"With whom do you live?" "With my father. Leastways, he says he's my father." There was a growing suspicion in the mind of Curtis Waring. He scanned the boy's features with attention. Could this ill-dressed boy--a street boy in appearance--be his long-lost and deeply wronged cousin? "Who is it that says he is your father?" he demanded, abruptly. "Do you want to get him into trouble?" "No, I don't want to get him into trouble, or you either. Better tell me all, and I will be your friend." "You're a better sort than I thought at first," said Dodger. "The man I live with is called Tim Bolton." "I though so," quickly ejaculated Curtis. He had scarcely got out the words before he was sensible that he had made a mistake. "What! do you know Tim?" inquired Dodger, in surprise. "I mean," replied Curtis, lamely, "that I have heard of this man Bolton. He keeps a saloon on the Bowery, doesn't he?" "Yes." "I thought you would be living with some such man. Did he come to the house with you tonight?" "Yes." "Where is he?" "He stayed outside." "Perhaps he is there now." "Don't you go to having him arrested," said Dodger, suspiciously. "I will keep my promise. Are you sure you didn't pass out the paper and the money to him? Think now." "No, I didn't. I didn't have a chance. When I came into the room yonder I saw the gal asleep, and I thought she wouldn't hear me, but when I got the desk open she spoke to me, and asked me what I was doin'." "And you took nothing?"