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"Ah, you want to buy at retail. Go into the next room."

"No, sir, I didn't come to buy anything," stammered Jed. "I have a letter for Mr. Claflin."

The great merchant is now dead, but at the time of Jed's call he was living.

"Wilkins, you may take the letter and carry it to Mr. Claflin."

Wilkins took the letter from Jed's hands, walked across the room, and ascended to Mr. Claflin's office on the second floor. He reappeared within five minutes and signaled to Jed to approach.

"Mr. Claflin will see you," he said. "Follow me."

Presently Jed found himself in the presence of the great merchant, who surveyed him curiously.

"Are you Mr. J. Gilman?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," answered Jed, blushing.

"You bring a letter from -- " here Mr. Claflin referred to a note -- "from a man who calls himself Hamilton Barry?"

"Yes, sir."

"I don't know any such man. How did he happen to offer you a letter?"

"I told him I wanted a position."

"Exactly. Did he say he knew me?"

"Yes sir. He said he used to go to school with you."

Mr. Claflin laughed. "Did he borrow any money from you?"

"Yes," answered Jed, surprised that the merchant should have guessed this.

"Not much, I hope."

"Two dollars."

"That was all?"

"No, sir; he treated me to some sarsaparilla and did not have the money to pay for it."

"He is evidently a fraud and an impostor. Did he say he ever worked for me?"

"No, sir; he said he was an editor -- that he wrote articles for the daily papers."

"When did he offer to repay you?"

"Next Monday, when he had received pay from the Tribune for some articles he had written."

"What was the man's appearance?"

"He was tall, and not very well dressed."

"It is hardly likely that he ever wrote an article for the Tribune or any other of the city dailies. I hope he did not get all your money?"

"No, sir. I have considerable besides."

"I advise you to take good care of it, and to steer clear of questionable acquaintances."

Mr. Claflin turned to a letter which he was writing, and Jed felt that he was dismissed. Mr. Claflin had said nothing about taking him into his employment, and he went down stairs feeling mortified and depressed.

Mingled with these feelings was one of anger at having been so cruelly deceived by his steamboat acquaintance.

"I'd just like to meet him again!" soliloquized Jed, involuntarily doubling up his fist.

"I wonder whether he really writes for the Tribune?" he asked himself.

He decided to solve this question at once, though he had not much doubt on the subject. He wanted to know exactly what he had to depend on.

He walked up to Broadway, then down to the City Hall Park, and asked a boy whom he met, "Where is the Tribune office?"

"There it is across the park," said the boy, pointing to a tall building with a lofty tower. "What do you want to do -- sell papers?"

"No," answered Jed. "I want to ask about one of the editors."

"You're from the country, ain't you?"

"Yes. What makes you think so?"

"Because all the boys in the city know the Tribune building. Say, what do you do for a livin'?" inquired the boy confidentially.

This was rather a puzzling question, but Jed, remembering that he had been on the stage for a time, felt justified in answering, "I am an actor."

"Cracky! you don't say. You ain't little Lord Fauntleroy, are you?"

"No; I played the telegraph boy in the play of 'The Gold King.'"

"How did you like it?" asked the newsboy, becoming interested.

"Very much."

"Are you goin' to play it again?"

"No; I took the place of the regular actor for a few weeks while he was sick. Now he is well, and I am not needed."

"Say, does actin' pay well?" asked the boy curiously.

"I was paid pretty well."

"Do you think you could get me a chance?"

"I am afraid I can't get another chance myself."

The newsboy had no more questions to ask, and Jed, following directions, crossed the park and the street beyond to the Tribune building.

He entered the office, and walked up to a window, beyond which stood a young man who was handing out papers to a purchaser who wanted some back numbers.

Jed presented himself next, and the clerk looked at him inquiringly.

"Do you wish to subscribe?" asked the clerk, as Jed remained silent.

"No; I want to ask whether you have an editor named Hamilton Barry?"

"I don't think so. Why do you ask?"

"He borrowed some money of me, and said he would pay me when he collected some money due him from the Tribune."

The clerk smiled.

"I am sure none of our editors borrow money from boys," he said. "You have been imposed upon, young man."

"I guess you are right," responded Jed, coloring.

"If you like, I will send up to the city editor to inquire if there is a man named Barry in his department."

"I guess I won't trouble you."

Jed turned away quite satisfied in his own mind that he had been cleverly swindled and would never see his two dollars again. He reflected that it might have been more, and stoutly resolved not to let any designing persons wheedle him out of any more money.