“And you paid them?” asked Marcus.

“Certainly,” said Bog.

“Then be good enough to accept five dollars from me, as a reward for your honesty,” said Marcus, acting upon another of his impulses.

“No, thank you, sir.  No, thank you,” returned Bog, quickly, to prevent Marcus from pulling the money out of his pocket.  “I sha’n’t take it, sir; I won’t have it anyway.  I’m goin’ into the reg’lar bill-postin’ business, as Jack Fink’s assistant, to-morrow, and can earn all I want.”  Bog blushed, but this time with honest pride, though he was flustered to look up and see that Miss Minford nodded in approval of his independent spirit.

Bog then slapped each knee about a dozen times with his cap, and betrayed many symptoms of fever heat and great mental distress.  After which, he said that he had only called to see if he could do anything for them.

“Now do you mean to tell us that it is not a regular New Year’s call,” said Mr. Minford, playfully, “and that you have not a dozen more to make?”

Bog looked guilty of an enormous fraud, dropped his cap, in his confusion, twice, murmured something inaudible, rose to his feet, and backed out of the room, making one comprehensive bow to everybody, and saying “Good-night” before it was two P.M.

As Bog shut the door, everybody laughed, but not so loud as to be heard by the boy; and, under the cover of the general good humor, Marcus rose, and said that he must go.  He was afraid he had made his visit too long for a first one.  He would call again on the following day, if agreeable, and complete the proposed arrangement.  In conclusion, he placed his card in Mr. Minford’s hand, with the names of a few references pencilled on the margin.

Mr. Minford was very sorry that their pleasant acquaintance should take his leave so abruptly, and hoped that they would enjoy many visits from him, not merely as a business partner (Mr. Minford laid emphasis on this), but as a friend.

Pet repeated her father’s regrets and hopes in the more impressive language of her sweet eyes, and, for the twentieth time that day, conjured up, in the memory of Marcus Wilkeson, a vague reminiscence of the distant past.

CHAPTER VIII.

MALTBOY’S TWENTIETH AFFAIR.

The house which had elicited Quigg’s last sagacious remark, was a three-story brownstone front, and was one of the finest looking on the south side.  The heavy mahogany door was opened by a slovenly girl, who ushered the callers into the front parlor, which was carefully darkened, according to the custom of the day.  The only objects plainly visible were two female figures, each seated near a front window, under the rosy shade of damask curtains artfully disposed.  One of the ladies, whom Matthew Maltboy was not slow to recognize, looked like a fountain of pink silk, gushing out with great vehemence in high, curving jets