Upon that ground Jack accepted the cottage with pleasure. Herbert tried to tempt him to make a visit to the East, but he was already in treaty for another mine, and would not go.
The two stayed a day in Chicago on their way to Boston.
“I wonder if Eben is still here?” thought Herbert.
He soon had his question answered. In passing through a suburban portion of the great city, he saw a young man sawing wood in front of a mean dwelling, while a stout negro was standing near, with his hands in his pockets, surveying the job. He was the proprietor of a colored restaurant, and Eben was working for him.
Alas, for Eben! The once spruce dry-goods clerk was now a miserable-looking tramp, so far as outward appearances went. His clothes were not only ragged, but soiled, and the spruce city acquaintances whom he once knew would have passed him without recognition.
“Eben!”
Eben turned swiftly as he heard his name called, and a flush of shame overspread his face.
“Is it you, Herbert?” he asked, faintly.
“Yes, Eben. You don't seem very prosperous.”
“I never thought I should sink so low,” answered Eben, mournfully, “as to saw wood for a colored man.”