TOBY LASSITER returned from the West one sultry evening at dusk, and went straight to the house of his employer. He found the banker seated on the front porch without his coat, and cooling himself with a big palm-leaf fan. “So you are back?” he said, casting a furtive glance over his shoulder into the unlighted hall. “Get that chair and pull it up close. If my wife happens to come out while you are talking, sort o’ switch off to something else—the market reports—anything under high heavens except what you went off for. She never took to Fred noway, and anything in his favor or otherwise sets her tongue going. She thinks he is plumb out of my present calculations, and any hint that he was getting on his feet would give her tantrums. She is back in the kitchen, seeing to the supper things. She is as close as the bark of a tree, and is afraid that nigger woman will lug off supplies. I took her because she was stingy. I sort o’ admired it at first, but it ain’t as becoming in a woman as it is in a man. I don’t know why, but it ain’t. Well, fire away. What did you do?”

“I went straight out to Gate City, Mr. Walton,” the clerk began, in the tone of a man full of an experience. “I would have written home, but I didn’t get on to much of importance the first three days, and then I knew I could get back about as quick as a letter could.”

“Yes, of course,” Walton said. “Well?”

“I found it about the most hustling town I ever struck, Mr. Walton. It is wide open, I tell you. Of course, it isn’t anything like as big, but it was as busylooking on the main streets as Atlanta or Nashville. I thought best not to be seen about the very centre, you know, so I took board in a little hotel in what they call ‘Railroad Town,’ on the east side, among the machine-shops. I pretended to be looking for a job.”

“You did, eh? You say you did?”

“Yes, sir; and I found that it was a pretty good trick, for it set folks to chatting about the different enterprises in town. You may think it is funny,” Toby laughed, impulsively—“I know I did when I finally got the key to it—but I could hardly start any sort of talk with anybody who didn’t sooner or later ring in the wonderful rise of a certain fellow by the name of ‘Spencer,’ who was in this same Whipple’s employ. They all said he’d come there without a cent—a ragged tramp, in fact; but that he had taken hold in Whipple’s big store, and forged ahead till he was the old man’s mainstay and chief manager. They told about all sorts of deals that this ‘Spencer’ had helped Whipple put through. I got kind o’ tired of it all, and would every now and then ask if there wasn’t a young fellow by the name of ‘Walton’ working there; but they said if there was they had never heard of him, and went on about Spencer. I was beginning to think there might be something crooked in that fat man’s tale to you, and at one time I laid awake all night troubled powerfully. You see, the fellow who called here and paid the three thousand might have been just using Whipple’s name and reputation to help him work some scheme.”

“Oh, you thought that!” and Walton drew his brows together and bit his lip.

“Yes; but not for long, Mr. Walton. The next day I ventured closer in to the centre of the town, and was looking about on the main street at the up-to-date improvements on all sides, when I saw a fellow thumping along the sidewalk that looked so much like our man that I dodged into the front part of a bar-room and waited till he went by. Then I pointed him out to a policeman, and asked him who it was.

“‘Why, that,’ said the cop—‘that is our big grocery king, Stephen Whipple. He is a self-made man, and as rich as goose-grease. He built us a fine church, a library out of white marble, and donated the land for a city park, and done a lot of other things.’”

“Oh, he was all right, then!”

“Yes, sir, as I substantiated later,” Toby ran on, enthusiastically. “But the best thing is to be told, Mr. Walton. A few minutes after that who should I see but Fred himself rushing along the street with some account-books under his arm, as if he was in a great hurry. He was dressed as fine as a fiddle, and folks all along the street was bowing to him as if he owned the town. I dodged back into the bar and let him pass, and when I slipped out a minute later the same policeman nabbed me and pointed Fred out as he was walking on. ‘That,’ said the policeman, ‘is Mr. Spencer, the old man’s adopted son—the young man he has just taken into partnership. They are hanging a new sign down at the store now.’”

“Adopted son!” fell from the-banker’s lips. “Spencer was Fred’s middle name. Great Lord, Toby, do you reckon it’s true?”

“True as gospel, Mr. Walton. I heard a lot about it on all sides, but I saw enough with my own eyes to convince me that there was no mistake. I went out to where the Whipples live one dark, cloudy night, and walked clean round the house. I could see into the sitting-room, for it was lighted up brig............