MR. SIMPSON was not a justice of the peace, but his fellow-citizens had got into the habit of calling him “squire,” and the title was not unpleasant to him.

He sat, in dressing-gown and slippers, in a comfortable sitting-room, reading a city paper, when a servant appeared at the door.

“There’s a boy at the door who says he would like to see you, sir.”

“Who is it?” asked Mr. Simpson.

“It’s Thomas Thatcher, sir.”

“What does he want with me?” inquired the rich man, arching his eyebrows in surprise.

“I don’t know, sir; he didn’t say.”

“Well, let him come in.”

A minute later Tom was ushered into the presence of his employer.

“Well, Tom, what’s your business?” asked Squire Simpson, curtly.

“My mother tells me, Mr. Simpson, that you were with father in California just before his mysterious disappearance——”

25

“Suppose I were!” interrupted Squire Simpson, brusquely.

“I wanted to ask you a few questions about him,” said Tom.

“Did your mother send you here?” demanded the rich man, with a frown of displeasure.

“No, sir; she does not know that I have come.”

“It is very singular that you should come to me on such an errand,” said Simpson, in a tone of displeasure.

“Is it surprising that I should wish to know something of my father, sir?” returned Tom, not at all abashed by his reception.

“I told your mother, years ago, all that I had to tell.”

“I was too young then to take any part in the inquiry. Have you any objection to tell a son something of his father’s last years?”

The rich man hesitated a moment, and then, with an ill grace, replied:

“What is it you wish to know?”

“How long did you leave my father before his death?”

“How should I know. I don’t know when he died, or whether he died at all.”

“How long, then, before you set out for home?”

“A few weeks—six weeks, perhaps.”

“My father had considerable money at the time you left him, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me how much?”

“I don’t see what good it would do you to know—you are not likely to get the money.”

26 “I suppose not, sir; but it was his money that probably tempted the man who wickedly murdered him.”

Squire Simpson seemed very ill at ease, as if, instead of being questioned by a boy, he were in the witness-box.

“Yes,” said he, “I suppose your father was murdered for his money. How much did he have? Well, probably five thousand dollars, more or less. I had considerably more, having met with greater luck than he.”

“At what place did you leave father, Squire Simpson?”

“It was at a place called Rocky Gulch. I don’t know what they call it now.”

“Didn’t father say anything about coming home when you left him?”

“He hadn’t fixed upon any time. He wanted to increase his pile. I suppose he felt dissatisfied because he hadn’t as much as I. He would have done better to come home with me.”

“I wish he had,” said Tom, sadly.

“Of course, it would have been better for him and for his family, but it can’t be helped now. I wonder you should bring up this old matter now. It can do no possible good. It was the Lord’s will that your father should be taken away, and we must submit to His will. It’s wicked to murmur against the plans of Providence.”

The rich man said all this in a brisk, business-like manner, as if he were quite reconciled to what had happened.

“Still,” said Tom, “we can’t help thinking of how27 changed our circumstances would have been if father had come home as you did.”

“Yes, yes; but you haven’t anything to complain of. You live comfortably, don’t you? I give you employment in my shop,” he added, pompously, “out of regard to your father’s memory.”

“Yes, sir, you give me employment,” said Tom, slowly.

He could not be brought to think this a very great favor, since he was only paid what other boys were for the same labor.

“How long have you been at work in the shop?”

“Three years.”

“Then for three years I have put you in a way of earning your living.”

“It is rather hard to live on fifty cents a day,” said Tom.

“Then, I take it, your errand here is to ask for higher wages?” said Simpson, quickly.

“No, sir; the thought never entered my mind when I came here.”

“I suppose you wouldn’t accept it if it were offered,” said Simpson, with a slight sneer.

“Yes, sir, I should.”

“I thought so.”

“But not as a favor. I think I earn more money.”

“What gives you that idea?” demanded his employer displeased.

“In Tompkins peggers are paid seventy cents a day.”

28 “Then you are at liberty to go there and find work,” said Simpson, roughly.

“I can’t do that, sir, as you know I cannot leave my mother. Besides, if I had my board to pay, I should be worse off than I am now.”

“That is a very sensible conclusion. You will find that you are well off in my employment, but if at any time you become dissatisfied, don’t trouble yourself to stay on my account. I can easily fill your place.”

“Yes, sir, I suppose you can,” answered Tom, slowly.

“Have you any further business with me?” asked Mr. Simpson, impatiently.

“No, sir.”

“Then I will bid you good-evening.”

“I have just a few words to say, Mr. Simpson,” said Tom, looking steadily at the man before him.

“Say them.”

“You were my father’s friend and companion for years,” Tom began. “You worked together, and went to California together. You came home rich, while he was unfortunate enough to lose his money and his life. To-day you are a rich manufacturer, while his widow and children are compelled to live chiefly on a boy’s small wages. You know all this, and it has never come into your mind to help them, or to pay the boy as good wages as he could get elsewhere. If you had died, and my father had come home prosperous, he would not have treated your family so.”

It was surprising that Mr. Simpson should have allowed29 Tom to finish this speech without interruption, but he did so. Then he burst forth in a fury.

“Boy, if you came here to insult me, you did the worst thing you could have done for your family. You complain, do you, that I don’t support you and your family in luxury?”

“That is not true,” interrupted Tom.

“Such is the plain inference from your words. You are not at all grateful for my supporting you all these years.”

“You haven’t done it, sir.”

“I have given you the employment without which you and your family would have starved. You can’t deny that.”

“I don’t think we should have starved, sir.”

“I will give you a chance to try the experiment. You complain that you can’t live on the wages I pay you. I will give you the chance to work for more somewhere else. To-morrow morning you may go to my foreman and ask for the wages that are due you. You needn’t trouble yourself to return to work in my shop.”

Tom turned pale, for he did not feel sure how he was to make up the small pittance which he had hitherto earned by pegging.

“You discharge me, then?” he said, in a low voice.

“Yes,” answered his employer, who marked with cruel enjoyment the dismay depicted upon Tom’s face.

“Then, sir, I will bid you good-night.”

Tom turned, and with a firm step walked out of the room. But his heart was heavy within him. How30 should he break the tidings of this serious misfortune to his mother. How were they to live on the scanty sum which she earned by sewing and knitting.

In the midst of Tom’s despondency his heart suddenly lightened.

“I won’t despair,” he said to himself. “I will trust in the Lord. He will provide for us somehow.”

Mingled with this feeling was a firm and resolute determination.

31 He would make it the business of his life to ascertain how and under what circumstances his father died, and bring his murderer to justice!