money."

"He seems to be dressed better than he was. I suppose he laid it out for
fine clothes," added the constable.

"Do you persist in saying that Ham Fishley robbed the mail?" said the
captain, angrily.

"I do; and I think I shall be able to prove it, too."

"You see, the fellow is a black-hearted scoundrel," said the postmaster,
turning to the man who was a stranger to me, and who, I afterwards
learned, was a post-office agent or detective. "This boy has been in my
family for several years, but he tries to screen himself by laying his
crime to my son."

"Have you got any money about you?" asked the constable.

"I have," I replied.

"Search him," added the captain, eagerly.

"You needn't be so savage about it," said I, when the constable came at
me as though I had been a royal Bengal tiger, with dangerous claws and
teeth. "I'll submit without any pounding."

I turned out my pockets. I had bought a new porte-monnaie in New
Orleans, and all my funds were in it. My old one, which contained the
burnt envelope, was in my carpet-bag at the hotel, so that I had no
motive for concealing anything. The officer opened the porte-monnaie,
and counted fifty-one dollars in bills, which he took from it. The trip
down the river had cost me about seventy dollars, but the proceeds of
the raft and its furniture had added twenty-five dollars to my
exchequer. As my brother had paid all my expenses on the journey up the
river, I had only spent a few dollars, mostly for the hotel boat.

"Here is more money than was taken from the letter," said the constable.

"That only proves that he has robbed the mail more than once," replied
Captain Fishley.

The post-office agent opened his eyes, and seemed to me to look
incredulous.

"Has this boy had anything to do with the mail during the last two
months?" asked he.

"Not that I know of," replied the postmaster.

The agent nodded his head, and did not seem to be quite satisfied. I
surmised that Ham had been robbing other letters.

"Where have you been for two months?" asked the agent, turning to me.

"I have been to New Orleans," I answered.

"You haven't been about here, then?"

"No, sir."

"Put him in the wagon, and we will drive home," said Captain Fishley.

The post-office agent took me in charge, and he was not so rude and
rough as the constable. He placed me on the back seat of the wagon, and
sat beside me himself. All three of my companions plied me with
questions