He entered his name on the books in a bold
dashing hand —

“Auguste Belair, Montreal.”

Then seating himself in an arm chair, amid
the noise and smoke of the reading room, heat
once contemplated his black hair and whiskers,
through the medium of a mirror, and endeavored
to frame some plan, by which he might
be enabled to decline both of Don Jorge's propositions.
He had no desire to take the very
honorable position of first mate on board of
the Sara Jane. He was not decidedly anxious
to fight his friend, either at fisticuffs or coffee
and pistols. What should he do? With five
thousand dollars in his pocket there came over
the young gentleman's soul, a glorious and entrancing
vision of Paris. Paris by day and by
gaslight, Paris above ground and below!

“Yes, I'll cut the Sara Jane, and strike for
Paris!” he said, half aloud — “At the age of
nineteen and with five thousand in the pocket
Paris will be interesting — most undoubtedly.
Then I may chance to come across my “Ma”
and her Baronet. Certainly I'll cut the Sara
Jane.”

But the young gentleman was not yet on
board the Steamship, and there's many a slip
between young gentlemen who sign other
folk's names and the deck of a steamer.

A slim, dapper formed, dark whiskered gentleman
passed between Cromwell and the mirror.
It was Don Jorge. He did not recognize
his friend. But it was no part of Cromwell's
plan to avoid the young Cuban. So
springing from his chair he greeted him with a
familiar slap on the back, and said gaily — “I
am true to my appointment. How are you,
Don!”

It was some moments before Don Jorge
could recognize his friend in the metamorphosed
individual before him. At length the
recognition was complete, and drawing their
chairs into an obscure corner of the room, the
friends began to compare notes. Don Jorge
summed up the case for himself in a few
words:

“I saw my father, spoke to him, and he
would'nt even so much as recognize me. Here
is nothing before me but the Sara Jane, and a
trip from you know where to Brazil or Cuba.”

What was his surprise, when Cromwell
communicated the details of his last exploit!
The eyes of the Cuban fairly danced with excitement.
Cromwell had no reserves, and so
he told him the entire story concluding with
these words —

“So, with five thousand in my pocket,
Georgy, there's no use of my having anything
to do with the Sara Jane. The Steamer sails
to-morrow; come along my boy. What say
you? A trip to Paris?”

The head of the Spaniard dropped moodily
upon his breast, and he shaded his eyes with
his hand. Whether the sudden possession of
five thousand disconcerted his plans, or not,
we cannot tell, but after a few moments he
spoke in a low, earnest voice, and compared
the chances of Cromwell's arrest — did he
once take passage on board the steamer —
with the certainty of success and fortune, in
case he linked his destiny with Don Jorge and
the Sara Jane.

“Come! She lies anchored in the East
River. I saw the owners not two hours ago
and we must be off. Our baggage has been
forwarded from New Haven, and you've only
to say the word, and we'll move. Come.”

He rose from his chair, and moved a step
toward the door.

But Cromwell did not rise.

“No, S-i-r,” he answered, cooly placing his
feet upon the table, “You don't catch `this
child' in any scrape of that kind, while he
has five thousand in his pocket —”

“Fool!” responded Don Jorge — “Why
the very bank notes which you have about you
will betray you. They will be advertised.

[figure description] Page 018.[end figure description]

You can't get them changed for gold or for
English funds without the certainty of arrest.”

Cromwell started from his chair, quietly buttoning
his frock coat.

“I think you called me — fool?” he said,
advancing to Don Jorge with a threatening air.

But ere Don Jorge could reply, a short personage
who had been attentively reading a paper
for some minutes past — at a distance of
at least two yards from our worthies — suddenly
turned, and tapping Cromwell on the
shoulder — addressed him with the words —
“You are my prisoner!”

Cromwell felt a shudder pervade him, as he
surveyed the short personage, whose hat drawn
low over the brow — and a “shocking bad hat”
it was — did not altogether conceal a hangdog
visage.

“Your prisoner!” echoed the hopeful youth,
while Don Jorge stood regarding the two with
calm satisfaction.

“I have watched you since you landed at
Courtlandt street. That 'ere false wig and
them false whiskers belong, in my humble
opinion, to a suspicious character. You'd better
come along. The Ma'or, or the chief o'
poleese, 'ud be very much pleased to see you.”

Cromwell lost color and nerve. Once before
the Mayor, he would be searched — detained—
and Mr. Jacob D. Z. Hicks would
have time to come on from Philadelphia, and
regain his money.

“Come, Mister,” said the personage (who
may have been a police officer, or a pickpocket,
for all we know) when Don Jorge stepped
between the pair.

“If I get you out of this scrape will you
consent?” he whispered — “Say it quick, yes
or no —”

Cromwell surveyed the ill-looking personage,
and then faltered, “Yes!”

“Step this way, sir,” he said, and the gentleman
obeyed, still keeping his eye upon Cromwell—
“Now, mark me, I know that you are
an impostor, but for reasons of my own I
choose to humor you. What do you charge
for your impertinence? Name a reasonable
sum, and let my friend go, and I'll pay it
down —”

The fellow hesitated, and then with a leer
meant to be very knowing, said —“Twenty
dollars 'ill do it.”

Don Jorge borrowed the twenty of Cromwell,
paid it, and bade the fellow begone, with
these words, which he uttered in a whisper —
“Go! And if I see your face again I'll point
you out to the police.”

The personage seemed to understand, for he
left the reading room in a hurry, while Cromwell
stood silent and confused, a wondering
spectator of the scene.

“We've no time to lose,” said Don Jorge —
“We must move right off. That fellow may
be back in five minutes. Come, Crom. Hurrah
for the Sara Jane, and — you know
where!”

Crom, submitted like a child. Their trunks
lashed behind a hack, and themselves seated
within, they were whirling down Broadway in
five minutes, at a speed which hackney coaches
never attained before. In fifteen minutes they
were at the Battery, where a boat was waiting
for them. They entered, and through the
clear starlight were rowed towards a bright light,
which shone vividly at the distance of perchance
five hundred yards. Up the deck of
the Sara Jane, and into a luxuriantly furnished
cabin — it was the work of five minutes more.
And seated in chairs which were arranged beside
a well furnished board, Cromwell and
Don Jorge looked into each other's faces —
the former silent and wondering, the latter gay
and triumphant.

“Is it not a dream?” began Cromwell.

“Carlos,” cried Don Jorge, and in answer
a mulatto boy, dressed in livery, appeared.
“Pen and paper,” continued Don Jorge. The
boy obeyed.

“Now, before we discuss our prospects over
a bottle of this wine, I want you, Crom, to
write a letter to your father at my dictation.”

The letter was written; sent on shore; and
while Cromwell and Don Jorge discussed their
wine, the Sara Jane was gliding over the bay,
in the direction of the Narrows.

The letter which Cromwell signed we shall
see after a while.