what stood first
in his mind. "I have lost the two hundred dollars Mr. Pitkin paid me
this morning."

"So you lost it?" observed Mr. Pitkin with a sneer, emphasizing the word
"lost" to show his incredulity.

"Yes, sir, I lost it," answered Phil, looking him fearlessly in the eye;
"or, rather, it was stolen from me."

"Oh! now it is stolen, is it?" repeated Pitkin.

"Really, Uncle Oliver, this is getting interesting."

"I believe I am the proper person to question Philip," said Mr. Carter
coldly. "It was my money, I take it."

"Yes, it was yours. As I made the payment, I cannot, of course, be
responsible for its not reaching you. You will pardon my saying that it
would have been wiser to employ a different messenger."

"Why?" demanded Uncle Oliver, looking displeased.

"Why, really, Uncle Oliver," said Mr. Pitkin, "I should think the result
might convince you of that."

"We had better let Philip tell his story," said Mr. Carter quietly. "How
did it happen, Philip?"

Thereupon Philip told the story already familiar to the reader.

"Upon my word, quite a romantic story!" commented Mr. Pitkin, unable to
repress a sneer. "So you were tracked by a rascal, lured into a den
of thieves, robbed of your money, or, rather, Mr. Carter's, and only
released by the house catching fire?"

"That is exactly what happened to me, sir," said Philip, coloring with
indignation, for he saw that Mr. Pitkin was doing his best to discredit
him.

"It quite does credit to your imagination. By the way, boy, have you
been in the habit of reading dime novels?"

"I never read one in my life, sir."

"Then I think you would succeed in writing them. For a boy of sixteen,
you certainly have a vivid imagination."

"I quite agree with my husband," said Mrs. Pitkin. "The boy's story is
ridiculously improbable. I can't understand how he has the face to stand
there and expect Uncle Oliver to swallow such rubbish."

"I don't expect you to believe it, either of you," said Philip manfully,
"for you have never treated me fairly."

"I think you will find, also, that my uncle is too sensible a man to
credit it, also," retorted Mrs Pitkin.

"Speak for yourself, Lavinia," said Mr. Carter, who had waited
intentionally to let his relatives express themselves. "I believe every
word of Philip's story."

"You do?" ejaculated Mrs. Pitkin, rolling her eyes and nodding her head,
in the vain endeavor to express her feelings. "Really, Uncle Oliver, for