Tom was forced to accept some one of these offers, and he went home with Jim Travers until he could decide what to do.  He knew he was welcome there, and could stay as long as he wished, though he had no thought of becoming a burden upon the kind friends that had opened their doors to him.

Now, it was this change in the surroundings in the daily life of Tom Gordon that led to the singular incidents I have set out to tell.

Jim Travers lived alone with his father, who was in fair circumstances.  His mother had died in his infancy; and his only sister, Maggie, was his playmate for a few years longer, when she departed to join the loved one that had preceded her.  The husband and father became a lonely and bowed man, whose years were far less than they seemed.  Although a farmer in a small way, he committed the sad error of engaging in stock speculations, more with a view of diverting his mind from his gnawing grief than with the hope of bettering his fortune.  It is hardly necessary to relate what followed.  He was successful for a time, and improved his financial standing.  He gladly welcomed Tom Gordon beneath his roof, for he knew his own boy could not have a playmate whose company would be more improving to him.  Then Mr. Travers dipped more deeply into speculation.  With brighter prospects than ever, there came the fateful hour in Wall Street, when every penny was swept from him.

“I am a beggar!” he gasped, when the whole dreadful truth broke upon him; “and I am too old to begin life again.  It is better that I should die.”

And die he did in the great city of New York.  The shock was fatal; and his body was brought back to Briggsville, and laid to rest beside the forms of his wife and little Maggie, that had died long before.  Jim was dazed by the unexpected blow.  It became the privilege of Tom Gordon to act as his comforter, but it was a long time before the little fellow came out from the valley of shadow into the life-giving sunlight again.

But here was the solemn situation:  Tom Gordon and Jim Travers were orphans, with no near relatives, and with only their own hands to earn their daily bread.  What was the best thing for them to do?

This was the grave question which the two boys sat down to answer in the gloom of a wintry evening, when they were about fourteen years of age.  They had received plenty of counsel, and much of it was excellent.  The teacher, the minister, and numerous good neighbors had been as kind as they could possibly be, and the youths knew no real hardship could come to them as long as they stayed in or near the place where they were born.

But they were not satisfied to do so.  They felt they ought to strike out for themselves, and Briggsville was not the place to do it.  The opportunities were too few.

They talked for a long time in an aimless way, discussing numerous schemes, but without agreeing upon any.

“Jim, let’s go to New York.”