Amesville was a city of some twenty-five thousand population, and on a certain Monday in late September of the year 1911 it increased its population, to our certain knowledge, by one. That one was Mr. Thomas Pollock, who stepped off the milk train at a quarter-past six and staggered across the dust-strewn road to Mrs. Cleary’s lodging-house, burdened with a valise whose bulging sides would certainly have strained the lock to the breaking point without the straps that encircled them. He spent the better part of an hour in unpacking and distributing his possessions. He was not over-supplied with clothes, which, in view of the scanty accommodations provided for such things, was fortunate; but it nevertheless took him quite a while to arrange the contents of the big valise to his satisfaction. There was a small table in one corner of the room and a bureau near the window. A washstand, a single iron bed, and a straight-backed chair completed the furnishings, if we except a very thin and gaudy carpet which tried but failed to quite cover the uneven floor. Tom stowed his clothes neatly in the bureau drawers—there was no closet, but a board holding four hooks was nailed to the inner side of the door—put his extra pair of shoes under the table, and arranged a few treasures on table and bureau. These included a faded photograph of his father—he had never had one of his mother,—one of Aunt Patty taken at the State Fair some ten years ago, and one of Star. Star’s likeness had been made by a travelling photographer to whom Tom had paid the sum of fifty cents. But it was a good picture and worth the money. If only Star had kept his tail still no possible fault could have been found with it. The treasures also included a pair of skates, an old-fashioned travelling portfolio which had belonged to his father and which held an ink-well and compartments for paper, envelopes, pens, holders, stamps, and a blotter. Tom was very fond of that portfolio and dreamed of some day making a real journey and pictured himself sitting in a Pullman car or on the deck of a steamer with it on his knee writing long letters to Uncle Israel and Aunt Patty. Not to Star, of course, for Star would be right there with him! There were other things, too; a much battered baseball which showed the imprints of a dog’s teeth, a coloured picture showing the landing of Columbus, a sweet-grass basket, the Christmas gift of Aunt Patty, holding several disfigured pennies, a postage stamp lacking mucilage, some buttons, a stone arrow-head which Tom had himself unearthed on the farm, and a soiled piece of slippery-elm. There was also a little shiny red-lacquered box with a spray of bamboo in gilt on the cover which held Tom’s jewelry. This box, however, had been safely stowed under a pile of underwear in the second bureau drawer and contained a tiny plain gold ring which was supposed to have been his mother’s wedding ring, although Tom had absolutely no proof of that, a pair of silver cuff-links, a silver scarf-pin set with an imitation ruby, and three gold-plated shirt studs.

At half-past seven Tom locked his room door, dropped the key proudly in his pocket, and went in search of breakfast. Aunt Patty had provided him with coffee and doughnuts at twenty minutes to five that morning, but he felt the need of something more lasting. It was not hard to find an eating place, for there were three small and rather dirty restaurants on his own street. In the hope of finding cheap prices he invaded one of them and ordered corned-beef hash, a boiled egg, and a glass of milk. The price was not exorbitant, but the hash was greasy and tasteless, the egg was far from fresh, and the milk was a base libel on that noble animal, the cow! But the viands served and Tom consoled himself with the thought that he had paid ten cents less than a similar repast would have cost him on Main Street. There remained a whole half-hour before school began and he set out to see the town. Thus far he had discovered only the business portion of it. Now he turned his steps toward the residential streets and loitered along past prosperous-looking houses which, to Tom at least, might well have been the abodes of so many multi-millionaires. Later, when he chanced upon the abodes of the city’s really wealthy residents, he discovered his mistake. But now he mentally peopled the houses with Vanderbilts and Goulds and Rockefellers and unenviously admired the smooth green lawns and vivid flower borders and resplendent doorways and felt very grateful that he was to live in a place where there were so many beautiful things.

