s would be back in the
house within twenty-four hours."

"I don't see how the old gentleman can let him turn Florence out of
the house."

"He's a snake in the grass, Dodger. It may be wicked, but I just wish
something would happen to him. And how is Miss Florence lookin', poor
dear?"

"She's lookin' like a daisy."

"Does she worry much?"

"She did at first, but now she's workin' every day, and she looks more
cheerful-like."

"Miss Florence workin'! She that was always brought up like a lady!"

"She's teachin' a little girl three hours a day."

"Well, that isn't so bad!" said Jane, relieved. "Teachin' is genteel.
I wish I could see her some day. Will you tell her, Dodger, that next
Sunday is my day out, and I'll be in Central Park up by the menagerie
at three o'clock, if she'll only take the trouble to be up there?"

"I'll tell her, Jane, and I'm sure she'll be there."

A day or two afterward Curtis Waring asked: "Have you heard from my
Cousin Florence since she went away?"

"Yes, sir."

"Indeed! Where is she staying?"

"She didn't send me word."

"How, then, did you hear from her?"

"Dodger came with an expressman for her trunk."

Curtis Waring frowned.

"And you let him have it?" he demanded, sternly.

"Of course I did. Why shouldn't I?"

"You should have asked me."

"And what business have you with Miss Florence's trunk, I'd like to
know?" said Jane, independently.

"Never mind; you ought to have asked my permission."

"I didn't think you'd want to wear any of Miss Florence's things, Mr.
Waring."

"You are silly and impertinent," said Curtis, biting his lips. "Did
that boy tell you anything about her?"

"Only that she wasn't worryin' any for you, Mr. Curtis."

Curtis glanced angrily at his cousin's devoted friend, and then,
turning on his heel, left the room.

"I'll bring her to terms yet," he muttered. "No girl of seventeen
shall defy me!"

Chapter XIII.
Tim Bolton's Saloon.

Not far from Houston Street, on the west side of the Bowery, is an
underground saloon, with whose proprietor we are already acquainted.

It was kept by Tim Bolton, whose peculiar tastes and shady
characteristics well fitted him for such a business.

It was early evening, and the gas jets lighted up a characteristic
scene.

On the sanded floor were set several tables, around which were seated
a motley company, all of them with glasses of beer or whiskey before
them.

Tim, with a white apron o