from within, a figure that rose hurriedly, leaning on a stick, with an attempt to fly, but in the same moment sank back in a chair with an hysterical laugh—­and Uncle Billy stood in the presence of his old partner!  But as Uncle Billy darted forward, Uncle Jim rose again, and this time with outstretched hands.  Uncle Billy caught them, and in one supreme pressure seemed to pour out and transfuse his whole simple soul into his partner’s.  There they swayed each other backwards and forwards and sideways by their still clasped hands, until Uncle Billy, with a glance at Uncle Jim’s bandaged ankle, shoved him by sheer force down into his chair.

Uncle Jim was first to speak.  “Caught, b’ gosh!  I mighter known you’d be as big a fool as me!  Look you, Billy Fall, do you know what you’ve done?  You’ve druv me out er the streets whar I was makin’ an honest livin’, by day, on three crossin’s!  Yes,” he laughed forgivingly, “you druv me out er it, by day, jest because I reckoned that some time I might run into your darned fool face,”—­another laugh and a grasp of the hand,—­“and then, b’gosh! not content with ruinin’ my business by day, when I took to it at night, you took to goin’ out at nights too, and so put a stopper on me there!  Shall I tell you what else you did?  Well, by the holy poker!  I owe this sprained foot to your darned foolishness and my own, for it was getting away from you one night after the theatre that I got run into and run over!

“Ye see,” he went on, unconscious of Uncle Billy’s paling face, and with a naivete, though perhaps not a delicacy, equal to Uncle Billy’s own, “I had to play roots on you with that lock-box business and these letters, because I did not want you to know what I was up to, for you mightn’t like it, and might think it was lowerin’ to the old firm, don’t yer see?  I wouldn’t hev gone into it, but I was played out, and I don’t mind tellin’ you now, old man, that when I wrote you that first chipper letter from the lock-box I hedn’t eat anythin’ for two days.  But it’s all right now,” with a laugh.  “Then I got into this business—­thinkin’ it nothin’—­jest the very last thing—­and do you know, old pard, I couldn’t tell anybody but you—­and, in fact, I kept it jest to tell you—­I’ve made nine hundred and fifty-six dollars!  Yes, sir, nine hundred and fifty-six dollars! solid money, in Adams and Co.’s Bank, just out er my trade.”

“Wot trade?” asked Uncle Billy.

Uncle Jim pointed to the corner, where stood a large, heavy crossing-sweeper’s broom.  “That trade.”

“Certingly,” said Uncle Billy, with a quick laugh.

“It’s an outdoor trade,” said Uncle Jim gravely, but with no suggestion of awkwardness or apology in his manner; “and thar ain’t much difference between sweepin’ a crossin’ with a broom and raking over tailing with a rake, only—­wot ye get with a broom you have handed to ye, and ye don’t have to pick it up and Fish it out er the wet rocks and sluice-gushin’; and it’s a heap less tiring to the back.”