“I was there, Mr. Mead, and heard the whole,” he said, “though neither of the boys saw me. I was in the piece to the left, behind the hedge. Phil Ross wouldn’t turn out a mite, and Harry had to do as he did. When Phil was thrown out Harry got down from his team and went to see if he was hurt.” Mrs. Ross listened, pale with anger. “I don’t believe a word of it!” she said angrily. “That man is in a conspiracy with the Gilbert boy against my poor darling. I demand that you discharge Harry Gilbert from your employment!” “I am sorry to disoblige you, Mrs. Ross, but it would be unjust,” said Mr. Mead. “Then we shall buy our groceries elsewhere!” said Mrs. Ross, spitefully tossing her head. “I shall be sorry to lose your custom, but I see no good reason for discharging Harry.” Angrily Mrs. Ross left the store, a second time mortified at her want of success. “I am sorry, Mr. Mead, that you are likely to lose trade on my account,” said Harry, with sincere regret. Mr. Mead smiled. “If Mrs. Ross leaves me she will have to go five miles for her groceries,” he said quietly. “We shall have them back again before long.” CHAPTER IV — HARRY LOSES HIS PLACE, AFTER ALL Mrs. Ross carried out her threat, and transferred her trade to a grocery in the neighboring village, but not without considerable inconvenience. Her pride compelled her to the course, notwithstanding the extra trouble she incurred, and this, also, she laid up against Harry. Her husband was opposed to any change, not being so spiteful as his wife, but allowed her to have her way. Meanwhile Mr. Mead, though he regretted to lose a good customer, did not show any signs of financial weakness, and there seemed to be no prospect of his failing. Had he done so Mrs. Ross would have been overjoyed, for she was very angry at all who upheld “that low Gilbert boy,” as she designated him. It is said that all things come to him who waits, and circumstances were shaping themselves in a very gratifying way to Mrs. Ross and her schemes of revenge. One day as Harry was driving the store wagon which bore the name of his employer he was hailed, about a mile from the store, by a boy about his own age, who carried in his hand a carpetbag, and appeared to be making a journey on foot. “Hello!” said the traveler. “Hello!” returned Harry. “Are you working for my uncle?” asked the stranger. “I can tell you better when I find out who your uncle is. If you are the nephew of General Grant, or the czar of Russia, I am not working for him.” “I see you like to joke,” said the stranger. “My uncle is Mr. Mead, the storekeeper.” “That is the name of the man I work for.” “Then I guess you had better give me a lift, for I am going to my uncle’s.” “All right! Glad to have your company.” “What’s your name?” asked the stranger. “Harry Gilbert. What’s yours?” “Howard Randall.” “Where do you live?”