When Mike Flynn learned the circumstances of his discharge he was very angry.

“I’d like to meet Jasper Redwood,” he said, his eyes flashing.  “If I didn’t give him a laying out then my name isn’t Mike Flynn.”

“I think he will get his desert some time, Mickey, without any help from you or me.”

“Should hope he will.  And what’ll you do now, Rodney?”

“I don’t know.  Sometimes I think it would be well to go to some other city, Boston or Philadelphia, where Jasper can’t get on my track.”

“Should hope you won’t do it.  I can’t get along widout you.”

“I will stay here for a few weeks, Mike, and see if anything turns up.”

“I might get you in as a telegraph boy.”

“That wouldn’t suit me.  It doesn’t pay enough.”

Rodney began to hunt for a situation again, but four weeks passed and brought him no success.  One afternoon about four o’clock he was walking up Broadway when, feeling tired, he stepped into the Continental Hotel at the corner of Twentieth Street.

He took a seat at some distance back from the door, and in a desultory way began to look about him.  All at once he started in surprise, for in a man sitting in one of the front row of chairs he recognized Louis Wheeler, the railroad thief who had stolen his box of jewelry.

Wheeler was conversing with a man with a large flapping sombrero, and whose dress and general appearance indicated that he was a Westerner.

Rodney left his seat and going forward sat down in the chair behind Wheeler.  He suspected that the Western man was in danger of being victimized.

CHAPTER XXII.

AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE TURNS UP.

In his new position Rodney could easily hear the conversation which took place between the Western man and his old railroad acquaintance.

“I am quite a man of leisure,” said Wheeler, “and it will give me great pleasure to go about with you and show you our city.”

“You are very obliging.”

“Oh, don’t mention it.  I shall really be glad to have my time occupied.  You see I am a man of means—­my father left me a fortune—­and so I am not engaged in any business.”

“You are in luck.  I was brought up on a farm in Vermont, and had to borrow money to take me to Montana four years ago.”

“I hope you prospered in your new home?”

“I did.  I picked up twenty five thousand dollars at the mines, and doubled it by investment in lots in Helena.”

“Very neat, indeed.  I inherited a fortune from my father—­a hundred and twenty five thousand dollars—­but I never made a cent myself.  I don’t know whether I am smart enough.”

“Come out to Montana and I’ll put you in a way of making some money.”

“Really, now, that suggestion strikes me favorably.  I believe I will follow your advice.  When shall you return to your Western home?”