and did both
freely. But there was a certain rude honesty about him which led Rufus,
though in every way his superior, to regard him with friendly interest,
and he had, on more than one occasion, been of considerable service to
our hero in his newsboy days. Rufus had tried to induce him to give up
smoking, but thus far without success.

"It keeps a feller warm," he said; "besides it won't hurt me. I'm
tough."

CHAPTER IV.

HOW JAMES MARTIN CAME TO GRIEF.

After parting with Ben Gibson, James Martin crossed the street to the
City Hall Park, and sat down on one of the wooden benches placed there
for the public accommodation. Neither his present circumstances nor his
future prospects were very brilliant. He was trying to solve the great
problem which has troubled so many lazy people, of how best to live
without work. There are plenty of men, not only in our cities, but in
country villages, who are at work upon this same problem, but few solve
it to their satisfaction. Martin was a good carpenter, and might have
earned a respectable and comfortable livelihood, instead of wandering
about the streets in ragged attire, without a roof to shelter him, or
money to pay for a decent meal.

As he sat on the bench, a cigar-boy passed him, with a box of cigars
under his arm.

"Cigars," he cried, "four for ten cents!"

"Come here, boy," said Martin. The boy approached.

"I want a cigar."

"I don't sell one. Four for ten cents."

Martin would willingly have bought four, but as his available funds
amounted only to four cents, this was impossible.

"I don't want but one; I've only got four cents in change, unless you
can change a ten-dollar bill."

"I can't do that."

"Here, take three cents, and give me a prime cigar."

"I'll sell you one for four cents."

"Hand over, then."

So Martin found himself penniless, but the possessor of a cigar, which
he proceeded to smoke with as much apparent enjoyment as if he had a
large balance to his credit at the bank.

He remained in the Park till his cigar was entirely smoked, and then
sauntered out with no definite object in view. It occurred to him,
however, that he might as well call on the keeper of a liquor saloon on
Baxter Street, which he had frequently patronized.

"How are you, Martin?" asked "Jim," that being the name by which the
proprietor was generally known.

"Dry as a fish," was the suggestive reply.

"Then you've come to the right shop. What'll you h