vestibule of the post-office. He arrived in time to see him unlock one
of a row of numbered letter-boxes rented by subscribers, which occupied
a partition by the window, and take out a small package and a letter.
But in that brief glance Mr. Hamlin detected the printed address of the
"Excelsior Magazine" on the wrapper. It was enough. Luck was certainly
with him.

He had time to get rid of the wicked sparkle that had lit his dark eyes,
and to lounge carelessly towards the boy as the latter broke open the
package, and then hurriedly concealed it in his jacket-pocket, and
started for the door. Mr. Hamlin quickly followed him, unperceived, and,
as he stepped into the street, gently tapped him on the shoulder. The
boy turned and faced him quickly. But Mr. Hamlin's eyes showed nothing
but lazy good-humor.

"Hullo, Bob. Where are you going?"

The boy again looked up suspiciously at this revelation of his name.

"Home," he said, briefly.

"Oh, over yonder," said Hamlin, calmly. "I don't mind walking with you
as far as the lane."

He saw the boy's eyes glance furtively towards an alley that ran beside
the blacksmith's shop a few rods ahead, and was convinced that he
intended to evade him there. Slipping his arm carelessly in the youth's,
he concluded to open fire at once.

"Bob," he said, with irresistible gravity, "I did not know when I met