, Mr. Mullins," he said, politely.

"Good-evening, Chester," returned the bookkeeper, flushing slightly. "I
want to thank you for not exposing my past misdeeds."

"I hope, Mr. Mullins, you did not think me mean enough to do so."

"I am sorry to say that according to my sad experience eight out of ten
would have done so, especially if they had reason, like you, to
complain of personal ill treatment."

"I don't believe in persecuting a man."

"I wish all were of your way of thinking. Shall I tell you my
experience?"

"If you will."

"When I left New York I went to Chicago and obtained the position of
collector for a mercantile establishment. I was paid a commission, and
got on very well till one unlucky day I fell in with an acquaintance
from New York.

"'Where are you working?' he asked.

"I told him.

"The next day my employer summoned me to his presence.

"'I shall not require your services any longer,' he said.

"I asked no questions. I understood that my treacherous friend had
given me away.

"I had a few dollars saved, and went to Minneapolis. There I was
undisturbed for six months. Then the same man appeared and again
deprived me of my situation."

"How contemptible!" ejaculated Chester, with a ring of scorn in his
voice.

"Then I came to Tacoma, and here I have been thus far undisturbed. When
I saw you I had a scare. I thought my time had come, and I must again
move on."

"So far from wishing to harm you, Mr. Mullins," said Chester, "if,
through the meanness of others you get into trouble you can any time
send to me for a loan of fifty dollars."

"Thank you," ejaculated Mullins, gratefully, wringing Chester's hand.
"You are heaping coals of fire on my head."

"You will always have my best wishes for your prosperity. If ever you
are able, repay the money you took from Mr. Fairchild, and I will
venture to promise that he will forgive you."

"With God's help I will!"

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

ABNER TRIMBLE'S PLOT.

Just off First Street, in Portland, Ore., is a saloon, over which
appears the name of the proprietor:

"Abner Trimble."

Two rough-looking fellows, smoking pipes, entered the saloon. Behind
the bar stood a stout, red-faced man. This was Trimble, and his
appearance indicated that he patronized the liquors he dispensed to
others.

"Glad to see you, Floyd," said Trimble.

"That means a glass of whisky, doesn't it?" returned Floyd.

"Well, not now. I want you to go u