aining, I thought I would call round for you," he said,
as he drew up his horse.

"Very much obliged to you, indeed," returned Jenkins, quite well
pleased. "Stop a moment, until I lock up my desk, and then I will be
with you."

In a minute or two Jenkins came out, and stepped lightly into the
wagon.

"It is kind in you, really, to call for me," he said, as the wagon
moved briskly away. "I was just thinking that I should have to get a
carriage."

"It is no trouble to me at all," returned Gooding, "and if it were,
the pleasure of doing a friend a kindness would fully repay it."

"You smell strong of whisky here," said Jenkins, after they had
ridden a little way, turning his eyes toward the back part of the
wagon as he spoke. "What have you here?"

"An empty whisky-hogshead. This rain put me in mind of doing what my
wife has been teasing me to do for the last six months--get her a
rain-barrel. I tried to get an old oil-cask, but couldn't find one.
They make the best rain-barrels. Just burn them out with a flash of
good dry shavings, and they are clear from all oily impurities, and
tight as a drum."

"Indeed! I never thought of that. I must look out for one, for our
old rain-hogshead is about tumbling to pieces."

From rain-barrels the conversation turned upon business, and at
length Gooding brought up the old story, and urged the settlement of
his claim as a matter of charity.

"You don't know how much I need it," he said. "Necessity alone
compels me to press the claim upon your attention."

"It is hard, I know, and I am very sorry for you," Jenkins replied.
"Next week, I will certainly pay you fifty dollars."

"I shall be very thankful. How soon after do you think you will be
able to let me have the balance of the three hundred due me. Say as
early as possible."

"Within three months, at least, I hope," replied Jenkins.

"Harry! Do you hear that?" said Gooding, turning his head toward the
back part of the wagon, and speaking in a quick, elated manner.

"Oh, ay!" came ringing from the bunghole of the whisky-hogshead.

"Who the dickens is that?" exclaimed Jenkins, turning quickly round.

"No one," replied Gooding, with a quiet smile, "but my clerk, Harry
Williams."

"Where?"

"Here," replied the individual named, pushing himself up through the
loose head of the upright hogshead, and looking into the face of the
discomfited Jenkins, with a broad smile of satisfaction upon his
always humorous phiz.