rich man, Lemuel Sheldon, who is worth perhaps fifty
thousand dollars, but put on the airs of a millionaire."

"You are as rich as he, then."

"Yes, and shall soon be richer. However, I don't want him to know it. It
is he who holds the mortgage on my uncle's farm."

"Do you know how large the mortgage is?"

"It is twelve hundred dollars. I shall borrow the money of you to pay
it."

"I understand," said Rodney, smiling.

"I shall enjoy the way the old man will look down upon me very much as a
millionaire looks down upon a town pauper."

"How will he look upon me?"

"He will be very polite to you, for he will think you richer than
himself."

"On the whole, we are going to act a comedy, Mr. Pettigrew. What is the
name of the man who lent you money to go to Montana?"

"A young carpenter, Frank Dobson. He lent me a hundred dollars, which
was about all the money he had saved up."

"He was a true friend."

"You are right. He was. Everybody told Frank that he would never see his
money again, but he did. As soon as I could get together enough to
repay him I sent it on, though I remember it left me with less than ten
dollars in my pocket.

"I couldn't bear to think that Frank would lose anything by me. You see
we were chums at school and always stood by each other. He is married
and has two children."

"While you are an old bachelor."

"Yes; I ain't in a hurry to travel in double harness. I'll wait till
I am ready to leave Montana, with money enough to live handsomely at
home."

"You have got enough now."

"But I may as well get more. I am only thirty years old, and I can
afford to work a few years longer."

"I wish I could be sure of being worth fifty thousand dollars when I am
your age."

"You have been worth that, you tell me."

"Yes, but I should value more money that I had made myself."

Above five o'clock on Monday afternoon Mr. Pettigrew and Rodney reached
Burton. It was a small village about four miles from the nearest railway
station. An old fashioned Concord stage connected Burton with the
railway. The driver was on the platform looking out for passengers when
Jefferson Pettigrew stepped out of the car.

"How are you, Hector?" said the miner, in an off hand way.

"Why, bless my soul if it isn't Jeff!" exclaimed the driver, who had
been an old schoolmate of Mr. Pettigrew's.

"I reckon it is," said the miner, his face lighting up with the
satisfaction he felt at seeing a home face.

"Why