When Mike Flynn learned the circumstances of his discharge
he was very angry.
“I’d like to meet Jasper Redwood,”
he said, his eyes flashing. “If I didn’t
give him a laying out then my name isn’t Mike
Flynn.”
“I think he will get his desert some time, Mickey,
without any help from you or me.”
“Should hope he will. And what’ll
you do now, Rodney?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes I think
it would be well to go to some other city, Boston
or Philadelphia, where Jasper can’t get on my
track.”
“Should hope you won’t do it. I can’t
get along widout you.”
“I will stay here for a few weeks, Mike, and
see if anything turns up.”
“I might get you in as a telegraph boy.”
“That wouldn’t suit me. It doesn’t
pay enough.”
Rodney began to hunt for a situation again, but four
weeks passed and brought him no success. One
afternoon about four o’clock he was walking
up Broadway when, feeling tired, he stepped into the
Continental Hotel at the corner of Twentieth Street.
He took a seat at some distance back from the door,
and in a desultory way began to look about him.
All at once he started in surprise, for in a man sitting
in one of the front row of chairs he recognized Louis
Wheeler, the railroad thief who had stolen his box
of jewelry.
Wheeler was conversing with a man with a large flapping
sombrero, and whose dress and general appearance indicated
that he was a Westerner.
Rodney left his seat and going forward sat down in
the chair behind Wheeler. He suspected that the
Western man was in danger of being victimized.
AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE TURNS UP.
In his new position Rodney could easily hear the conversation
which took place between the Western man and his old
railroad acquaintance.
“I am quite a man of leisure,” said Wheeler,
“and it will give me great pleasure to go about
with you and show you our city.”
“You are very obliging.”
“Oh, don’t mention it. I shall really
be glad to have my time occupied. You see I am
a man of means—my father left me a fortune—and
so I am not engaged in any business.”
“You are in luck. I was brought up on a
farm in Vermont, and had to borrow money to take me
to Montana four years ago.”
“I hope you prospered in your new home?”
“I did. I picked up twenty five thousand
dollars at the mines, and doubled it by investment
in lots in Helena.”
“Very neat, indeed. I inherited a fortune
from my father—a hundred and twenty five
thousand dollars—but I never made a cent
myself. I don’t know whether I am smart
enough.”
“Come out to Montana and I’ll put you
in a way of making some money.”
“Really, now, that suggestion strikes me favorably.
I believe I will follow your advice. When shall
you return to your Western home?”
