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streets, theatres, and hotels, for the comfort which they could not find at home. Here they felt obliged to spend money to an extent of which they probably were not themselves fully aware; and in the end wasted considerably more than the two or three dollars a week extra which would have provided them with a comfortable home. But this was not all. In the roamings spent outside many laid the foundation of wrong habits, which eventually led to ruin or shortened their lives. They lost all the chances of improvement which they might have secured by study at home in the long winter evenings, and which in the end might have qualified them for posts of higher responsibility, and with a larger compensation.

      Richard Hunter was ambitious. He wanted to rise to an honorable place in the community, and he meant to earn it by hard study. So Fosdick and he were in the habit of spending a portion of every evening in improving reading or study. Occasionally he went to some place of amusement, but he enjoyed thoroughly the many evenings when, before a cheerful fire, with books in their hands, his room-mate and himself were adding to their stock of knowledge. The boys had for over a year taken lessons in French and mathematics, and were now able to read the French language with considerable ease.

      "What's the use of moping every evening in your room?" asked a young clerk who occupied a hall bedroom adjoining.

      "I don't call it moping. I enjoy it," was the reply.

      "You don't go to a place of amusement once a month."

      "I go as often as I like."

      "Well, you're a queer chap. You pay such a thundering price for board. You could go to the theatre four times a week without its costing you any more, if you would take a room like mine."

      "I know it; but I'd rather have a nice, comfortable room to come home to."

      "Are you studying for a college professor?" asked the other, with a sneer.

      "I don't know," said Dick, good-humoredly; "but I'm open to proposals, as the oyster remarked. If you know any first-class institution that would like a dignified professor, of extensive acquirements, just mention me, will you?"

      So Richard Hunter kept on his way, indifferent to the criticisms which his conduct excited in the minds of young men of his own age. He looked farther than they, and knew that if he wanted to succeed in life, and win the respect of his fellow-men, he must do something else than attend theatres, and spend his evenings in billiard saloons. Fosdick, who was a quiet, studious boy, fully agreed with his friend in his views of life, and by his companionship did much to strengthen and confirm Richard in his resolution. He was less ambitious than Dick, and perhaps loved study more for its own sake.

      With these explanations we shall now be able to start fairly in our story.

       CHAPTER II

      AT THE ASTOR HOUSE

      The two friends started from their room about seven o'clock, and walked up to Third Avenue, where they jumped on board a horse-car, and within half an hour were landed at the foot of the City Hall Park, opposite Beekman Street. From this point it was necessary only to cross the street to the Astor House.

      The Astor House is a massive pile of gray stone, and has a solid look, as if it might stand for hundreds of years. When it was first erected, a little more than thirty years since, it was considered far up town, but now it is far down town, so rapid has been the growth of the city.

      Richard Hunter ascended the stone steps with a firm step, but Henry Fosdick lingered behind.

      "Do you think we had better go up, Dick?" he said irresolutely.

      "Why not?"

      "I feel awkward about it."

      "There is no reason why you should. The money belongs to you rightfully, as the representative of your father, and it is worth trying for."

      "I suppose you are right, but I shan't know what to say."

      "I'll help you along if I find you need it. Come along."

      Those who possess energy and a strong will generally gain their point, and it was so with Richard Hunter. They entered the hotel, and, ascending some stone steps, found themselves on the main floor, where the reading-room, clerk's office, and dining-room are located.

      Dick, to adopt the familiar name by which his companion addressed him, stepped up to the desk, and drew towards him the book of arrivals. After a brief search he found the name of "Hiram Bates, Milwaukie, Wis.," towards the top of the left-hand page.

      "Is Mr. Bates in?" he inquired of the clerk, pointing to the name.

      "I will send and inquire, if you will write your name on this card."

      Dick thought it would be best to send his own name, as that of Fosdick might lead Mr. Bates to guess the business on which they had come.

      He accordingly wrote the name,

      in his handsomest handwriting, and handed it to the clerk.

      That functionary touched a bell. The summons was answered by a servant.

      "James, go to No. 147, and see if Mr. Bates is in. If he is, give him this card."

      The messenger departed at once, and returned quickly.

      "The gentleman is in, and would be glad to have Mr. Hunter walk up."

      "Come along, Fosdick," said Dick, in a low voice.

      Fosdick obeyed, feeling very nervous. Following the servant upstairs, they soon stood before No. 147.

      James knocked.

      "Come in," was heard from the inside, and the two friends entered.

      They found themselves in a comfortably furnished room. A man of fifty-five, rather stout in build, and with iron-gray hair, rose from his chair before the fire, and looked rather inquiringly. He seemed rather surprised to find that there were two visitors, as well as at the evident youth of both.

      "Mr. Hunter?" he said, inquiringly, looking from one to the other.

      "That is my name," said Dick, promptly.

      "Have I met you before? If so, my memory is at fault."

      "No, sir, we have never met."

      "I presume you have business with me. Be seated, if you please."

      "First," said Dick, "let me introduce my friend Henry Fosdick."

      "Fosdick!" repeated Hiram Bates, with a slight tinge of color.

      "I think you knew my father," said Fosdick, nervously.

      "Your father was a printer, – was he not?" inquired Mr. Bates.

      "Yes, sir."

      "I do remember him. Do you come from him?"

      Fosdick shook his head.

      "He has been dead for two years," he said, sadly.

      "Dead!" repeated Hiram Bates, as if shocked. "Indeed, I am sorry to hear it."

      He spoke with evident regret, and Henry Fosdick, whose feelings towards his father's debtor had not been very friendly, noticed this, and was softened by it.

      "Did he die in poverty, may I ask?" inquired Mr. Bates, after a pause.

      "He was poor," said Fosdick; "that is, he had nothing laid up; but his wages were enough to support him and myself comfortably."

      "Did he have any other family?"

      "No, sir; my mother died six years since, and I had no brothers or sisters."

      "He left no property then?"

      "No, sir."

      "Then I suppose he was able to make no provision for you?"

      "No, sir."

      "But you probably had some relatives who came forward and provided for you?"

      "No, sir; I had no relatives in New York."

      "What then did you do? Excuse my questions, but I have a motive in asking."

      "My father died

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