Then, at last, the high-school building loomed up ahead, set squarely in its open plot of lawn and gravelled walks, a handsome great structure of mottled brick and sandstone trimmings. Already the boys’ entrance was well sprinkled with youths, while more were approaching the building from all directions. Tom, feeling a little shy, edged his way up the broad steps and into the building. But none of the others took special notice of him and he reached the Principal’s office and joined a line already waiting. The big hallway with its plaster statuary and tiled floor was quite impressive as, also, were the classrooms which he glimpsed. He couldn’t help comparing it all with the little one-room frame schoolhouse at Derry! And he was more than a little anxious and nervous as he awaited his turn.

But many things are far worse in anticipation than in realisation, and Tom’s first day at high school passed smoothly and without misadventure. He was assigned to a room and a desk, given a list of books and supplies to provide himself with, marched with many others up two flights of broad stairs and went through a calisthenic drill, studied awhile, and was finally released for the day, there being but the one session.

With a light heart he set out for a stationery store and purchased tablets, blank-books, pencils, erasers, and all the other articles required. The school books he could rent, which meant a big saving to his pocket. He dined well, if inexpensively, and at two o’clock made his way to Cummings and Wright’s. Neither of the partners was in, and it fell to the lot of Mr. Joseph Gillig to receive him. Joe Gillig was the single clerk in the employ; Miss Miller, who lived behind a glass partition, was a cashier and bookkeeper, which, as Tom learned later, is quite different from being a clerk. Joe was about twenty years of age, tall, thin, with a long neck in which his Adam’s apple did marvellous things as he talked. Joe had a good-natured, homely countenance lighted by a pair of nice, if somewhat sleepy, brown eyes and marred by an incipient moustache which, to Joe’s distress, was coming out red.

“They didn’t look for you till four,” he said in greeting. “They’re both out now. Want to look over the place? What you got in the bundle?”

“Overalls,” replied Tom. “Mr. Cummings said I’d better bring a pair.”

“Right-o! Wait till I wait on that guy and I’ll show you over the shop.”

The “guy” was hard to suit in the matter of a rip-saw and Tom had several minutes to wait. The hardware store was rather narrow, but made up for that by being interminably deep. Counters ran along each side, set here and there with showcases. A row of supporting pillars of iron stretched lengthwise of the store in the middle and about them were clustered such articles of trade as wheelbarrows, garden hose, fire extinguishers, and step-ladders, for Cummings and Wright didn’t confine themselves to the ordinary stock of hardware. At the rear of the store a door led to an alley, and there was a window on each side of the doorway. The office was a railed-off enclosure in one corner here, while Miss Gertrude Miller was enshrined in a box-like structure of imitation mahogany and glass, into which the belts of the cash carriers ran and where she made change while presiding over the firm’s books. Tom was duly presented to Miss Miller by Joe and rather shyly shook hands with her. She had a good deal of red-brown hair and a pair of soft grey eyes and was undeniably pretty, a fact which added to Tom’s embarrassment, since pretty young ladies were things he had had little to do with. He was glad when Joe, explaining everything as he went along, led the way down the flight of dark stairs on the other side and landed him in a cellar which occupied the entire space under the store. Here there was a packing room at the rear, coal bins, and a heater whose future conduct, Tom gathered, would be under his supervision. The rest of the cellar held stock too heavy or bulky to keep above, except that at the far end, partly under the sidewalk, a good-sized room was partitioned off. Here Cummings and Wright conducted a plumbing, steam-fitting, and tinsmithing business. There was a separate entrance from outside, by means of a flight of iron steps, and the department was presided over by a small, wiry man named Jim Hobb. He had very black hair and the palest blue eyes Tom had ever seen. When Joe introduced them, Jim stopped to wipe his hands carefully on a bunch of very dirty waste before offering it to Tom. There was another man down there and a grinning youth of about Tom’s age, whose face was streaked and plastered with dirt and grease. His name was Petey. Tom never heard the rest of it. And the other man’s name was Connors.

