As he was passing the Astor House, he espied a familiar face and figure. It was the boy who had spoken to Crawford Lane the day before—John Schickling.
"Good-morning!" he said, touching the boy's arm.
John Schickling looked round with a puzzled expression, for he did not recognize Scott. The day previous he had only taken notice of Crawford Lane, and not of his companion.
"I don't remember you," he said.
"I was walking with Mr. Lane yesterday when you spoke to him."
"Oh, yes. Where is he now?"
"That's what I want to find out. He and I stopped at a hotel on the Bowery last night. When I woke up this morning I found that he had stolen some of my money and disappeared."
"He's a rascal!" said John, warmly. "It is just like him. Had you known him long?"
"No; we met on board the ship that brought us over from Liverpool. I am a stranger in the city, and he agreed to act as my guide."
"You didn't expect you would have to pay so dearly for it?"