“Gone!”

The cry burst involuntarily from Jerry’s lips, and for the moment his heart seemed to stop beating. The precious papers were missing.

What had become of them? With great haste he hunted all of his pockets, not once but a dozen times. Then he felt in the linings, and in fact in all places where the packet might have become concealed.

It was useless; they were gone; that was all there was to it.

Had he dropped them in Slocum’s office, or during his hasty flight to the alleyway?

Our hero retraced his steps, with eyes bent to the ground, in hopes that they would be found lying on the walk. In doing this he ran into half a dozen folks, many of whom did not take kindly to the collision.

“Look where you are going, boy.”

“Hunting for a pin or gold dollars?”

Jerry paid no attention to the remarks. Reaching the alleyway, he turned into it and continued the search, but without success.

“Say, wot yer doin’ in here?”

The question was asked by a youth in the tin-shop. He was red-headed and had a freckled face, but not an unpleasant one.

“I was looking for something I lost,” said the young oarsman. “Have you seen anything in here of a flat, white package with a black shoestring tied around it?”

“Why, yes, I did,” he answered.

“And where is it?”

“A tramp had it. I saw him walk out of der alley wid it not five minutes ago.”

“A tramp? What kind of a looking man?”

“Tall and thin, with a grizzly beard. Oh, he was a regular bum.”

“Where did he go?”

“Up the street, I think. Was the bundle valuable?”

“Indeed it was, to me,” replied Jerry, and hurried off.

He could see nothing of any tramp, and, after dodging around among the trucks for several minutes, returned to the youth.

“Please describe that tramp to me, will you?” asked Jerry, and the tinner’s boy did so, as well as he was able.

“I think da call him Crazy Jim,” he concluded. “He don’t come down here very often. He belongs uptown somewhere.”

“Well, if you ever see him again, please let me know. My name is Jerry Upton, and here is my address,” and our hero handed it over.

“All right, I will. My name is Jerry Martin. Wot was in de package?”

“Some papers belonging to my father.”

The boy wanted to question Jerry for further particulars, but the young oarsman did not care to say too much, and hurried off, to seek the tramp again.

That evening found our hero at Mrs. Price’s, footsore and downhearted. He had seen nothing of Crazy Jim, and it looked as if the precious packet was gone for good.

Jerry could not help but wonder what Alexander Slocum’s next move would be. Would the man endeavor to hunt him out or would he write to his father?

The next morning, on his way to Mr. Randolph Islen’s place of business, Jerry met Nellie Ardell.

“Did you find Mr. Slocum’s?” she asked.

“I did; and had a very disagreeable visit,” returned our hero.

“I knew you would have,” she went on. “I wish he was not my landlord.”

Jerry asked her how Tommy was, and then they parted, and five minutes more brought our hero to the book-bindery.

Mr. Islen was not yet in, but he soon arrived, and smiled as Jerry presented himself.

“On hand, I see, my young friend. Well, how did you make out? Did you obtain a position?”

“No, sir.”

“It’s rather hard. Mr. Grice!” he called out.

The foreman of the book-bindery came in and Jerry was introduced to him. Quite a chat followed, at the end of which Jerry was hired to work in the stock department at a salary of six dollars a week.

The salary was not large, but it would pay his expenses, and that was all he wished for at present.

“I won’t have to write home for money,” he thought.

Mr. Grice wanted Jerry to come to work immediately, but our hero begged to speak to Mr. Islen in private for a moment, and when they were left alone told his story from beginning to end.

The rich book-binder listened with interest, and tapped meditatively upon his desk when Jerry had finished.

“This is rather a strange story, Upton,” he said. “What would you like me to do?”

“I would like you to give me some advice, sir. What had I best do?”

“You can do a number of things. What would be the best I cannot say. You might hire a lawyer to look into the case, and again you might have this Slocum arrested for locking you in the office. The loss of the packet complicates matters. Did it have your name on?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you had better wait, and in the meantime advertise for the packet, offering a reward. That tramp may be watching for such an advertisement.”

This was sound advice; but Jerry had no money, and said so.

“I will pay for the advertisement and take it out of your pay,” said Mr. Islen; and the notice was written out without delay and sent off by the office boy.

The young oarsman now felt a trifle lighter in heart. He reasoned that the packet would be of no value to the tramp and that he would be glad to surrender it in hope of a reward. He did not remember at the time that he had written Alexander Slocum’s name and address on the outside wrapper; yet such was a fact.

When Jerry entered the bindery he found several pairs of curious eyes bent upon him from boys of about his own age. Without delay Mr. Grice set our hero to work.

“What is your name?” asked one of the boys, as soon as he had a chance.

“Jerry Upton. What is yours?”

“Dick Lenning. Say, do you know you have got the job Grice was going to give my brother?”

“No, I don’t.”

“It’s so. Jack was coming to work to-morrow. It ain’t fair to take the bread out of a fellow’s mouth like that,” growled Dick Lenning.

“I fancy Mr. Islen gave me my position—” Jerry ventured.

“Oh! So it was the boss put you in. Well, it ain’t fair anyway. Where do you come from—Brooklyn?”

“No, Lakeview.”

“Never heard of it. Must be some country village. You look like a hayseed.”

As Dick Lenning spoke he gazed around to see if Mr. Grice had gone. Then he added in a whisper:

“You have to set up the drinks for the crowd before you can work here, see?”

“Drinks,” repeated our hero.

“Sure; all the new hands do that.”

“I—I rather think I won’t.”

“You are too mean.”

“It’s not that; I don’t drink.”

“You are a country jay, and no mistake.”

Dick Lenning leaned forward and shoved Jerry with his elbow, at the same time putting one foot behind the youth. He wanted to trip our hero up, but Jerry was on guard, and, resisting him, the young oarsman caused him to slip down against a bench upon which rested a pot of book-binders’ glue.

The glue tipped over and part of it went down Lenning’s leg, causing him to yell like a wild Indian.