A bell in the stock room rang shrilly and Joe Gillig hurried back upstairs, explaining to Tom that the signal meant that a customer had come in. In this case, however, Joe was mistaken, for it was Mr. Wright who had summoned him.

“Why aren’t you up here attending to things?” he demanded of Joe. “Anyone might come in and walk off with half the stock for all you’d ever know!” Then, seeing Tom, he stared doubtfully a moment and finally grunted as recognition came. “So you’ve turned up, eh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What’s your name?”

“Tom Pollock, sir.”

“Colic?”

“No, sir, Pollock.”

“Well, what are you doing?”

“Nothing yet, sir. I just got here and Mister—he was showing me around.”

“Better get to work then. Can’t afford to pay wages to idlers.”

“Yes, sir. What shall I do?”

“Do? Do?” Mr. Wright got quite peevish at the question. “Do anything! Find something to do! That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it? Seems to me there’s plenty to do here. You don’t see me standing around looking for work, do you?”

Tom looked doubtfully at Joe. Joe gravely winked across a counter. Mr. Wright, fuming to himself, hurried back to the office.

“What shall I do?” asked Tom.

“Oh, just get behind a counter and make believe you’re busy. He never knows the difference. Tell you what, though, Tom. You might take the stuff out of the tool case down there and clean it out. You’ll find dust-brush and cloths downstairs behind the packing-room door. Be careful not to get things mixed up. Better lay everything on top of the case. I’ll show you when you come up.”

Mr. Cummings entered while Tom was emptying the showcase and stopped to shake hands with him. “Got you at work, have they?” he asked. “That’s right. Those cases need cleaning.” Presently, having conversed for a few moments with his partner, he was back again. “Did you speak to your uncle, son?” he inquired.

“Yes, sir. He—he wasn’t willing to have me pay his bill like that. But of course I’m going to do it. He says that pump isn’t his; says it belongs to you and that you owe him for storing it.”

“What!” Mr. Cummings stared and then burst into a laugh. “Well, of all the tight-fisted old rascals! Suppose I oughtn’t to say that before you, though,” he added apologetically. Tom maintained a composed silence. “Wants me to pay him storage, does he? By George, he certainly has plenty of cheek!”

“He says he lugged the pump out there, and it’s your place to bring it back, sir. He says he notified you about it when he found it wouldn’t work right.”

“Maybe he did,” responded Mr. Cummings grimly. “But we’ve got more to do than run around the country after broken machinery.”

“I was wondering, sir,” said Tom, “if after I’ve paid that bill I couldn’t have the pump.”

“Well, that’s for your uncle to say, isn’t it?”

“He says it belongs to you, sir.”

“I see. Well, when that bill’s paid, son, we’ll give you a clear title to the pump as far as we’re concerned. What did you think of doing with it?”

“Just—just trying to sell it, sir. It ought to be worth something as junk, I should think.”

“Hm, I suppose so. You might be able to sell it for twenty dollars or so if it isn’t badly out of shape. Where’s he keeping it?”

“It’s under the barn. I had a look at it yesterday. It seems all right. I mean it isn’t rusted none. It’s all covered up.”

“Did your uncle say what the matter with it was?”

“N-no, sir. He said it wouldn’t work.”

“Probably didn’t know how to use it. I dare say it could be fixed up in a jiffy. If you get it and want to sell it, you let me know. Maybe I can find someone to take it off your hands. Better put a couple of those expansion bits back on the shelf. No use showing more than one of them.”

The store was closed at six and Tom, slipping off his blue overalls, went in search of supper. Afterward he sought his room and sat up until half-past nine studying his lessons for the morrow. When at last he piled into bed, he lay for some time very wide-awake with the unaccustomed screech and rush of passing trains and the dim hum of the city in his ears. Through the open window, behind the branches of the elm and above the distant house-tops, a half-moon was sailing. Tom, a trifle lonesome, wondered if Uncle Israel and Aunt Patty were missing him a little. He knew Star was. He wished he had Star with him here. He wished——

Whatever else he wished was in dreams.