“Wait a bit!” said Tommy Taft.  He disappeared; but he soon came back, with an old pair of boots in one hand and a pair of pantaloons in the other.

“There’s suthin’ in the nigh pocket,” he remarked, as he handed the pantaloons to his parent.  “I’ve often s’posed you’d come back, and would need the money what I saved for you.”

The parent, however, had not the courtesy to return thanks.  He was more anxious to know something about Tom’s employer and his whereabouts.

“He’s a good one, he is,” said Tommy Taft; “and no, he ain’t to home.  He’s in ——­; and I’ve got to meet him to-night in the tavern there—.”

“In Hog’s Lane?”

“Yes.”

“Hylton has a heap o’ money, Tommy.”

“If he have or no, I don’t reckon its none o’ your business, or mine nuther.”

The parent noticed the surly tone in which his son had just spoken, and concluded to say “good day,” and to be off.

Tommy Taft wondered what could be the cause of so sudden a departure; and then he wondered whether, it really was his father that had so unexpectedly accosted him.  He went back to his spade, and next wondered whether the man might not be an escaped convict.  If so, how came he to know John Hylton?

In obedience to orders, Tommy Taft set off to meet his employer at the tavern in Hog’s Lane.  He supped that evening with the keeper.  Afterwards, he lighted his pipe, drew a chair up to the open fireplace, and smoked in silence.  Still later, he betook himself through a long, narrow entry, up a narrow flight of stairs, and into a small, square room.  After he had closed the door behind him, he observed another door, which, he concluded, opened into the next apartment.  It was locked.  Tommy Taft was to pass the night in this self-same room, and he had good reasons for believing that his employer occupied the room adjoining and was already sound asleep.

The hours sped by.  The tavern-keeper looked up to the clock,—­it was after midnight.  He locked the big door, and had just diminished the number of burning lamps from six to two, when he heard the sound of voices as in dispute, and seemingly issuing from the room just above.  He hurried to the foot of the stairs, and listened.  He distinctly caught the voice of Mr. Hylton, and the words of another voice,—­“You’ll be sorry for that!” The tavern-keeper heard nothing more.  Presently, he too went to bed.

Morning came, and the servants were busy in the kitchen.  At half-past six, Tommy Taft ought, as on former occasions, to have carried a pitcher of hot water up to his employer’s bedroom.  But he failed to do so, this morning.  At seven, Mr. Hylton ought to have been seated at the breakfast table; but he did not appear.

The tavern-keeper, when the clock had struck eight, went upstairs.  He rapped on the door of the small square room.  No response.  He forced open the door.

“Ah!” he exclaimed.  “Tommy Taft gone! and the bed not slept in, neither!”