the yarn he told us, for cuteness. Who is he?"

"Why, he is Mr. Evan Roberts, the owner of this house."

"My eyes!" said Dick, gazing about him in a startled way. "Look here; he
ain't that Roberts from the big store on Fourth Street?"

"Yes, he is; he is one of the partners in that store."

Then did Nimble Dick give a low whistle,--suddenly cut short, as the
other boys looked at him,--and sat up straight in his chair, and for at
least a minute was awed; or else was bewildered. If his mind could have
been looked into for a moment something like this might have been seen
there: "And here I am sittin' in one of his chairs, and been laughin' to
kill over his funny story! If this ain't the greatest lark out! I
wonder what they're all after, anyhow!"

Then the real business of the evening commenced.

I should like to describe that evening; but it is really worse to
describe than the boys. It was designed to be one of those most
difficult evenings, where every act and almost every word has been
previously arranged, but arranged in such a manner as to appear like an
impromptu effort, the result of merely the happenings of the hour.

For instance, Mrs. Roberts aimed at nothing less formidable than the
teaching of these boys to read and write; and know as well as ever I
know it, that to frankly own that she was ready and willing to give her
time and patience in so teaching them would be to outwit herself. They
did not belong to the class who can be beguiled into evening schools.