“Ye see,” he went on, unconscious of Uncle Billy's paling face, and with a naivete, though perhaps not a delicacy, equal to Uncle Billy's own, “I had to play roots on you with that lock-box business and these letters, because I did not want you to know what I was up to, for you mightn't like it, and might think it was lowerin' to the old firm, don't yer see? I wouldn't hev gone into it, but I was played out, and I don't mind tellin' you NOW, old man, that when I wrote you that first chipper letter from the lock-box I hedn't eat anythin' for two days. But it's all right NOW,” with a laugh. “Then I got into this business--thinkin' it nothin'--jest the very last thing--and do you know, old pard, I couldn't tell anybody but YOU--and, in fact, I kept it jest to tell you--I've made nine hundred and fifty-six dollars! Yes, sir, NINE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-SIX DOLLARS! solid money, in Adams and Co.'s Bank, just out er my trade.” “Wot trade?” asked Uncle Billy. Uncle Jim pointed to the corner, where stood a large, heavy crossing-sweeper's broom. “That trade.” “Certingly,” said Uncle Billy, with a quick laugh. “It's an outdoor trade,” said Uncle Jim gravely, but with no suggestion of awkwardness or apology in his manner; “and thar ain't much difference between sweepin' a crossin' with a broom and raking over tailing with a rake, ONLY--WOT YE GET with a broom YOU HAVE HANDED TO YE, and ye don't have to PICK IT UP AND FISH IT OUT ER the wet rocks and sluice-gushin'; and it's a heap less tiring to the back.” “Certingly, you bet!” said Uncle Billy enthusiastically, yet with a certain nervous abstraction. “I'm glad ye say so; for yer see I didn't know at first how you'd tumble to my doing it, until I'd made my pile. And ef I hadn't made it, I wouldn't hev set eyes on ye agin, old pard--never!” “Do you mind my runnin' out a minit,” said Uncle Billy, rising. “You see, I've got a friend waitin' for me outside--and I reckon”--he stammered--“I'll jest run out and send him off, so I kin talk comf'ble to ye.” “Ye ain't got anybody you're owin' money to,” said Uncle Jim earnestly, “anybody follerin' you to get paid, eh? For I kin jest set down right here and write ye off a check on the bank!” “No,” said Uncle Billy. He slipped out of the door, and ran like a deer to the waiting carriage. Thrusting a twenty-dollar gold-piece into the coachman's hand, he said hoarsely, “I ain't wantin' that kerridge just now; ye ken drive around and hev a private jamboree all by yourself the rest of the afternoon, and then come and wait for me at the top o' the hill yonder.” Thus quit of his gorgeous equipage, he hurried back to Uncle Jim, grasping his ten-thousand dollar draft in his pocket. He was nervous, he was frightened, but he must get rid of the draft and his story, and have it over. But before he could speak he was unexpectedly stopped by Uncle Jim.