the two friends started from their room about seven o'clock, and walked up to third avenue, where they jumped on board a horse-car, and within half an hour were landed at the foot of the city hall park, opposite beekman street. from this point it was necessary only to cross the street to the astor house.

the astor house is a massive pile of gray stone, and has a solid look, as if it might stand for hundreds of years. when it was first erected, a little more than thirty years since, it was considered far up town, but now it is far down town, so rapid has been the growth of the city.

richard hunter ascended the stone steps with a firm step, but henry fosdick lingered behind.

"do you think we had better go up, dick?" he said irresolutely.

"why not?"

"i feel awkward about it."

"there is no reason why you should. the money belongs to you rightfully, as the representative of your father, and it is worth trying for."

"i suppose you are right, but i shan't know what to say."

"i'll help you along if i find you need it. come along."

those who possess energy and a strong will generally gain their point, and it was so with richard hunter. they entered the hotel, and, ascending some stone steps, found themselves on the main floor, where the reading-room, clerk's office, and dining-room are located.

dick, to adopt the familiar name by which his companion addressed him, stepped up to the desk, and drew towards him the book of arrivals. after a brief search he found the name of "hiram bates, milwaukie, wis.," towards the top of the left-hand page.

"is mr. bates in?" he inquired of the clerk, pointing to the name.

"i will send and inquire, if you will write your name on this card."

dick thought it would be best to send his own name, as that of fosdick might lead mr. bates to guess the business on which they had come.

he accordingly wrote the name,

richard hunter

in his handsomest handwriting, and handed it to the clerk.

that functionary touched a bell. the summons was answered by a servant.

"james, go to no. 147, and see if mr. bates is in. if he is, give him this card."

the messenger departed at once, and returned quickly.

"the gentleman is in, and would be glad to have mr. hunter walk up."

"come along, fosdick," said dick, in a low voice.

fosdick obeyed, feeling very nervous. following the servant upstairs, they soon stood before no. 147.

james knocked.

"come in," was heard from the inside, and the two friends entered.

they found themselves in a comfortably furnished room. a man of fifty-five, rather stout in build, and with iron-gray hair, rose from his chair before the fire, and looked rather inquiringly. he seemed rather surprised to find that there were two visitors, as well as at the evident youth of both.

"mr. hunter?" he said, inquiringly, looking from one to the other.

"that is my name," said dick, promptly.

"have i met you before? if so, my memory is at fault."

"no, sir, we have never met."

"i presume you have business with me. be seated, if you please."

"first," said dick, "let me introduce my friend henry fosdick."

"fosdick!" repeated hiram bates, with a slight tinge of color.

"i think you knew my father," said fosdick, nervously.

"your father was a printer,—was he not?" inquired mr. bates.

"yes, sir."

"i do remember him. do you come from him?"

fosdick shook his head.

"he has been dead for two years," he said, sadly.

"dead!" repeated hiram bates, as if shocked. "indeed, i am sorry to hear it."

he spoke with evident regret, and henry fosdick, whose feelings towards his father's debtor had not been very friendly, noticed this, and was softened by it.

"did he die in poverty, may i ask?" inquired mr. bates, after a pause.

"he was poor," said fosdick; "that is, he had nothing laid up; but his wages were enough to support him and myself comfortably."

"did he have any other family?"

"no, sir; my mother died six years since, and i had no brothers or sisters."

"he left no property then?"

"no, sir."

"then i suppose he was able to make no provision for you?"

"no, sir."

"but you probably had some relatives who came forward and provided for you?"

"no, sir; i had no relatives in new york."

"what then did you do? excuse my questions, but i have a motive in asking."

"my father died suddenly, having fallen from a brooklyn ferry-boat and drowned. he left nothing, and i knew of nothing better to do than to go into the streets as a boot-black."

"surely you are not in that business now?" said mr. bates, glancing at fosdick's neat dress.

"no, sir; i was fortunate enough to find a friend,"—here fosdick glanced at dick,—"who helped me along, and encouraged me to apply for a place in a broadway store. i have been there now for a year and a half."

"what wages do you get? excuse my curiosity, but your story interests me."

"eight dollars a week."

"and do you find you can live comfortably on that?"

"yes, sir; that is, with the assistance of my friend here."

"i am glad you have a friend who is able and willing to help you."

"it is not worth mentioning," said dick, modestly. "i have received as much help from him as he has from me."

"i see at any rate that you are good friends, and a good friend is worth having. may i ask, mr. fosdick, whether you ever heard your father refer to me in any way?"

"yes, sir."

"you are aware, then, that there were some money arrangements between us?"

"i have heard him say that you had two thousand dollars of his, but that you failed, and that it was lost."

"he informed you rightly. i will tell you the particulars, if you are not already aware of them."

"i should be very glad to hear them, sir. my father died so suddenly that i never knew anything more than that you owed him two thousand dollars."

"five years since," commenced mr. bates, "i was a broker in wall street. as from my business i was expected to know the best investments, some persons brought me money to keep for them, and i either agreed to pay them a certain rate of interest, or gave them an interest in my speculations. among the persons was your father. the way in which i got acquainted with him was this: having occasion to get some prospectuses of a new company printed, i went to the office with which he was connected. there was some error in the printing, and he was sent to my office to speak with me about it. when our business was concluded, he waited a moment, and then said, 'mr. bates, i have saved up two thousand dollars in the last ten years, but i don't know much about investments, and i should consider it a favor if you would advise me.'

"'i will do so with pleasure,' i said. 'if you desire it i will take charge of it for you, and either allow you six per cent, interest, or give you a share of the profits i may make from investing it.'"

"your father said that he should be glad to have me take the money for him, but he would prefer regular interest to uncertain profits. the next day he brought the money, and put it in my hands. to confess the truth i was glad to have him do so, for i was engaged in extensive speculations, and thought i could make use of it to advantage. for a year i paid him the interest regularly. then there came a great catastrophe, and i found my brilliant speculations were but bubbles, which broke and left me but a mere pittance, instead of the hundred thousand dollars which i considered myself worth. of course those who had placed money in my hands suffered, and among them your father. i confess that i regretted his loss as much as that of any one, for i liked his straightforward manner, and was touched by his evident confidence in me."

mr. bates paused a moment and then resumed:—

"i left new york, and went to milwaukie. here i was obliged to begin life anew, or nearly so, for i only carried a thousand dollars out with me. but i have been greatly prospered since then. i took warning by my past failures, and have succeeded, by care and good fortune, in accumulating nearly as large a fortune as the one of which i once thought myself possessed. when fortune began to smile upon me i thought of your father, and tried through an agent to find him out. but he reported to me that his name was not to be found either in the new york or brooklyn directory, and i was too busily engaged to come on myself, and make inquiries. but i am glad to find that his son is living, and that i yet have it in my power to make restitution."

fosdick could hardly believe his ears. was he after all to receive the money which he had supposed irrevocably lost?

as for dick it is not too much to say that he felt even more pleased at the prospective good fortune of his friend than if it had fallen to himself.