"Have you had any communication with her since you left Portland?"

"I wrote her once, but received no answer."

"The letter may not have reached her. It may have fallen into the hands
of your stepfather. What is his name?"

"Trimble--Abner Trimble."

"Was he in any business?"

"Yes; he kept a liquor saloon, and patronized his own bar too much for
his own good."

"I shouldn't think your mother would like to have him in that
business."

"She asked him to change it, but he wouldn't. He had a set of
disreputable companions who made his saloon their headquarters, and he
did not wish to give them up, as he might have had to do if he had gone
into another business."

By this time supper was over, and the two walked to Broadway. Edward
felt stronger, and his eye was brighter.

Suddenly he gripped Chester's arm.

"Do you see that man?" he asked, pointing to a black-bearded man on the
other side of the street.

"Yes; what of him?"

"It is a gentleman from Portland, a neighbor of ours. What can he be
doing in New York?"

CHAPTER XXXIII.

A FRIEND FROM OREGON.

"Go over and speak to him," suggested Chester.

"Come with me, then."

The two boys crossed the street and intercepted the man from Portland.
He was of medium height, with dark hair, and had a brisk, Western way
with him.

"Don't you remember me, Mr. Wilson?" said Edward.

"What! Edward Granger?" ejaculated the Oregonian. "Well, I am glad to
see you. Didn't know what had become of you. Are you living here?"

"Yes, sir. Let me introduce my friend, Chester Rand."

"Glad to meet you, Mr. Rand," said Wilson, heartily. "So you are a
friend of Edward's."

"Indeed he is, an excellent friend!" exclaimed young Granger. "Have
you--seen my mother lately?"

"Come over to my hotel and I'll answer all your questions. I'm stopping
at the Continental, on the next block."

"All right! Will you come, Chester?"

"Yes; I shall be glad to."

They were soon sitting in the office of the Continental Hotel, at the
corner of Broadway and Twentieth Street.

"Now I'll answer your questions," said Nathaniel Wilson. "Yes, I saw
your mother the day before I set out."

"And is she well?" asked Edward, anxiously.

"She was looking somewhat careworn. She probably misses you."

"She never writes to me," said Edward, bitterly.

"It may be because she doesn't know your address. Then your stepfather
keeps her prejudiced against you."

"I suppose there is no