It was some time since he had been so well off as he would be when he had converted these bonds into money. Indeed, all the summer long he had been short of funds, or he would not have spent so long a time in a country village, which to him was dull and afforded him a small field for his peculiar talents. Arriving in New York, Congreve took his way to Wall Street. Here it was that he expected to get rid of the bonds, or, rather, exchange them for greenbacks. In this street brokers’ and bankers’ offices abound, and all negotiable securities readily find a purchaser. He stepped into an office nearly opposite the opening of New Street, and, approaching the counter, said, as he drew out his bonds: “What are you paying for government sixes?” “Let me see the date,” said the clerk. He spread open the bonds, and then answered: “One hundred and fifteen and three-eighths.” “Very well,” replied Congreve. “I will sell them.” The clerk took them and stepped to the desk, to make an entry of the purchase. “What name?” he asked, turning to Congreve. “John Baker,” said Congreve, with momentary hesitation. For obvious reasons, he thought it best not to mention his own name, as trouble might possibly come from the possession of the bonds. “Shall I give you a check?” was the next question. “I would prefer the money,” answered Congreve. “Go to the cashier’s window, and he will attend to you.” “Not much trouble about that,” thought Congreve, complacently, when he was startled by a voice at his elbow. “How are you, Congreve?” Looking around hastily, he saw a hand extended, and recognized a young man who had at one time been a fellow-boarder with him in Fourteenth Street. It is safe to say that James Congreve wished him anywhere else at that most unfortunate time. “Hush!” said he, in a subdued whisper; “I will speak to you outside.” He hoped the clerk had not heard the name by which he had been addressed; but he hoped in vain. The latter, pausing in his writing, came to the counter and said: “Didn’t this gentleman call you Congreve?” “Yes,” admitted Congreve, uneasily. “You just gave your name as John Baker.” “Oh, no! That is, I didn’t say my name was John Baker. That is the gentleman for whom I am selling the bonds.” “Then they do not belong to you?” “No.” “Where does Mr. Baker live?” “In New Haven,” answered Congreve, glibly, for he had a ready invention. “We do not care to buy,” said the clerk, coldly, for there was something in Congreve’s manner which made him suspicious. “Really,” said Congreve, laughing in a constrained manner, “you appear to be very cautious.” “We have to be.” “Shall I tell Mr. Baker it will be necessary for him to come to New York in person to dispose of his bonds? He is my uncle, and I simply am doing him a favor in disposing of them.” “Very possibly; but I think we won’t purchase them.” “Oh, well! I can carry them elsewhere,” said Congreve, raging inwardly.