the saloon, in company with a friend of the same general appearance. Both wore silk hats, dented and soiled with stains of dirt, coats long since superannuated, and wore the general look of barroom loafers. They seldom had any money, but lay in wait for any liberal stranger, in the hope of securing a free drink. "Where did you see him, Hooker?" asked Tim Bolton, with sudden interest. "Selling papers down by the Astor House." "Think of that, colonel!" said Tim, disgusted. "Becomin' a common newsboy, when he might be in a genteel employment! Did you speak to him, Hooker?" "Yes, I asked him if he had left you." "What did he say?" "That he had left you for good--that he was going to grow up respectable!" "Think of that!" said Tim, with renewed disgust. "Did he say where he lived?" "No." "Did he ask after me?" "No, except he said that you were no relation of his. He said he expected you stole him when he was a kid, and he hoped some time to find his relations." Tim Bolton's face changed color, and he was evidently disturbed. Could the boy have heard anything? he wondered, for his suspicions were very near the truth. "It's all nonsense!" he said, roughly. "Next time you see him, Hooker, foller him home, and find out where he lives." "All right, Tim. It ought to be worth something," he insinuated, with a husky cough. "That's so. What'll you take?" "Whiskey," answered Hooker, with a look of pleased anticipation. "You're a gentleman, Tim," he said, as he gulped down the contents of a glass without winking.