The suddenness with which Dean found himself cast adrift, and thrown upon his own resources, was enough to take away his breath. As merchants from time to time take account of stock, he felt that it would be wise now that he was about to set up for himself to ascertain the extent of his means. He thrust his hand into his pocket, and drew out a small collection of silver coins and pennies. All told he found he had but sixty-seven cents, and he was probably twelve hundred miles from home. The chances were that it would cost him at least three cents a mile, or thirty-six dollars, to get back to Waterford. He would have been glad to have the thirty-six dollars, but he had no intention of going back until he could carry something with him. He did not want to acknowledge that he had made a failure. Dean ascertained that the town in which he was stranded (for he hadn't money enough to get out of it) was Granville. The village appeared to be half a mile away, and might at a rough guess contain a thousand inhabitants. Like most small Western towns, it consisted of one main street, with short side streets opening out of it. For a place of the size it seemed to be wide awake, and enterprising, more so than a village of corresponding population at the East. After spending a few minutes at the depot Dean took his valise, and trudged on in the direction of the town. What he should do when he got there he hardly knew. He was ready for anything that might turn up, and he did not worry as much as he would if he had been twice as old. Dean had accomplished about half the distance when a voice hailed him, "Halloa, youngster!" Dean turned in the direction of the voice and his glance fell on a man of perhaps twenty-five, who was stretched comfortably under a tree by the roadside. He had a knapsack and wore a velveteen suit. Something in his appearance gave Dean the impression that he was an actor. Responding to his greeting, which was accompanied by a pleasant smile, Dean answered "Good day!" "Where are you traveling, young chap?" "I don't know," responded Dean. "I suppose I am on my way to the village." "Do you live about here?" "No, I live in New York State." "So do I, when I'm at home, but I'm not often at home." "Are you an actor?" "That's what I call myself. That's what I am styled by admiring friends, though some of the critics are unkind enough to express doubts. At present I am in hard luck. I came West with a dramatic company which has gone to pieces. I am traveling homeward on my uppers. Permit me to introduce myself," and he doffed a soft hat which he wore, "as Cecil Montgomery, not wholly unknown to the metropolitan stage." There was something attractive in his good-humored recklessness that impressed Dean favorably. "My name is Dean Dunham," he responded, "not known on any stage." "Excuse the impertinence, but are you a young man of fortune?" "Yes, if you call sixty-seven cents a fortune."