s he? Jake, come here."

The shock-headed youth came running from the back yard, where he was
chopping wood.

"Me and this gentleman," said his master, "are going for a little
excursion. We start to-morrow morning. See? I was thinking of closing
the shop, but I've decided to leave you in charge till I return."

The lad stood with his hands in his pockets, and blew a long, shrill
whistle. "Of all the tight corners I was ever in," he said, "this takes
the cake. I'll want a rise in wages--look at the responsibility, boss."

The goldsmith laughed. "All right," he said. "You shall have ten
shillings a week extra while I'm away; and if we have luck, Jake, I'll
make it a pound."

"Right-oh! I'll take all the responsibility that comes along. I'll get
fat on it. And when you come back, you'll find the business doubled, and
the reputation of B. Tresco increased. It'll probably end in you taking
me in as partner--but _I_ don't care: it's all the same to _me_."

The goldsmith made an attempt to box the boy's ear, but Jake dodged his
blow.

"That's your game, is it?" exclaimed the young rogue. "Bash me about,
will you? All right--I'll set up in opposition!"

He didn't wait for the result of this remark, but with a sudden dart he
passed like a streak of lightning through the doorway, and fled into the
street.

CHAPTER XVII.

Rachel's Wiles.

Rachel Varnhagen walked down the main street of Timber Town, with the
same bustling gait, the same radiant face, the same air of possessing
the whole earth, as when the reader first met her. As she passed the
Kangaroo Bank she paused, and peered through the glass doors; but,
receiving no responsive glance from the immaculately attired Isaac, who
stood at the counter counting out his money, she continued her way
towards her father's place of business, where she found the rotund
merchant in a most unusual state of excitement.

"Now, vat you come bothering me this morning, Rachel? Can't you see I'm
pizzy?"

"I want a cheque, father."

"You get no cheque from me this morning, my child. I've got poor all of
a sudden. I've got no cheques for nopody."

"But I have to get things for the house. We want a new gourmet
boiler--you know you won't touch currie made in a frying-pan--a steamer
for potatoes, and half-a-dozen table-knives."

"Don't we haff no credit? What goot is my name, if you can't get
stew-pans without money? Here I am, with no invoices, my orders ignored
as if I