with freight for Philadelphia, and sailed for that city.
When no trace of Matt's father could be found the detectives who had been put on the case declared their belief that the poor man had drowned himself in the Delaware River. This belief was strengthened when some clothing that looked like that which the demented man had worn was found in a secluded spot not far from the river bank.
But Matt could not bring himself to believe that his father was dead. There was a hope in his breast which amounted almost to a conviction that some day he would again find his parent, alive and well.
Yet Matt's search in and around Philadelphia, lasting several months, was unsuccessful. His money was soon spent, and then he started to tramp from Philadelphia to his former home, New York.
This tramp, of about one hundred miles by the various turnpikes through New Jersey, took the boy just one week, and when he arrived in the metropolis, both his clothing and his shoes were considerably worn. But he brushed up, and lost no time in hunting up work, knowing that it would never do to remain idle.
For two days Matt was without employment. Then he thought of the man who had sold his father the mining shares, Mr. Randolph Fenton, and he paid the stock-broker a visit at his offices, on Broad street, just off of Wall street.
As it happened, Randolph Fenton was just then in need of a boy to run errands and do copying, and after a talk with Matt, he hired him at a salary of four dollars a week.
"I'll take you in because I thought so much of your dear father," explained Randolph Fenton. "We were great friends, you must know, and I feel it my duty to do something for his son."
Randolph Fenton spoke very nicely, but Matt soon found that he was by no means the kind-hearted gentleman he wished to appear. In reality, he was very mean and close. He worked his clerks almost to death, and such a thing as a raise in salary was unknown in the office.
But Matt found it would do no good to complain. Times were just then somewhat hard, and another place was not easy to obtain. He decided to make the most of it until times grew better, and in this resolve remained with Randolph Fenton week after week until the opening of this story.
Matt had been sent by Randolph Fenton on an errand to Temple Court, to be done as soon as the boy had finished lunch. Waiting for another minute to make certain that he was not being followed, the boy hurried to one of the elevators, and was lifted to the third floor.
The errand was quickly transacted, and with several books under his arm for his employer, Matt started on the return to the offices in Broad street. Not wishing to be seen in the vicinity of the auction store, Matt turned down Park Row instead of Nassau street, and so continued down Broadway, his intention being to pass through Wall to Broad.
He had just reached the corner of Fulton street when some one tapped him upon the shoulder, and turning, he found himself confronted by Andrew Dilks, the old auctioneer's assistant.
CHAPTER IV.
AN INTERESTING PROPOSITION.
On catching sight of Andrew Dilks Matt's first thought was to break and run. But a second look into the old auctioneer's assistant's face assured him that no immediate harm was meant, and he stood his ground, his eyes flashing, defiantly.
"You didn't expect us to meet quite so soon, did you?" remarked Andrew Dilks with a quiet smile.
"No, I didn't," returned Matt bluntly.
"I suppose you were doing your best to keep out of the way of Gulligan and myself.'"
"Is Gulligan the man I had the row with?"
"Yes."
"Then you are right. I don't want to get into trouble for nothing. That young lady was not to blame for what happened, and I considered it my duty to take her part."
"Mr. Gulligan was very mad," went on Andrew Dilks, still smiling quietly.
"I can't help that. He ought not to have pitched into me the way he did."
"I agree with you."
At these words, so quietly but firmly spoken, Matt's eyes opened in wonder. Was it possible that the old auctioneer's assistant took his part?
"You agree with me?" he repeated.
"Yes, I agree with you. Gulligan was altogether too hasty—he most generally is," returned Andrew Dilks.
"I'll bet you don't dare tell him that," and Matt grinned mischievously.
"I have just told him."
"What?"
"Yes. I believe that unknown man was entirely to blame. It was a shame the way Gulligan carried on. As soon as you ran out he turned upon me for not stopping you, and we had some pretty hot words."
"Good for you!" cried Matt. "I must thank you, not only for myself, but for Miss Bartlett as well."
"Those hot words have cost me my situation," went on Andrew Dilks more soberly.
Instantly Matt's face fell.
"That's too bad, indeed, it is!" he said earnestly. "Why, I would rather have gone home and got the money to pay for the broken stuff than have that happen."
"It was not altogether on account of the broken piece of bric-a-brac," went on Andrew Dilks. "Gulligan has been angry at me for over two weeks—ever since I wouldn't pass off a counterfeit five-dollar bill he had taken in. I said the bill ought to be burned up, but he wouldn't hear of it."
"But now you are out of a job."
"That's true. But I don't much care. Working for him was not easy, and he never paid me my weekly wages of ten dollars until I had asked for it about a dozen times."
"I thought auctioneers made more than that," said Matt. There was something about Andrew Dilks that pleased him, and he was becoming interested in the conversation.
"Most of them do—a good deal more. But Gulligan considered that he had taught me the business, and that I was still under his thumb."
"Why don't you go in business for yourself? It seems to me it would just suit me," said Matt enthusiastically. "I once passed through the town of Rahway, out in New Jersey, and a fellow not much older than you had a big wagon there, and was auctioning stuff off at a great rate—crockery ware, lamps, albums, razors, and a lot more of goods. They said he had been selling goods there every night for a week."
"Those are the fellows who make money," returned Andrew Dilks. "Here in the city the business is done to death. Give a man a good team of horses and a wagon, and enough money to stock up, and he can travel from place to place and make a small fortune."
"I believe you. Why don't you start out?"
"I
