They were standing on a quiet street corner, scarcely a block away from the Lewis home. One or two men passed by and spoke to them, but the greetings went unheeded. “I’ve found a letter,” said Chick; “but how do I know whether it’s yourn or not? Who was it to?” The young fellow swallowed awkwardly before replying, and grew red in the face. His first impulse was to resent the question as an unwarranted intrusion into his private affairs. But, on second thought, he knew that such an attitude on his part, especially toward Chick, would be extremely poor policy. “Why,” he exclaimed finally, “it was to a girl by the name of Rachael, and it was signed ‘Alfred.’” “That’s all right so far,” assented Chick. “But they’s lots o’ Rachaels in the U. S., and the world’s full of Alfreds. Tell me what was in it.” “Oh, now, look here, Chick! That’s not necessary. Surely I’ve identified the letter sufficiently, and I’m entitled to have it.” But Chick was obdurate. “No,” he said, “a man can’t be too careful about love-letters. If this here letter should git into the hands o’ the wrong party my goose would be cooked. You got to tell me what was in the letter ’fore I give it up.” Alfred Lewis looked up the street, then down the street, and then at Chick. “Well,” he said finally, “I asked Rachael to marry me.” “That’s right!” assented the boy. “You sure did. Now, was they any p. s. on the end, or wasn’t they?” “I believe there was.” “What was in it?” “Look here, Chick! Confound you! you’re getting too blamed inquisitive.” But Chick straightened up as far as his deformed shoulders would permit, and thrust his hands determinedly into his pockets. “I got to know,” he said. There was apparently no escape, and the young lover, with scarlet face and stammering tongue, blurted out: “Why, I told her I never loved any other girl as much as I did her. Does that satisfy you?” Chick did not answer the question. Instead, he thrust one hand deeper into his pocket, drew forth the precious missive and handed it to the writer thereof, who, having glanced at it exteriorly and interiorly, gave a great sigh of relief. Then followed a shower of questions as to when, where and how the letter had been found, to all of which Chick not only gave complete and satisfactory answers, but he also entertained his listener with a full account of his own Sherlock Holmesian efforts in running down the writer. At the conclusion of the narration young Lewis grasped the boy’s hand. “Chick,” he declared, “you’ve saved my life. What if the other fellows had got onto it! They’d have made the town too hot to hold me. That job was worth money, Chick; yes, it was worth money.” He thrust his hand into his pocket as he spoke, drew forth a purse, extracted therefrom a bill with a green back, and held it out to the boy. But Chick waved aside the gift disdainfully.