"Well," said Bog, looking on this man as his mortal enemy, "What do you want of me?" He spoke in the gruff, defiant manner peculiar to children of the city. The man's livid face and lead-colored eyes and white teeth all combined in a reassuring smile. "Nothing," said he, "my good fellow, but to do an errand." "I say, now, who'd you take me for, hey?" answered Bog, shaking his head at the man, and feeling a tremendous desire to knock his shining hat off. The man looked up and down Bog's cheap gray suit, and at his neatly polished shoes and his clean slouching cap, and then said: "No offence meant, my lad. But I thought you wouldn't object to earning a quarter. You're only to deliver a letter at that house; that's all." He pointed to Miss Pillbody's. "Hey--what house?" asked Bog, turning pale, with a strange and jarring combination of rage, jealousy, envy, and insulted dignity. "The one with the bright doorplate, green curtains and gold borders. I thought you were looking at it as I came up." "N-no, I wasn't. And what if I was, hey?" "It strikes me you're rather touchy, my young friend," said the man, with his conciliatory smile. "Here's the letter, now, and a quarter. It's only a few steps. No answer required." As Bog caught sight of the letter, done up in the long, rakish envelope which had just begun to come into fashion, and faintly perfumed, a lucky thought occurred to him. The man saw that he wavered. "Only a step," said he. "And here is the quarter." He offered it to Bog between a thumb and finger. "Why don't you deliver the letter yourself?" asked Bog. "Oh! oh! for family reasons," answered the man, hesitating. "Miss Pillbody there is my aunt, and the lady to whom this letter is addressed is my cousin. The old woman and I have had a sort of falling out about the young one, you see. These little difficulties will occur in the best-regulated families. Come, take the letter. I'm in a hurry." Bog allowed the letter to be thrust into his hand. He looked at it, and saw, as he expected, that it was addressed to "Miss Minford, Present." The direction was in a beautiful commercial hand, which was at once more hateful in his eyes than the most crabbed of writing. "All right," said he. "I'll deliver it. Poh! never mind the quarter. I won't take it." Bog moved toward the house as he spoke. "You're a queer fellow, but a good one. Well, you'll accept my thanks, at any rate." He waited at the hydrant until Bog had delivered the letter. Bog walked straight to the house, and up the steps, although his face was pale, and his knees trembled. He rang the bell with a decisive pull, and, as he did so, glanced at the strange man, who nodded approvingly at him.