you now?"

"He ain't my grandfather," said the boy, abruptly.

"Ain't your grandfather! You startle me."

"No, he ain't no relation to me."

"You take my breath away! Who are you, then?"

"I'm Ralph Burnham. I'm Robert Burnham's son."

Ralph had not meant to disclose so much, in this place, to this
fellow, but the words came out before he thought. It did not matter
much anyway,--every one would soon know it.

"Robert Burnham's son? You don't mean the rich coal proprietor who
died at his mine in Scranton last spring?"

"Yes, he's the one I mean. I'm his son."

Rhyming Joe leaned across the table, lifted up the boy's chin, and
looked into his eyes. "My dear young friend," he said, "I fear you
have fallen into evil ways since you passed out of the range of my
beneficent influence. But you should not try to impose so glittering a
romance on the verdant credulity of an old acquaintance at the first
meeting in many weary years."

"To your faithful friend and true,
Tell the truth, whate'er you do."

"Tis true!" asserted Ralph, stoutly. "Gran'pa Simon says so, an'
Lawyer Sharpman says so, an' Mrs. Burnham, she--she--she almost
believes it, too, I guess."

The bar-tender approached again and asked what else they would have.

"A little something to wash the dinner down with, Bummerton," said
Joe, turning again quickly to Ralph.

"Then why don't you live in the Burnham mansion?" he asked, "and leave
rude toil for others?"

"'Cause my mother ain't able to reco'nize me yet; she can't do it till
the suit's ended. They's other heirs, you know."

"Suit! what suit? are you going to have a suit over it?"

The bar-tender brought a bottle, a pitcher of water, two glasses, and
a bowl of sugar.

"Yes," replied the boy, sadly, "I s'pose we've got to. Gran'pa Simon,
he's been 'pointed my garden. He ain't so bad a man as he used to be,
Gran'pa Simon ain't. He's been sick a good deal lately, I guess."

Rhyming Joe paid no attention to these last remarks, but he seemed to
be deeply interested in the law-suit mentioned. He took time to pour
some of the contents of the bottle into each glass, then he filled the
glasses up with water and stirred a goodly quantity of sugar into the
one he pushed toward Ralph.

"What is it?" asked the boy. "Uncle Billy an' me's temperance; we
don't drink nothin' much but water."

"Oh!" responded Joe, "this is purely a temperance drink; it's made up
from wheat, just the same as you get