me, but I'll wait a
week for you."

"Oh, don't trouble yourself," said the landlady, sarcastically; "I don't
want to disappoint anybody else. Can you pay me this morning?"

"I'll have the money in a day or two."

"You needn't come back to dinner unless you bring the money to pay your
bill. I can't afford to give you your board."

Mr. Martin rose and left the house, understanding pretty clearly that he
couldn't return. On reaching the street, he opened his pocket-book, and
ascertained that twelve cents were all it contained. This small amount
was not likely to last very long. He decided to go to New York, having
no further inducements to keep him in Brooklyn. Something might turn
up, he reasoned, in the shiftless manner characteristic of him.

Jumping upon a passing car, he rode down to Fulton Ferry, and crossed in
the boat to the New York side, thus expending for travelling expenses
eight cents.

Supposing that Rufus still sold papers in front of the "Tribune" office,
he proceeded to Printing House Square, and looked around for him; but he
was nowhere to be seen.

"Who you lookin' for, gov'nor?" inquired a boot-black, rather short of
stature, but with an old-looking face.

"Aint you the boy that went home with me Wednesday?" asked Martin, to
whom Ben Gibson's face looked familiar.

"S'posin' I am?"

"Have you seen a newsboy they call Rough and Ready, this morning?"

"Yes, I seed him."

"Where is he? Has he sold all his papers?"

"He's giv' up sellin' papers, and gone into business on Wall Street."

"Don't you try to fool me, or I'll give you a lickin'," said Martin,
sternly.

[Illustration: "DON'T YOU TRY TO FOOL ME."]

"Thank you for your kind offer," said Ben, "but lickings don't agree
with my constitution."

"Why don't you tell me the truth then?"

"I did."

"You said Rufus had gone into business in Wall Street."

"So he has. A rich cove's taken a fancy to him, and adopted him as a
office-boy."

"How much does he pay him?" asked Martin, considering whether there
would be any chance of getting some money out of his step-son.

"Not knowin' can't say," replied Ben; "but he's just bought two
pocket-books to hold his wages in."

"You're a humbug!" said Martin, indignantly. "What's the man's name he
works for?"

"It's painted in big letters on the sign. You can't miss it."

James Martin considered, for an instant, whether it would be best to
give Ben a thrashing, but the approach of a poli