The affair created some excitement in the vicinity, for Spicer made no secret of his suspicions, and publicly accused Tom of the theft.  He did not get much sympathy from any except his pot companions; for there was no evidence but his bare and unsupported statement to substantiate the grave accusation.  Tom had been in the room when the money was placed in the drawer, and, as his father asserted, had watched him closely while he deposited the bills under the clothing.  No one else could have taken it.  These were the proofs.  But people generally believed that Spicer had carried no money home, especially as it was known that he was intoxicated on the night in question; and that the alleged theft was only a ruse to satisfy certain importunate creditors.

Every body knew that Tom was bad enough to steal, even from his father; from which my readers can understand that it is an excellent thing to have a good reputation.  Bobby knew that he would lie and use profane language; that he spent his Sundays by the river, or in roaming through the woods; and that he played truant from school as often as the fear of the rod would permit; and the boy that would do all these things certainty would steal if he got a good chance.  Our hero’s judgment, therefore, of the case was not favorable to the bully, and he would have thanked him to stay away from the river while he was there.

“Hallo, Bob!  How are you?” shouted Tom, when he had come within hailing distance.

“Very well,” replied Bobby, rather coolly.

“Been to Boston, they say.”

“Yes.”

“Well, how did you like it?” continued Tom as he seated himself on the rock near our hero.

“First rate.”

“Been to work there?”

“No.”

“What have you been doing?”

“Travelling about.”

“What doing?”

“Selling books.”

“Was you, though?  Did you sell any?”

“Yes, a few.”

“How many?”

“O, about fifty.”

“You didn’t, though—­did you?  How much did you make?”

“About fifteen dollars.”

“By Jolly!  You are a smart one, Bobby.  There are not many fellows that would have done that.”

“Easy enough,” replied Bobby, who was not a little surprised at this warm commendation from one whom he regarded as his enemy.

“Yon had to buy the books first—­didn’t you?” asked Tom, who began to manifest a deep interest in the trade.

“Of course; no one will give you the books.”

“What do you pay for them?”

“I buy them so as to make a profit on them,” answered Bobby, who, like a discreet merchant, was not disposed to be too communicative.

“That business would suit me first rate.”

“It is pretty hard work.”

“I don’t care for that.  Don’t you believe I could do something in this line?”

“I don’t know; perhaps you could.”