The heavy curtains hid the portly old man, and Walton proceeded to undress and lie down. But he could not sleep. What human being with a normal heart could have done so under like circumstances? An hour later the dull, rumbling movement of the car told him that they were off. There was no stop at the station, but Walton propped himself upon his elbow and raised the little window-shade and peered out as they passed through the switch-yard of the town. On the platform a night-watchman stood swinging a lantern. In the rapidly shifting glare of light Fred recognized him. It was Dan Smith, a faithful negro who used to work about the bank and whom Fred had known from childhood up. “Poor old Uncle Dan!” the outcast said, bitterly, as the kindly features were spirited away in the distance.' “You know why 'Marse Freddie' had to leave, don't you? It was because he was a thief, Uncle Dan. The little fellow you used to carry on your shoulders and be so proud of grew up to be a thief--a _thief_, and he is hiding now from you and all the rest!” CHAPTER X |THE two friends had been in New York five days, and in the continual round of theatres, and in sight-seeing, with occasional call at some establishment with which Whipple had dealings, they spent the time very pleasantly. The pain caused by Fred's secret visit to his old home was, in a measure, assuaged by his constant effort to be cheerful for the sake of his benefactor's enjoyment. He felt that he was succeeding, and the realization of the fact buoyed him up to further activity in self-obliteration. On occasion, Whipple acted like a college boy off on a lark. He passed funny criticisms on the persons they saw on the streets and in the cars, and at the table of the café where they got their meals he purposely blundered over the French words on the menu, to the great mystification of the polite waiter, who found it impossible to reconcile actual ignorance with the costly clothing Whipple wore and his extravagant tips and liberal orders. On the sixth morning of their stay in the metropolis they went down to pay a promised visit to Lewis Marston, the importer of teas and coffees from whom Whipple had received many a shipment and had met once or twice in New Orleans. “So _this_ is the Mr. Spencer you've written me about so often?” Marston smiled cordially as he was introduced to Fred, and begged them to take seats in the spacious office of which he was the only occupant. “Young man, as we used to say in the South, your ears ought to burn, for your boss has written me lots of good things about you. I remember he wrote last winter that his business was growing out of all bounds, owing to the fresh blood and modern ideas you had put into it.” Fred flushed modestly as he released the hand of the portly, pink-faced, side-whiskered old merchant. “Mr. Whipple is noted for his generosity,” he said, lamely.