor man can't help his looks.

Of course Rudolph had been in New York often, and his familiar haunts. As a general thing, however, he shunned the city, for he was already known to the police, and he felt that watchful eyes would be upon him as soon as it was known that he was back again.

On the second day he strolled into a low drinking place in the lower part of the city.

A man in shirt sleeves, and with unhealthy complexion, was mixing drinks behind the bar.

"Hallo, Rudolph! Back again?" was his salutation.

"Yes," said the tramp, throwing himself down in a seat.

"What's the news with you? Been prospering?"

"No."

"Where have you been?"

"Tramping round the country."

"Where's the boy you used to have with you?"

"Run away; curse him!" returned the tramp with a fierce scowl.

"Got tired of your company, eh?"

"He wants to be honest and respectable," answered Rudolph, with a sneer.

"And he thought he could learn better under another teacher, did he?" said the bartender, with a laugh.

"Yes, I suppose so. I'd like to wring his neck," muttered the tramp.

"You're no friend to the honest and respectable, then?"

"No, I'm not."

"Then, there's no love lost, for they don't seem to fancy you. What'll you have to drink?"

"I've got no money."

"I'll trust. You'll have some some time?"

"Give me some whisky, then," said the tramp.

The whisky was placed in his hands. He gulped it down, and breathed a sigh of satisfaction.

Then resuming his seat, he took up a morning paper. At first he read it listlessly, but soon his face assumed a look of eager interest.

This was the paragraph that arrested his attention:

"Should this meet the eye of Rudolph Rugg, who left England in the fall of 1857, he is requested to communicate with Jacob Morris, attorney-at-law, Room 11, No. —, Nassau street."

Rudolph rose hurriedly.

"Going?" asked the bartender.

"Yes; I'll be back again soon."