"How would you advise me to invest it, sir?" asked Fosdick.
"Perhaps you cannot do better than buy shares of some good bank. You will then have no care except to collect your dividends twice a year."
"That is what I should like to do," said Fosdick. "What bank would you advise?"
"The Broadway, Park, or Bank of Commerce, are all good banks. I will attend to the matter for you, if you desire it."
"I should be very glad if you would, sir."
"Then that matter is settled," said Mr. Bates. "I wish I could as easily settle another matter which has brought me to New York at this time, and which, I confess, occasions me considerable perplexity."
The boys remained respectfully silent, though not without curiosity as to what this matter might be.
Mr. Bates seemed plunged in thought for a short time. Then speaking, as if to himself, he said, in a low voice, "Why should I not tell them? Perhaps they may help me."
"I believe," he said, "I will take you into my confidence. You may be able to render me some assistance in my perplexing business."
"I shall be very glad to help you if I can," said Dick.
"And I also," said Fosdick.
"I have come to New York in search of my grandson," said Mr. Bates.
"Did he run away from home?" asked Dick.
"No, he has never lived with me. Indeed, I may add that I have never seen him since he was an infant."
The boys looked surprised.
"How old is he now?" asked Fosdick.
"He must be about ten years old. But I see that I must give you the whole story of what is a painful passage in my life, or you will be in no position to help me.
"You must know, then, that twelve years since I considered myself rich, and lived in a handsome house up town. My wife was dead, but I had an only daughter, who I believe was generally considered attractive, if not beautiful. I had set my heart upon her making an advantageous marriage; that is, marrying a man of wealth and social position. I had in my employ a clerk, of excellent business abilities, and of good personal appearance, whom I sometimes invited to my house when I entertained company. His name was John Talbot. I never suspected that there was any danger of my daughter's falling in love with the young man, until one day he came to me and overwhelmed me with surprise by asking her hand in marriage.
"You can imagine that I was very angry, whether justly or not I will not pretend to say. I dismissed the young man from my employ, and informed him that never, under any circumstances, would I consent to his marrying Irene. He was a high-spirited young man, and, though he did not answer me, I saw by the expression of his face that he meant to persevere in his suit.
"A week later my daughter was missing. She left behind a letter stating that she could not give up John Talbot, and by the time I read the letter she would be his wife. Two days later a Philadelphia paper was sent me containing a printed notice of their marriage, and the same mail brought me a joint letter from both, asking my forgiveness.
"I had no objections to John Talbot except his poverty; but my ambitious hopes were disappointed, and I felt the blow severely. I returned the letter to the address given, accompanied by a brief line to Irene, to the effect that I disowned her, and would never more acknowledge her as my daughter.
"I saw her only once after that. Two years after she appeared suddenly in my library, having been admitted by the servant, with a child in her arms. But I hardened my heart against her, and though she besought my forgiveness, I refused it, and requested her to leave the house. I cannot forgive myself when I think of my unfeeling severity. But it is too late too redeem the past. As far as I can I would like to atone for it.
"A month since I heard that both Irene and her husband were dead, the latter five years since, but that the child, a boy, is still living, probably in deep poverty. He is my only descendant, and I seek to find him, hoping that he may be a joy and solace to me in the old age which will soon be upon me. It is for the purpose of tracing him that I have come to New York. When you," turning to Fosdick, "referred to your being compelled to resort to the streets, and the hard life of a boot-black, the thought came to me that my grandson may be reduced to a similar extremity. It would be hard indeed that he should grow up ignorant, neglected, and subject to every privation, when a comfortable and even luxurious home awaits him, if he can only be found."
"What is his name?" inquired Dick.
"My impression is, that he was named after his father, John Talbot. Indeed, I am quite sure that my daughter wrote me to this effect in a letter which I returned after reading."
"Have you reason to think he is in New York?"
"My information is, that his mother died here a year since. It is not likely that he has been able to leave the city."
"He is about ten years old?"
"I used to know most of the boot-blacks and newsboys when I was in the business," said Dick, reflectively; "but I cannot recall that name."
"Were you ever in the business, Mr. Hunter?" asked Mr. Bates, in surprise.
"Yes," said Richard Hunter, smiling; "I used to be one of the most ragged boot-blacks in the city. Don't you remember my Washington coat, and Napoleon pants, Fosdick?"
"I remember them well."
"Surely that was many years ago?"
"It is not yet two years since I gave up blacking boots."
"You surprise me Mr. Hunter," said Mr. Bates "I congratulate you on your advance in life. Such a rise shows remarkable energy on your part."
"I was lucky," said Dick, modestly. "I found some good friends who helped me along. But about your grandson: I have quite a number of friends among the street-boys, and I can inquire of them whether any boy named John Talbot has joined their ranks since my time."
"I shall be greatly obliged to you if you will," said Mr. Bates. "But it is quite possible that circumstances may have led to a change of name, so that it will not do to trust too much to this. Even if no boy bearing that name is found, I shall feel that there is this possibility in my favor."
"That is true," said Dick. "It is very common for boys to change their name. Some can't remember whether they ever had any names, and pick one out to suit themselves, or perhaps get one from those they go with. There was one boy I knew named 'Horace Greeley'. Then there were 'Fat Jack,' 'Pickle Nose,' 'Cranky Jim,' 'Tickle-me-foot,' and plenty of others.1 You knew some of them, didn't you, Fosdick?"
"I knew 'Fat Jack' and 'Tickle-me-Foot,'" answered Fosdick.
"This of course increases the difficulty of finding and identifying the boy," said Mr. Bates. "Here," he said, taking a card photograph from his pocket, "is a picture of my daughter at the time of her marriage. I have had these taken from a portrait in my possession."
"Can you spare me one?" asked Dick. "It may help me to find the boy."
"I will give one to each of you. I need not say that I shall feel most grateful for any service you may be able to render me, and will gladly reimburse any expenses you may incur, besides paying you liberally for your time. It will be better perhaps for me to leave fifty dollars with each of you to defray any expenses you may be at."
"Thank you," said Dick; "but I am well supplied with money, and will advance whatever is needful, and if I succeed I will hand in my bill."
Fosdick expressed himself in a similar way, and after some further conversation he and Dick rose to go.
"I congratulate you on your wealth, Fosdick," said Dick, when they were outside. "You're richer than I am now."
"I never should have got this money but for you, Dick. I wish you'd take some of it."
"Well, I will. You may pay my fare home on the horse-cars."
"But really I wish you would."
But