ed well where he had
placed them, yet to make sure he searched his clothing thoroughly. His
search was useless. The message and the letter were gone.

CHAPTER III.

A FALSE IDENTIFICATION.

"Gone!"

That was the single word which dropped from Earl's lips as he stood at
the window of the telegraph office at Spruceville and hunted for the
missing letter from his Uncle Foster. He cared nothing for the
message,--that could easily be rewritten,--but the letter was highly
important.

Not finding it about his person, he commenced to retrace his steps with
his eyes on the ground. An hour was spent in this manner, and then he
returned slowly to the office.

"I want to send a message to San Francisco, and I had a letter with me
to show that it was all right," he explained. "Will you send the message
anyhow and collect at the other end? The man who is to receive the
message wanted it sent that way."

The telegraph operator mused for a moment. Then he asked Earl who he was
and where he lived, and finally said he guessed it would be all right.
The message was again written out, and ten minutes later it was on its
long journey westward, by way of Boston. The business finished, Earl
thanked the operator and started on his return home.

He was very much out of sorts with himself, and wondered what his
younger brother would think of him. "I needn't find fault with Randy for
being careless after this," he sighed, almost bitterly. "I'm as bad as
he is, and worse. One thing is a comfort, though: I remember the name of
that Boston firm that is to provide us with our money--Bartwell & Stone.
I had better make a note of that." And he did.

The evening shadows were beginning to fall when Basco was again reached.
On the main street of the little town Earl halted to think matters over.
Why wouldn't it be a good thing to let folks know that they wanted to
sell out their household goods and their tools and other things? He made
his way to the general store.

"Well, Portney, I heard you had been put off your place," was the
greeting received from the general storekeeper.

"We have not been put off--we are going to leave it, Mr. Andrews."

"Oh! Where are you going?"

"To Alaska."

"Alaska? You must be joking."

"No, sir. My uncle, Foster Portney, has sent for Randy and me to come to
San Francisco, and the three of us are going to some new gold fields."

"Well, what about my bill?" asked the storekeeper, anxiously. He was