is the boy that found the pocketbook, and he hain't got no place
to sleep."

"O, is it? Then I will find a place for him to sleep. So, my boy, you
are an honest fellow."

"I try to be," replied Harry, modestly.

"If you had kept the pocketbook you might have lodged at the Tremont
House."

"I had rather sleep in your stable, without it."

"Squire Walker was mean not to give you a ten-dollar bill. What are
you going to do with yourself?"

"I want to get work; perhaps you have got something for me to do. I am
used to horses."

"Well, I don't know as I have."

Major Phillips was a great fat man, rough, vulgar, and profane in his
conversation; but he had a kind of sympathizing nature. Though he
swore like a pirate sometimes, his heart was in the right place, so
far as humanity was concerned.

He took Harry into the counting room of the stable, and questioned him
in regard to his past history and future prospects. The latter,
however, were just now rather clouded. He told the major his
experience in trying to get something to do, and was afraid he should
not find a place.

The stable keeper was interested in him and in his story. He swore
roundly at the meanness of Jacob Wire and Squire Walker, and commended
him for running away.

"Well, my lad, I don't know as I can do much for you. I have three
ostlers now, which is quite enough, and all I can afford to pay; but I
suppose I can find enough for a boy to do about the house and the
stable. How much wages do you expect?"

"Whatever you think I can earn."

"You can't earn much for me just now; but if you are a-mind to try it,
I will give you six dollars a month and your board."

"Thank you, sir; I shall be very glad of the chance."

"Very well; but if you work for me, you must get up early in the
morning, and be wide awake."

"I will, sir."

"Now, we will see about a place for you to sleep."

Over the counting room was an apartment in which two of the ostlers
slept. There was room for another bed, and one was immediately set up
for Harry's use.

Once more, then, our hero was at home, if a mere abiding place
deserves that hallowed name. It was not an elegant, or even a
commodious, apartment in which Harry was to sleep. The walls were
dingy and black; the beds looked as though they had never been clean;
and there was a greasy smell which came from several harnesses that
were kept there. It was comfortable, if not poetical; and Harry soon
felt perfectly