style="font-size:15px;"> "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. Tripp's store."
"After he had charged me with stealing? No, mother, I will never serve Silas Tripp again."
"There might be some other chance."
"But there isn't, mother. By the way, I heard at the post office that the shoe manufactory will open again in three weeks."
"That's good news. I shall have some more binding to do."
"And I can send you something every week from New York."
"But I will be so lonely, Chester, with no one else in the house."
"That is true, mother."
"But I won't let that stand in the way. You may have prospects in New York. You have none here."
"And, as Mr. Conrad says, I am likely to run out of subjects for sketches."
"I think I shall have to give my consent, then."
"Thank you, mother," said Chester, joyfully. "I will do what I can to pay you for the sacrifice you are making."
Just then the doorbell rang.
"It is Mr. Gardener, the lawyer," said Chester, looking from the window.
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