No patron of Delmonico's probably ever contemplated his sumptuous meal with more satisfaction than shone in the little match boy's eyes, as he gazed with watering mouth at the overdone, tough-looking steak, the mashed potato, the three slices of stale bread and dab of butter, which furnished the solid material of his meal. A cup of muddy coffee completed the bill of fare. After all, appetite is the best sauce, and Johnny had appetite enough to make his meal seem palatable.

Johnny did not stand upon ceremony, but "pitched in." It is not an elegant expression, but it describes accurately the energy with which the boy disposed of his dinner. Ten minutes sufficed for its entire disappearance. There was not even a crumb left.

"That was bully!" said Johnny to himself, with a sigh of supreme satisfaction "I wish I could have such a lay out every day."

But he evidently thought this was unattainable happiness. He did not even think of reserving from his little fund, enough to provide a similar feast on the following day—partly because he was an honest little fellow, and partly because he stood in fear of the burly woman whom he called Aunt Peggy.

"I wouldn't have Aunt Peggy know I've been here for something," he thought.

There seemed little chance of it, but, as ill luck would have it, as he was emerging from the restaurant, a boy he knew passed with a blacking-box on his shoulder.

"What have you been doin' in there?" asked Tim Roach. "Been havin' yer dinner?"

"I just got a little to eat," answered Johnny, ill at ease.

"Got any more money?"

"A little."

"Then just treat a feller, won't yer? I'll do as much for you to-morrer."

"I can't, Tim, the money isn't mine."

"You won't, you mean."

"I would if the money belonged to me."

"Does Peggy know yer went in there?" asked Tim, slyly.

"Don't tell her, Tim! I was so hungry."

"Then treat!"

"I can't, Tim!"

"All right!" replied Tim, nodding. "I'll let Peggy know how you spend her money."

Poor Johnny! These last words alarmed him terribly.

Lyman Taylor's stock of money was getting low. He was not a good financial manager. But even if he had been, he would not have been able long to live without work. When his stock of ready money was reduced to five dollars, he began to consider anxiously where he could obtain a further supply. It is not strange that his thoughts should have reverted to his uncle.

"I wonder if Uncle Anthony is well fixed or not. He got considerable money in California, but may have lost it. The old man is close-mouthed, and I can't worm the secret out of him. If I had any hold on him——" continued Lyman, thoughtfully.

He sauntered along till he came to a pool-room, connected with a cheap hotel, of the kind he was in the habit of frequenting. No one chanced to be playing, and by way of filling up the time he took up a St. Louis paper, and ran his eye listlessly over it.

But at one place in the advertising columns, his listlessness suddenly vanished, and his face assumed a look of eager interest. This was the advertisement that attracted his attention:

"Information Wanted.—Any one who can give information concerning a child named Jack Ransom, who was brought to St. Louis a little more than five years since, is desired to communicate with Mark Manning, at the Planters' Hotel. The boy, if living, is now seven or eight years of age."

"Well, I'll be——hanged!" ejaculated Lyman Taylor. "How, in the name of all that's mysterious, has my uncle got hold of a clue to little Jack's existence?

"So he's sent that country cub—Mark Manning—out to investigate. He must be crazy to trust a green boy, who has always lived in the country.

"But what beats me, is how he learned so much. I did take the boy to St. Louis, and placed him with an old woman, who very likely has starved or beaten him to death by this time. But suppose she hasn't," continued Lyman, after a pause.

"Suppose the child is still living. If I could only find out, then I would have the hold on my uncle that I require. I would kidnap the boy, and not part with him under a good round sum."

Lyman's face brightened, but only for an instant. It was a capital scheme, but how was he to get hold of the boy? How did he know if he were living?

He would have been amazed if he had known that he had seen the boy that very day, selling matches in the streets.

There was one thing, however, that seemed clear to Lyman. His uncle must still have a comfortable property, or he would not be able to send a messenger to St. Louis in search of his lost grandson.

"The old man may have twenty thousand dollars, for aught I know," reflected Lyman; "and doesn't spend the income of half that as he lives now. No doubt that countr............