“Well, ye see, I’m goin’ ter have the place next door when I git money enough and then I’ll jine ’em together. That’ll be somethin’ worth while,” he continued. Hustler Joe easily kept him talking on this fascinating theme a full ten minutes, then he prepared to take his leave. “Let’s see,” he mused aloud, “you came from Maine, you say. About where—the town, I mean?” Jim named it. “You say the old folks are living there yet?” Jim nodded. “Name is Powers, I suppose, same as yours; maybe you were named for your father, eh?” “No; father’s name was Ebenezer, an’ mother objected—so it’s ‘Jim’ I am. Why? Goin’ ter dig up my family tree by the roots?” asked the little man whimsically. “Not a bit of it!” laughed the miner, looking strangely embarrassed as he hurried out the door. “Monte Cristo” had been Hustler Joe’s favorite tale in his boyhood days. He thought of it now, as he left the “Emporium,” and the thought brought a smile to his lips. A few days later Pedler Jim was dumfounded to receive a call from a Westmont lawyer. “Well, my friend,” the man began, “I have a few little documents here that demand your attention.” Pedler Jim eyed the formidable-looking papers with some apprehension. “Now see here, sir,” he demurred, “my conscience is perfectly clear. I don’t want nothin’ to do with sech devilish-lookin’ things as that!”—his eyes on the big red seal. “I hain’t never harmed no one—’tain’t an arres’, is it?” he added, his voice suddenly failing him. “Well, hardly!” returned the lawyer, chuckling to himself. “This, my friend, is the deed, filled out in your name, to the Rotalick property on the hill back here; and this,” he continued, taking up another paper and paying no attention to the little hunchback, who had dropped in limp stupefaction on to a packing-box, “this is the deed—also made out in your name—to the building adjoining this store on the south. Mr. Balch, the present occupant, has a lease which expires in two months. After that the property is at your disposal.” “But where in thunder did I git it?” demanded Pedler Jim. “That is not my business, sir,” said the lawyer, with a bow. “Well, I’ll be jiggered!” murmured the hunchback, gingerly picking up one of the deeds and peering at it. Pedler Jim was still further astounded to find that to his tiny bank account had been added a sum so large that he scarcely believed his eyes. It was entered under the name “Hospital Fund.” Following close upon all this came a letter from the folks at home: