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While Mr. Jacob D. Z. Hicks tosses on his
bed, and sees “Penitentiary” written on the
black cloud of every dream, let us turn back
in our narrative and take up the adventures of
Cromwell.

We left him at the moment when, desolate
and penniless, he stood in Walnut street, in the
light of a declining summer day, pondering
very seriously over the prospects of his future.

“I should be in New York to-night, and I
haven't a fip to buy a cigar, much less four
dollars to pay my passage.”

He cast a glance over his apparel. Blue coat,
plaid pants and buff vest looked remarkably
dusty and travel-worn. He felt his pockets.
They were deplorably empty. He looked up
and down Walnut street, as the day began to
decline over the town, and brought himself to
the conclusion expressed in these words, muttered
through his set teeth—“Without father
or mother, friend or dollar, my chance of a bed
and supper to-night gets dim and dimmer.”

Again the thought then came over him, that
he had promised to meet Don Jorge at Love-joy's
in New York on the third day from the
period when they left New Haven together.
This was the third day. How should he keep
his appointment? He had not a dollar in the
world to pay his fare to New York.

“And even if I can make out to get to New
York to-night, nothing remains for me but to
accept that cursed proposition.”

In this mood he took his way toward the Exchange.
He was roused from a reverie by a
hand laid on his arm, and by the words, “How
d'ye do, Mister Crom?”

Starting from his gloomy reverie, Cromwell
beheld a youth of some fourteen years, whose
turn-up nose and closely cut hair, together
with corduroy pants and brown linen jacket,
brought home to him the fact, that he beheld
no less a personage than Mr. Tom Miller, who
was employed in a double capacity—half as
errand boy and half as under cleik—in his
father's store. Tom was delighted to see
Cromwell—asked him when he had arrived
in the city—how long he intended to stay—
with other questions quite as interesting. As
for Cromwell, quietly keeping his eye upon
the youth, who held a package in his right
hand, he said:

“Give me the letters, Tom. I'll take them
down to the store. As for you, father wants
you to go up to the Baltimore Depot, and bring
down a box that is there, addressed to him.
Just tell the agent that father sent you, and he'll
give you the box. Mind that you hurry back.”

Without a word the red-haired youth handed
the letters to young Hicks, and hurried up
Walnut street, on his way to Eleventh and
Market. Cromwell slipped the letters into his
pocket, gazed for a moment after the form of
the errand boy, and then hurrying down Walnut
street, turned into a “pot house,” whose
sign displayed tempting inducements to “sailors
and emigrants.” It was a miserable place,
with one chair, a box, and a little man with a
dirty face and one eye.

“What'll yes pleze to have, sur?”

Cromwell called for a glass of whiskey, and
turning his back to the landlord, drew the
package from his pocket, and proceeded to
count the letters he had received from Tom.
There were ten in all; one was particularly
heavy; and all of them were carefully sealed.
Did one, or did all of them contain money?
This was an important question, but Cromwell
did not choose to solve it in the pot house.
But how shall he pay for the glass of whiskey?
He had not a penny in the world. This placed
him in a decidedly bad predicament. Waiting
until the landlord had turned his back for a moment,
Cromwell passed quietly from the place,
and hurried up Walnut street, turned into Dock,
and in a few moments was in Third street in
the vicinity of Chesnut.

He had decided upon a difficult step. The
letters which he held, bore the post-marks of
distant parts of the Union, and very possibly
they contained drafts upon houses in New York.
It was his resolution to ascertain this fact in
the first place, and in the second to get these
drafts cashed. It was after bank hours, and
only two broker's offices in the vicinity remained
open. Cromwell's brain was in a whirl;
conscious that whatever he did must be done
without delay, he stood on the sidewalk, with
his finger raised to his forehead, anxiously engaged
in cogitating some scheme which might
enable him to cash the drafts in the letters—

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that is, if said letters happened to contain drafts,
or money in any shape.

