"We'll stick together."

And the young friends reached their hands toward each other and clasped
them in the dim light of Jim Travers's room.

It was an important decision they had reached, and they talked over the
matter for a long time. Each had quite a little sum of money, which they
had saved with scrupulous care. They had good serviceable clothing, with
something extra in the way of change. The executors of Mr. Travers had
completed their duty and made their report to court. As in the case of the
Widow Gordon, not a penny was left for the boy, and the house and
everything it contained was to pass into the hands of strangers.

Jim Travers and Tom Gordon were occupying their single room on sufferance.
The new-comers were to take possession on the first of the following
month, and a hint had been given the boys which it was impossible for them
to misunderstand. Their room was preferable to their company.

"Next Tuesday is the first," remarked Jim; "I suppose we can stay here the
few days until then."

"That's less than a week. What's the use of waiting when we have made up
our minds to go?" was the pertinent question of Tom. "I prefer not to meet
those folks that are coming here."

"That's the way I feel," assented the younger, striving to repress his
ardor over the prospect. "They will put on airs, turn up their noses at
us, and make themselves at home. I can't bear," he added, his voice
slightly trembling, "to see them parading through the house which father
owned, and walking into his room as if no one else had the right to go