“Very well, sir. Now, if you will excuse me, I will go. I want to catch the next train for Wilton.”
“A moment. What is your name?”
“Thomas Thatcher.”
“I will remember it. Good-by, and good luck to you.”
“That’s a boy of sterling merit,” said Perkins. “If he does not go to California I will give him a good place.”
“If you have no place for him, I will engage him. It is not every boy who would so resolutely refuse five hundred dollars.”
As for Tom, it did not strike him that he had done anything especially worthy of commendation in rejecting the reward which Mr. Perkins offered him. He had been so strictly trained in honesty that it had not occurred to him as possible that he could act in any other way than to return the papers. But for the unexpected good fortune which had come to him from another quarter, he would have accepted gratefully the offer of a place in Mr. Perkins’ establishment. As it was, he felt it his duty to go to California, and clear up, if he could, the mystery of his father’s fate.
When he entered the yard of his humble home, Tillie espied him from the window, and her sharp young eyes instantly took notice of the overcoat.
“Where could he have got it?” thought his mother.