pectators, who
refused to listen to what the assistant auctioneer might have to say
from the stand.

"I'll teach you a lesson!" fumed Caleb Gulligan. "How do you like
that?"

He swung Matt around and caught him by the throat and the collar. But
only for an instant was he able to hold the boy in that fashion. Matt
squirmed and twisted like an eel, and suddenly gave the old
auctioneer a push which sent him sprawling upon his back. Before Caleb
Gulligan could recover, Matt was out of the door and running like a
deer up Nassau street.

"Hi! hi! stop him!" roared the old auctioneer. "He must not get
away."

"Stop him yourself, then," said one of the bystanders heartlessly. "We
have nothing to do with your quarrel with the boy."

"You are in league with him," fumed Caleb Gulligan, as he scrambled to
his feet. "But, never mind, I'll catch him!"

He ran out of the auction store and gazed perplexedly up and down into
the crowd. It was useless. Matt Lincoln, like his friend, Ida
Bartlett, had disappeared.

CHAPTER III.

SOMETHING OF THE PAST.

Matt Lincoln did not stop until he reached Temple Court, as that large
office-building on the corner of Nassau and Beekman streets is called.
Then he drew a long breath as he took a stand in one corner of a side
corridor.

"There, I've put my foot into it again, I suppose," he said, somewhat
dismally. "I reckon old Uncle Dan was right, I'm the rolling stone
that's forever getting into a hole and out without settling anywhere.
But I couldn't stand it to see Miss Bartlett threatened. It wasn't a
fair thing to do, and that auctioneer ought to be run out of the city.
I suppose he'll be after my scalp now."

Matt Lincoln was sixteen years of age. For the past two years he had
been depending entirely upon himself, and during that time he had,
indeed, been a rolling stone, although not entirely without an
object.

Up to his tenth year Matt had lived with his father and mother in the
Harlem district of the great metropolis. He had attended one of the
public schools, and, take it all in all, had been a happy boy.

Then came a cloud over the Lincoln home. Mr. Lincoln was interested,
as a speculator, in some mines in Montana, and by a peculiar
manipulation of the stocks of these mines he lost every dollar of his
hard-earned savings. He was an over-sensitive man, and these losses
preyed upon his mind until he was affected mentally, and had to be
sent to an asylum.

For sev