y!"

"Is this Fifth Avenue?" Jack asked. "I wish I knew who owned these
houses."

"You do, do you?" laughed the man in blue. "Well, I can tell you some
of them. That house belongs to--" and the policeman went on giving
name after name, and pointing out the finest houses.

Some of the names were familiar to Jack. He had read about these men
in newspapers, and it was pleasant to see where they lived.

"See that house?" asked the policeman, pointing at one of the finest
residences. "Well, the man that owns it came to New York as poor as
you, maybe poorer. Not quite so green, of course! But you'll soon get
over that. See that big house yonder, on the corner? Well, the cash
for that was gathered by a chap who began as a deck-hand. Most of the
big guns came up from nearly nothing. Now you walk along and look out;
but mind you don't run over anybody."

"Much obliged," said Jack, and as he walked on, he kept his eyes open,
but his thoughts were busy with what the policeman had told him.

That was the very idea he had while he was in Crofield. That was what
had made him long to break away from the village and find his way to
the city. His imagination had busied itself with stories of poor
boys,--as poor and green as he, scores of them,--born and brought up in
country homes, who, refusing to stay at home and be nobodies, had
become successful men. All the great buildings he saw seemed to tell
the same story. Still he did say to himself once:

"Some of their fathers must have been rich enough to give them a good
start. Some were born rich, too. I don't care for that, though. I
don't know as I want so big a house. I am going to get along somehow.
My chances are as good as some of these fellows had."

Just then he came to a halt, for right ahead of him were open grounds,
and beyond were grass and trees. To the right and left were buildings.

"I know what this is!" exclaimed Jack. "It must be Central Park. Some
day I'm going there, all over it. But I'll turn around now, and find a
place to go to church. I've passed a dozen churches on the way."

CHAPTER XIII.

A WONDERFUL SUNDAY.

When Jack turned away from the entrance to Central Park, he found much
of the Sunday quiet gone. It was nearly half-past ten o'clock; the
sidewalks were covered with people, and the street resounded with the
rattle of carriage-wheels.

There was some uneasiness in the mind of the boy from Crofield. The
policem