But was this the case? Cromwell turned
into an alley and with a trembling hand broke
the seals of the letters. His hair reeled as their
contents were disclosed to his gloating eyes.
For those letters did contain drafts at one, two
and three days sight, drawn upon certain firms
in New York, and amounting altogether to five
thousand and sixty dollars. Crumbling the
letters, drafts and all into his pocket, Cromwell,
staggered from the alley like a drunken man.
He had resolved upon his course of action.
Entering a small periodical agency, he called
for pen and paper, and (while the boy in attendance
was waiting upon a customer) our hero
proceeded in quite a business-like manner to
sign the name of “Jacob D. Z. Hicks” upon
each of those talismanic slips of paper. Habit
had made him familiar with his late father's
signature; he wrote with ease and facility; in
a few moments the work was done. He carefully
sanded the signatures, and then made the
best of his way to the office of a celebrated broker
with whom his father had dealt for many
years. On the threshold he paused; his heart
beat like the pendulum of a clock; gazing
through the glass door he beheld the familiar
face of the Broker, bald head, high shirt collar,
gold spectacles and all. For a moment the
young gentleman hesitated; at length commanding
all the force of his nerves, he entered,
and opening the magic slips of paper upon the
counter, said with great self-possession—“Mister
Whitely, father starts for Niagara early in
the morning. He would like it as a favor, if
you would cash these drafts to-night.”

The broker recognized young Hicks, addressed
him by name, and after a word or two
as to his father's health, examined the draft—
first one side and then the other. This done,
he paused, and surveyed Cromwell through
his gold spectacles. Cromwell never forgot
that scrutinizing gaze. “He suspects something,”
he muttered to himself, while in fact
the worthy Broker, who was somewhat
absent-minded, was cogitating whether or no he
should ask as to the truth of that story about
the Briton.

“Five thousand and sixty dollars,” said
the Broker.

“Can you do it?” gasped Cromwell, much
agitated, but endeavoring to look as calm as
possible.

“Certainly,” was the answer—“would
your father like city or New York funds?”

“As you please,” faltered Cromwell. “Only
he wanted a thousand in twenties.”

The Broker unlocked his iron safe and
counted out five thousand and sixty dollars—
forty $100 dollar bills and the balance in $20
notes—Cromwell watching him all the while
with a feverish eye.

Young Hicks extended his hand, and could
scarce believe the evidence of his senses when
he felt the silken slips of paper between his
fingers. He thrust them into his breast pocket
and hurried to the door.

“Ah—come back, young man,” he heard
the voice of the broker.

It was the first impulse of the hopeful youth
to put to his heels, but turning, with a pallid
face, he again confronted the spectacled broker.

“Young man, that is, Mr. Hicks,” began
the Broker, “If it's not impolite I'd like to ask
you one question.”

Cromwell shook in “his boots” but managed
to falter out the monosyllable, “Well?”

“Is there any truth in that story, eh—eh—
about the Brit-British Baronet—and—”
he paused.

Cromwell raised his handkerchief to his
eyes, and in a voice broken by emotion, faltered—

“Mr. Whitely, a son should never speak of
his mother's faults—” and as if overcome by
his feelings hastened from the Broker's store.

Making the best of his way down Third, he
struck into Dock street, and then turned down
Walnut street. As he approached the corner
of Front and Walnut streets, he heard the ringing
of a bell. Utterly bewildered by the incidents
of the last hour, he was hurrying at random—
he knew not whither—when the ringing
of the bell decided him, as to his future
course.

“It's the New York bell!” he muttered,
and in five minutes had purchased his ticket,
and was on board the steamboat on his way to
New York.

That night at ten he landed at the foot of
Courtlandt street. Without pausing to eat or

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sleep, he proceeded to a Barber shop, and had
his face cleanly shaved. Then, in an hour's
ramble, he provided himself with a large trunk,
a black wig, a pair of false whiskers, and two
suits of clothes. He assumed the wig and
whiskers in the street; put on a single-breasted
frock coat, buttoning to the neck, in a tailor's
store; covered his forehead with a glazed cap,
and then calling a cab directed the driver to
take his trunk to Lovejoy's Hotel.