"And a good deal lost, too," suggested Rupert. "When are you going to see Mr. Clayton again?" "To-morrow morning. He's goin' down to show me his office, and he'll think it over whether he can take Ephraim or not." "I suppose he is a rich man." "I expect he is. He dresses fine. Ephraim would like to dress that way, but he hasn't the shape for it. I should feel proud to have him doin' as well as Mr. Clayton." "I hope you won't mind my giving you a little advice, Mr. Onthank, even if I am a boy." "Go ahead, sonny! I'm sure you mean well." "Don't make any arrangements with Mr. Clayton to take your son till you have had a chance to talk over the matter with some one. I have a friend, a very experienced man, and I am sure his advice would be worth taking." "You don't think there's anything wrong about Mr. Clayton, do you?" asked the farmer, startled. "I don't say that, but if he wants you to pay him some money for giving your son a a place, don't do it till you have mentioned it to me." "I won't. There won't be no harm in that." "And don't tell him who it is you are going to consult. Supposing he wasn't all right, it would put him on his guard." "Thank you, sonny, you are a young boy, but I guess you've got a level head." "I hope so," laughed Rupert. "Do you know where there's a good place to take supper--a good country supper? I've been to the hotel eatin' houses, but it don't exactly suit my country taste." "Yes, Mr. Onthank, I think I can find a place that will suit you." Rupert took the farmer to a plain restaurant not far away, where he got some cream toast, a good cup of strong tea, and a piece of apple pie. "That's good," said the farmer, with a sigh of satisfaction. "It's better than all them fancy dishes I get at some places. There ain't nothing like plain home livin'." Rupert didn't part from Mr. Onthank till nine o'clock, when the farmer expressed a wish to go to bed. "I always go to bed at nine o'clock when I'm to home," he said. "Folks here in York seem to sit up all night." CHAPTER XII. CLAYTON'S SCHEME. About ten o'clock in the forenoon Clarence Clayton entered the Somerset Hotel and looked about for the Orange County farmer. Clayton was clean shaved, his shoes were brilliantly polished, and there was a rose in his buttonhole. "My dear old friend," he said, with effusion, as he espied Josiah Onthank sitting near the door, "I hope you are feeling in the best of health this fine morning." "Thank you, Mr. Clayton. I feel pooty smart. Why, you're all dressed up. You look as if you'd just come out of a bandbox." "Men in my position have to be particular about their appearance. Now if I was in the country I wouldn't care, but I have an appointment with Mr. Vanderbilt this morning, and, of course, I must be particular." "Do you know Mr. Vanderbilt?" asked Mr. Onthank, considerably impressed. "Intimately. I dined at his house last week."