LITMIR.BIZ

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was asking questions about you while he was eating his supper."

      Silas Tripp was forced to confess, though reluctantly, that the case against Chester was falling to the ground. But he did not like to give up.

      "I'd like to know where Chester got the money he's been flauntin' round the last week," he said.

      "Probably he stole it from your store last night," said the constable, with good-natured sarcasm.

      "That ain't answerin' the question."

      "I don't propose to answer the question," said Chester, firmly. "Where I got my money is no concern of Mr. Tripp, as long as I don't get it from him."

      "Have I got to lose the money?" asked Silas, in a tragical tone. "It's very hard on a poor man."

      All present smiled, for Silas was one of the richest men in the village.

      "We might take up a contribution for you, Silas," said the constable, jocosely.

      "Oh, it's all very well for you to joke about it, considerin' you didn't lose it."

      At this moment Abel Wood, who had been sweeping the piazza, entered the store in excitement.

      "I say, there's the tramp now," he exclaimed.

      "Where? Where?" asked one and another.

      "Out in the street. Constable Perkins has got him."

      "Call him in," said the minister.

      A moment later, Constable Perkins came in, escorting the tramp, who was evidently under the influence of strong potations, and had difficulty in holding himself up.

      "Where am I?" hiccoughed Ramsay.

      "Where did you find him, Mr. Perkins?" asked Rev. Mr. Morris.

      "Just outside of Farmer Dexter's barn. He was lying on the ground, with a jug of whisky at his side."

      "It was my jug," said Silas. "He must have taken it from the store. I didn't miss it before. He must have took it away with him."

      "There warn't much whisky left in the jug. He must have absorbed most of it."

      Now Mr. Tripp's indignation was turned against this new individual.

      "Where is my money, you villain?" he demanded, hotly.

      "Whaz-zer matter?" hiccoughed Ramsay.

      "You came into my store last night and stole some money."

      "Is zis zer store? It was jolly fun," and the inebriate laughed.

      "Yes, it is. Where is the money you took?"

      "Spent it for whisky."

      "No, you didn't. You found the whisky here."

      Ramsay made no reply.

      "He must have the money about him," suggested the minister. "You'd better search his pockets, Mr. Perkins."

      The constable thrust his hand into the pocket of his helpless charge, and drew out a roll of bills.

      Silas Tripp uttered an exclamation of joy.

      "Give it to me," he said. "It's my money."

      The bills were counted and all were there.

      Not one was missing. Part of the silver could not be found. It had probably slipped from his pocket, for he had no opportunity of spending any.

      Mr. Tripp was so pleased to recover his bills that he neglected to complain of the silver coins that were missing. But still he felt incensed against the thief.

      "You'll suffer for this," he said, sternly, eying the tramp over his glasses.

      "Who says I will?"

      "I say so. You'll have to go to jail."

      "I'm a 'spectable man," hiccoughed the tramp. "I'm an honest man. I ain't done nothin'."

      "Why did you take my handkerchief last night?" asked Chester.

      The tramp laughed.

      "Good joke, wasn't it? So they'd think it was you."

      "It came near being a bad joke for me. Do you think I robbed your store now, Mr. Tripp?"

      To this question Silas Tripp did not find it convenient to make an answer. He was one of those men—very numerous they are, too—who dislike to own themselves mistaken.

      "It seems to me, Mr. Tripp," said the minister, "that you owe an apology to our young friend here for your false suspicions."

      "Anybody'd suspect him when they found his handkerchief," growled Silas.

      "But now you know he was not concerned in the robbery you should make reparation."

      "I don't know where he got his money," said Silas. "There's suthin' very mysterious about that five-dollar bill."

      "I've got another, Mr. Tripp," said Chester, smiling.

      "Like as not. Where'd you get it?"

      "I don't feel obliged to tell."

      "It looks bad, that's all I've got to say," said the storekeeper.

      "I think, Mr. Tripp, you need not borrow any trouble on that score," interposed the minister. "I know where Chester's money comes from, and I can assure you that it is honestly earned, more so than that which you receive from the whisky you sell."

      Silas Tripp was a little afraid of the minister, who was very plain-spoken, and turned away muttering.

      The crowd dispersed, some following Constable Perkins, who took his prisoner to the lockup.

      CHAPTER IX.

      NEW PLANS FOR CHESTER

      Two days later Chester found another letter from Mr. Conrad at the post office. In it were two bills—a ten and a five.

      Mr. Conrad wrote:

      "I have disposed of your two sketches to the same paper. The publisher offered me fifteen dollars for the two, and I thought it best to accept. Have you ever thought of coming to New York to live? You would be more favorably placed for disposing of your sketches, and would find more subjects in a large city than in a small village. The fear is that, if you continue to live in Wyncombe, you will exhaust your invention.

      "There is one objection, the precarious nature of the business. You might sometimes go a month, perhaps, without selling a sketch, and meanwhile your expenses would go on. I think, however, that I have found a way of obviating this objection. I have a friend—Mr. Bushnell—who is in the real estate business, and he will take you into his office on my recommendation. He will pay you five dollars a week if he finds you satisfactory. This will afford you a steady income, which you can supplement by your art work. If you decide to accept my suggestion come to New York next Saturday, and you can stay with me over Sunday, and go to work on Monday morning.

      "Your sincere friend,

      "Herbert Conrad."

      Chester read this letter in a tumult of excitement. The great city had always had a fascination for him, and he had hoped, without much expectation of the hope being realized, that he might one day find employment there. Now the opportunity had come, but could he accept it? The question arose, How would his mother get along in his absence? She would be almost entirely without income. Could he send her enough from the city to help her along?

      He went to his mother and showed her the letter.

      "Fifteen dollars!" she exclaimed. "Why, that is fine, Chester. I shall begin to be proud of you. Indeed, I am proud of you now."

      "I can hardly realize it myself, mother. I won't get too much elated, for it may not last. What do you think of Mr. Conrad's proposal?"

      "To go to New York?"

      "Yes."

      Mrs. Rand's countenance fell.

      "I don't see how I can spare you, Chester," she said, soberly.

      "If there were any chance of making a living in Wyncombe, it would be different."

      "You might go back to Mr.

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