tter."

"Glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Trotter," said Mr. Bunsby, offering
his hand.

Tom took it shyly, and felt that it was indeed a proud moment for him.
To be called Mr. Trotter by the great Bunsby, and to have his hand
shaken into the bargain, put him on a pinnacle of greatness which he had
never hoped to reach.

"Won't you walk in, Mr. Bunsby? This is my mother, Mrs. Mason, and this
is my sister Edith."

"Glad to meet you, ladies both! I congratulate you, Mrs. Mason, on
having so distinguished a son."

"He is a good boy, Mr. Bunsby, whether he is distinguished or not."

"I have no doubt of it. In fact I am sure of it. You already know that I
keep a dime museum, where, if I do say it myself, may be found an
unrivaled collection of curiosities gathered from the four quarters of
the globe, and where may be witnessed the most refined and recherche
entertainments, which delight daily the elite of New York and the
surrounding cities."

"Yes, sir," assented Mrs. Mason, rather puzzled to guess what all this
had to do with her.

"I have come here to offer your son an engagement of four weeks at
twenty-five dollars a week, and the privilege of selling his
photographs, with all the profits it may bring."

"But what am I to do?" asked Mark.

"Merely to sit on the platform with the other curiosities."

"But I am not a curiosity."

"I beg your pardon, my dear boy, but everybody will want to see the
heroic boy who foiled a dynamite fiend and saved the life of a banker."

Somehow this proposal was very repugnant to Mark.

"Thank you, Mr. Bunsby," he said, "but I should not like to earn money
in that way."

"I might say thirty dollars a week," continued Mr. Bunsby. "Come, let us
strike up a bargain."

"It isn't the money. Twenty-five dollars a week is more than I could
earn in any other way, but I shouldn't like to have people staring at
me."

"My dear boy, you are not practical."

"I quite agree with Mark," said Mrs. Mason. "I would not wish him to
become a public spectacle."

CHAPTER VIII.

A SCENE IN MRS. MACK'S ROOM.

Fifteen minutes before a stout, ill-dressed man of perhaps forty years
of age knocked at the door of Mrs. Mack's room.

"Come in!" called the old lady in quavering accents.

The visitor opened the door and entered.

"Who are you?" asked the old lady in alarm.

"Don't you know me, Aunt Jane?" replied the intruder. "I'm Jack Minton,
your nephew."

"I don't want to