d other valuables of the rich man,
including, now, the thirteen hundred and fifty dollars just received.

Captain Patterdale was president of the Twenty-first National Bank of
Belfast, which was located a short distance from his house. The tin box
was kept in the vaults of the bank; but the owner had taken it home to
examine some documents at his leisure, intending to return it to the
bank before night. As it was in the library when Mr. Hasbrook called,
the money was deposited in it for safe keeping over night.

"I'm afraid I can't go with you, Donald," said Captain Patterdale, after
he had asked him all the questions he could think of about the Sea Foam.

"I am sorry, sir; for Miss Nellie wanted to go, and I was going to ask
father to wait till after sunset on her account," added the young man.

Mr. Hasbrook began to look hopeful; for the last remark of the nabob
indicated a possible termination of the conversation. Donald began his
retreat toward the hall of the mansion, for he wanted to see the fair
daughter again; but he had not reached the door before the captain
called him back.

"I suppose your father wants some more money to-night," said he, feeling
in his pocket for the key to open the tin box.

"He didn't say anything to me about it, sir," replied Donald; "I don't
think he does."

Hasbrook looked hopeless again; for Captain Patterdale began to
calculate how much he had paid, and how much more he was to pay, for the
yacht. While he was doing so, there was a knock at the street door,
and, upon being invited to do so, Mr. Laud Cavendish entered the library
with a bill in his hand.

Mr. Laud Cavendish was a great man in his own estimation, and a great
swell in the estimation of everybody else. He was a clerk or salesman in
a store; but he was dressed very elegantly for a provincial city like
Belfast, and for a "counter-jumper" on six or eight dollars a week. He
was about eighteen years old, tall, and rather slender. His upper lip
was adorned with an incipient mustache, which had been tenderly coaxed
and colored for two years, without producing any prodigious result,
though it was the pride and glory of the owner. Mr. Cavendish was a
dreamy young gentleman, who believed that the Fates had made a bad
mistake in his case, inasmuch as he was the son of an honest and
industrious carpenter, instead of the son and heir of one of the nabobs
of Belfast. He believed that he was fitted to adorn the highest circle
in