ashore.
"Oh, I guess we'll pass in a crowd," said Randy, laughing. "All we want to look out for is that we are not robbed, or something like that."
Leaving their baggage on check, the two boys started from Foster's wharf up into the city. They had no idea where the firm of Bartwell & Stone were located, but Earl was certain they could easily be found by consulting a directory.
The elder brother was on the point of entering a large store in quest of the book mentioned when Randy pulled his arm and pointed down the street. "There goes a fire engine, Earl!" he cried. "Let's follow it. I should like to see how they manage a fire in a city."
Earl was willing, and away they went, easily keeping up with the engine, which had to proceed slowly through the crowded thoroughfare. The fire was in a paint and oil works, and burnt fiercely for over an hour before it was gotten under control. The boys lingered around, watching the movements of the firemen with keen interest, and it was two hours later before Earl caught Randy by the shoulder and hauled him out of the mob of people.
"Remember, we're bound for Alaska," he said. "We can't afford to stop at every sight on the way."
A few blocks further on a directory was found in a drug store and the address of Bartwell & Stone jotted down. They lost no further time in hunting up the firm of bankers and brokers, who occupied the ground floor of a substantial business structure.
"I am Earl Portney," explained Earl, to the clerk who asked them what they wanted. "This is my brother Randolph. Our uncle, Foster Portney, said he would send on some money for us from San Francisco. Has it arrived yet?"
"I'll see. Was it a telegraph order?"
"I suppose so."
The clerk disappeared into an inner apartment, to be gone several minutes. When he came out he was accompanied by a tall, sharp-eyed man in rusty black.
"These are not the young men who called for the money," said the man in rusty black. "There must be some mistake here."
"Were the other men identified, Mr. Stone?" questioned the clerk, while both Randy and Earl pricked up their ears.
"Oh, yes; a clerk from Johnston's restaurant identified them as Earl and Randolph Portney. Besides, they held the original letter which had been sent by their uncle, Foster Portney, from San Francisco."
CHAPTER IV.
A SERIOUS SET-BACK
Earl and Randy could scarcely believe their ears. What was this gentleman in rusty black saying, that two men had been identified as themselves and had called for the money sent on by their Uncle Foster?
"There is a mistake somewhere," said the clerk, turning to the brothers. "You say you are Earl and Randolph Portney?"
"We are," both replied, in a breath.
"Two men were here not two hours ago and were identified as the ones to receive the money. They had a letter from their uncle, in which he wanted them to come to San Francisco and join him in a trip to Alaska."
"That letter was ours!" burst out Earl. "I lost it a couple of days ago."
The clerk turned to the elderly gentleman, who looked more serious than ever.
"Have you any idea who those men were?" asked the gentleman.
"They were a couple of thieves, that's certain," said Randy, bluntly. "The money was to come to us and nobody else."
"Where did you lose that letter?"
"I lost it on the road between Naddy Brook and Spruceville," replied Earl, and gave some of the particulars. The full story of his uncle's offer to Randy and himself followed, to which Mr. Stone listened closely. He was a fair judge of human nature, and saw at once that the two boys were no sharpers and that their story was most likely true.
"Well, if you are the real Portney brothers, we are out exactly three hundred dollars," he said, after considerable talking. "I paid over that money in good faith, too, on the strength of the letter and the identification."
"We had nothing to do with that," answered Earl, stoutly, feeling he must stand up for his rights.
"Of course not, but – Just wait here a few minutes, and I'll try to find that clerk from the restaurant who identified the rascals."
Mr. Stone put on a silk hat and went out, to be gone nearly or quite half an hour. He returned accompanied by another man – a police official – to whom the particulars of the occurrence had been given.
"That identification was also part of the swindle," the broker explained. "I could not find the clerk at the restaurant, and I am convinced now that he was not the man he made me believe he was."
"But what about our money?" said Earl, coldly, thinking the broker might try to shift the responsibility of the affair.
"If you can find some reliable party known to us to identify you, I will pay the sum to you," was the answer. "But I've got to be sure of the identification this time – and you can't blame me for that," added the broker, with a short laugh.
"No, we can't blame you for that," repeated Earl, yet at the same time wondering who there was in that strange city who knew them.
"I don't know of any one here who knows us," put in Randy, reading his elder brother's thought. "I wish Uncle had sent the money in some other way."
"See here," put in the police official. "Since those swindlers had the letter that was lost up near where you come from, perhaps you know the men. Mr. Stone, can't you describe them?"
As well as he was able the broker did so. But the description was so indefinite that both Earl and Randy shook their heads.
"I know a dozen men who look a good deal like that description," said the older brother. "It's possible they were lumbermen like ourselves."
"Yes, they did look like lumbermen," replied Mr. Stone. "That is why I was not so particular about their identification."
For another half hour the matter was talked over, and then as it was getting time to close up the office for the day, Earl and Randy left, to find some one to identify them, were such a thing possible. At the corner of the block both halted.
"I'm blessed if I know what to do," were Randy's words. "I can't think of a soul who knows us here."
"There used to be a man named Curtis Gordon who once lived at Basco – he owned the feed mill there. He came to Boston and started a flour business. But whether he would remember me is a question. He hasn't seen me in about eight years."
"We might try him – it would be better than nothing!" cried Randy, eagerly. "Let us hunt him up in the directory."
This was done, and they found Mr. Curtis Gordon's place of business after a search lasting over an hour. Several clerks were in attendance who supplied the information that Mr. Gordon had gone to New York, and would not be back for two days.
"Stumped again," murmured Randy, dismally. "Did you ever see such luck!"
"Never give up," answered Earl, as cheerfully as he could. "I wonder if Mrs. Gordon lives in town."
"What if she does?"
"I'd
