e Wayne's
secret." Puff--puff--puff.

"Where did I get that head?" He could not remember. "Tut!" cried he,
suddenly bringing his chair down upon its legs with a force that knocked
his cigar out of his mouth, "I copied it from a head which Jim Greenidge
has, and which he says was one of his school-fellows."

Meanwhile Hope Wayne had carefully locked the door of her room. Then she
hurriedly tore the sketch into the smallest possible pieces, laid them in
her hand, opened the window, and whiffed them away into the dark.

CHAPTER XXIII.

BONIFACE NEWT, SON, AND CO., DRY GOODS ON COMMISSION.

Abel Newt smoked a great many cigars to enable him to see his position
clearly.

When he told his mother that he could not accompany her to the Springs
because he was about entering his father's counting-room, it was not so
much because he was enamored of business as that his future relations
with Hope were entirely doubtful, and he did not wish to complicate them
by exposing himself to the chances of Saratoga.

"Business, of course, is the only career in this country, my son," said
Boniface Newt. "What men want, and women too, is money. What is this city
of New York? A combination of men and machines for making money. Every
body respects a rich man. They may laugh at him behind his back. They
may sneer at his ignorance and awkwardness, and all that sort of thing,
but they respect his money. Now there's old Jacob Van Boozenberg. I say
to you in strict confidence, my son, that there was never a greater fool
than that man. He absolutely knows nothing at all. When he dies he will
be no more missed in this world than an old dead stage-horse who is made
into a manure heap. He is coarse, and vulgar, and mean. His daughter Kate
married his clerk, young Tom Witchet--not a cent, you know, but five
hundred dollars salary. 'Twas against the old man's will, and he shut his
door, and his purse, and his heart. He turned Witchet away; told his
daughter that she might lie in the bed she had made for herself; told
Witchet that he was a rotten young swindler, and that, as he had married
his daughter for her money, he'd be d----d if he wouldn't be up with him,
and deuce of a cent should they get from him. They live I don't know
where, nor how. Some of her old friends send her money--actually give
five-dollar bills to old Jacob Van Boozenberg's daughter, somewhere over
by the North River. Every body knows it, you know; but, for all that, we