d attire of his benevolent companion. Judging from that, he
was not surprised that ten dollars exceeded the charitable fund of the
philanthropist.

"My operations in Wall street have not been fortunate of late," resumed
the stranger; "and I am in consequence hard up."

"Do you do business in Wall street?" asked Frank, rather surprised.

"Sometimes," was the reply. "I have lost heavily of late in Erie and
Pacific Mail, but it is only temporary. I shall soon be on my feet
again."

"I hope so, sir," said Frank, politely.

"My career has been a chequered one," continued the stranger. "I, too,
as a mere boy, came up from the country to make my fortune. I embarked
in trade, and was for a time successful. I resigned to get time to write
a play,--a comedy in five acts."

Frank regarded his companion with heightened respect. He was a boy of
good education, and the author of a play in his eyes was a man of
genius.

"Was it played?" he inquired.

"No; Wallack said it had too many difficult characters for his company,
and the rest of the managers kept putting me off, while they were
producing inferior plays. The American public will never know what they
have lost. But, enough of this. Sometime I will read you the
'Mother-in-law,' if you like. Have you had dinner?"

"No," answered Frank. "Do you know where I can dine cheap?" he
inquired.

"Yes," answered the stranger. "Once I boarded at the Astor House, but
now I am forced, by dire necessity, to frequent cheap restaurants.
Follow me."

"What is your name, sir?" asked Frank, as he rose from the bench.

"Montagu Percy," was the reply. "Sorry I haven't my card-case with me,
or I would hand you my address. I think you said your name was not
Johnny."

"My name is Frank Kavanagh."

"A very good name. 'What's in a name?' as Shakespeare says."

As the oddly assorted pair crossed the street, and walked down Nassau
street, they attracted the attention of some of the Arabs who were
lounging about Printing-House square.

"I say, country, is that your long-lost uncle?" asked a boot-black.

"No, it isn't," answered Frank, shortly.

Though he was willing to avail himself of Mr. Percy's guidance, he was
not ambitious of being regarded as his nephew.

"Heed not their ribald scoffs," said Montagu Percy, loftily. "Their
words pass by me 'like the idle wind,' which I regard not."

"Who painted your nose, mister?" asked another boy, of course addressing
Frank's companion.

"