even get across the river to Jersey City. It takes money, money, my boy,
to travel, and you haven't a cent. And yet you're going West! That _is_
a good one. Do you think the trains will carry you for nothing, just for
the pleasure of having you travel on them?" and the grocer indulged
himself in another burst of laughter at what he considered his keen
wit.

But the next words of his ward soon drove all mirth from his soul.

"I expect you to give me enough money to carry me to Oklahoma City from
what my father left me. When I get settled out there, I will let you
know, and you can send me the rest of the money which was entrusted to
you for me. If I took it with me, I might get robbed."

When the merciless old man recovered his breath, he exclaimed:

"What do you mean about the money your father left for you? Don't you
know he didn't have a cent? Don't you know that if I hadn't taken pity
on you, fool that I was--but your father did me a favor once, and so I
thought I could repay it by taking you--that you would have been sent to
an orphan asylum? And this is the return I get. Here I've spent my
hard-earned money for twelve years to buy you food and clothing, and yet
you dare to say that I have money for you which your father left. I
never heard of such ingratitude."

"I know that you are not telling the truth," retorted Bob. "I have a
letter my father wrote, saying that I was to open it when I was ten
years old, in which he said that he had given you five thousand dollars
to have me educated."

"What nonsense! What an outrage!" exclaimed the grocer, though Bob's
statement had caused his face to become more than usually ashen-hued.
"I've a mind to thrash you for saying such a thing. Me have five
thousand dollars of yours! I never heard anything so preposterous!"

"I tell you, you have the money. Here's the letter that says so,"
retorted Bob. And, as he spoke, he drew his hand from his pocket,
disclosing to the uneasy gaze of his guardian an envelope yellow with
age, worn and soiled from much handling, but upon which was the writing
which he recognized, all too well, as that of Horace Chester, Bob's
father.

For an instant the grocer glowered at the boy and the letter, and then
his shrewd mind, suggesting a way out of the embarrassing predicament in
which the boy had placed him, he exclaimed:

"Poor Horace! I had always hoped to keep from you the fact that he was
insane at the time of his death, but this letter