nd deposited it in his
vest pocket. He waited till after dinner, and then went at once to the
necktie stand, where he made the proposal to George Barry.

The young man shook his head.

"I'd like to oblige you, Paul," he said, "but I must have the money.
I have an offer of thirty-two dollars, cash, from another party, and I
must take up with it if I can't do any better. I'd rather sell out to
you, but you know I have to consult my own interest."

"Of course, George, I can't complain of that."

"I think you will be able to borrow the money somewhere."

"Most of my friends are as poor as myself," said Paul. "Still, I think I
shall be able to raise the money. Only wait for me two days."

"Yes, Paul, I'll wait that long. I'd like to sell out to you, if only
because you have helped me when I was sick. But for you all that would
have been lost time."

"Where there's a will there's a way, George," said Paul. "I'm bound to
buy your stand and I will raise the money somehow."

Paul bought a few papers, for he did not like to lose the afternoon
trade, and in an hour had sold them all off, realizing a profit of
twenty cents. This made his profits for the day seventy cents.

"That isn't as well as I used to do," said Paul to himself, "but perhaps
I can make something more by and by. I will go now and see what I can
get for the ring."

As he had determined, he proceeded to a pawnbroker's shop which he had
often passed. It was on Chatham street, and was kept by an old man, an
Englishman by birth, who, though he lived meanly in a room behind his
shop, was popularly supposed to have accumulated a considerable fortune.

CHAPTER XV

THE PAWNBROKER'S SHOP

Stuffed behind the counter, and on the shelves of the pawnbroker's shop,
were articles in almost endless variety. All was fish that came to his
net. He was willing to advance on anything that had a marketable value,
and which promised to yield him, I was about to say, a fair profit.
But a fair profit was far from satisfying the old man. He demanded an
extortionate profit from those whom ill-fortune drove to his door for
relief.

Eliakim Henderson, for that was his name, was a small man, with a bald
head, scattering yellow whiskers, and foxlike eyes. Spiderlike he waited
for the flies who flew of their own accord into his clutches, and took
care not to let them go until he had levied a large tribute. When Paul
entered the shop, there were three customers ahead of him.