be as glad to meet him as you yourself;" then, as Rutherford's eyes
expressed considerable wonder at such unexpected cordiality, he
continued:

"I've been thinking, for some time, Ned, that the friendship you have
shown for the low-salaried clerk and bookkeeper whom you met on your
way out here, deserves some degree of confidence in return, and this
evening seems to be the best time for giving you a little explanation
regarding the man whom you have called your friend for the last few
weeks."

"Why, certainly, if you wish," Rutherford replied, with slight
embarrassment, "but then, it isn't at all necessary, you know; that
is, unless it is your choice, for your salary or your position doesn't
cut any figure with me. Whatever your circumstances may be, I know as
well as I need to know that you are a gentleman; anybody can see that,
and I have told my brother so."

"I am much obliged to you, Ned," Houston answered, with difficulty
restraining a smile, "but I am going to begin by saying that your
brother knows me a great deal better than you do."

Rutherford's face expressed so much astonishment, that it resembled
nothing so much as an exaggerated exclamation point. Houston
continued:

"I have never in my life known what it was to have an own brother, but
the one who for many years has held that place in my heart is Morton
Rutherford, and I think he will tell you that of all his class mates,
there was not one with whom he was upon more intimate, confidential
terms, than Everard Houston, of New York."

"Everard Houston! Great Scott!" exclaimed Rutherford, springing to his
feet, "why I remember that name well; he was Mort's best friend. You
don't mean to say you are the same? Why, I thought you said you were
from Chicago!"

"I was from Chicago, when you met me," answered Houston, smiling, "but
I had come from New York less than ten days before."

"Well, by Jove!" said Rutherford, walking up and down the room, "I am
floored completely! If you had once said you were from New York, I
might have suspected who you were, but Chicago! and then," here he
stopped and gazed at his friend with a comical look of perplexity,
"why, Everard Houston was the nephew and adopted son of W. E.
Cameron."

"Certainly," assented Houston.

"Well then, what in thunder,--if I may ask the question,--are you
doing out here with this confounded Buncombe-Boomerang mining
company?"

"That is just what I wished to tell you to-night," Houston