I have, besides, to buy clothing from time to time.  I have nearly spent the extra money I had with me, and do not know how to keep myself looking respectable in the way of clothing.  Under the circumstances, I shall have to apply to you for a loan, say of twenty-five dollars.  In a year or two I hope to earn enough to be entirely independent.  At present I cannot expect it.  As my father—­Mr. Brent—­undoubtedly intended to provide for me, I don’t think I need to apologize for making this request.  Still I do it reluctantly, for I would prefer to depend entirely upon myself.

“With regards to you and Jonas, I am yours truly, Philip Brent.”

Phil put this letter in the post-office, and patiently waited for an answer.

“Mrs. Brent surely cannot refuse me,” he said to himself, “since I have almost wholly relieved her of the expense of taking care of me.”

Phil felt so sure that money would be sent to him that he began to look round a little among ready-made clothing stores to see at what price he could obtain a suit that would do for every-day use.  He found a store in the Bowery where he could secure a suit, which looked as if it would answer, for thirteen dollars.  If Mrs. Brent sent him twenty-five, that would leave him twelve for underclothing, and for a reserve fund to meet the weekly deficit which he could not avoid.

Three—­four days passed, and no letter came in answer to his.

“It can’t be that Mrs. Brent won’t at least answer my letter,” he thought uneasily.  “Even if she didn’t send me twenty-five dollars, she couldn’t help sending me something.”

Still he felt uneasy, in view of the position in which he would find himself in case no letter or remittance should come at all.

It was during this period of anxiety that his heart leaped for joy when on Broadway he saw the familiar form of Reuben Gordon, a young man already mentioned, to whom Phil had sold his gun before leaving Gresham.

“Why, Reuben, how are you?” exclaimed Phil joyfully.  “When did you come to town?”

“Phil Brent!” exclaimed Reuben, shaking hands heartily.  “I’m thunderin’ glad to see you.  I was thinkin’ of you only five minutes ago, and wonderin’ where you hung out.”

“But you haven’t told me when you came to New York.”

“Only this morning!  I’m goin’ to stay with a cousin of my father’s, that lives in Brooklyn, over night.”

“I wanted to ask you about Mrs. Brent and Jonas.  I was afraid they might be sick, for I wrote four days ago and haven’t got any answer yet.”

“Where did you write to?”

“To Gresham, of course,” answered Phil, in surprise.

“You don’t mean to say you hain’t heard of their leavin’ Gresham?” said Reuben, in evident astonishment.

“Who has left Gresham?”

“Your mother—­leastwise, Mrs. Brent—­and Jonas.  They cleared out three weeks ago, and nobody’s heard a word of them since—­that is, nobody in the village.”