“It is so with my father,” I replied.  “He used to be as bright as any one, but now he doesn’t have much hope of any kind left.”

In the evening another surprise awaited me.  Instead of remaining in the comfortable chair, Mr. Harrison bade me follow him to the sleeping-car, and I was assigned as soft a bed as I had ever occupied.  I slept “like a top,” resolved to get the full value of so elegant an accommodation.  When I awoke, it was broad daylight.

I climbed down from my bed and made my toilet leisurely.  When I had finished, Mr. Harrison appeared, and together we had breakfast, and, five hours later, dinner.

It was six o’clock in the evening when we rolled into the station at Jersey City, and alighted.  I was a little stiff from the long ride, but not near as much so as I would have been had I travelled in the ordinary cars.

“We’ll cross the ferry at once,” said Mr. Harrison.  “The sooner we get to New York, the better.”

“And the sooner we get to Brooklyn, the better,” I added.  “Do you think it will be advisable for me to hunt up Mrs. Agatha Mitts to-night?”

“I think it would.  Even if you don’t call on her, you can find out about her and see how the land lies.  We will find a hotel to stop at first.”

We were soon in New York and on our way up Broadway.  Opposite the post-office we found an elegant hotel, where Mr. Harrison hired a room for himself.

He insisted on my having supper with him.  Then leaving our handbags in his room, we started for the Fulton Street ferry to Brooklyn.

It was now growing dark, and the streets were filled with people hurrying homeward.  I tried to keep as close to Mr. Harrison as possible, but something in a window attracted my attention, and when I looked around he was gone.

I supposed he had gone on ahead and hurried to catch him.  But in this I was mistaken, for in no direction could I catch sight of the gentleman.

Deeply concerned, I stood on the corner of a narrow street or alley, undecided what to do.  Should I go on to Brooklyn or retrace my steps to the hotel?

I had about made up my mind to go on, when a disturbance down the alley attracted my attention.

Straining my eyes in the semi-darkness, I discovered several rough-looking young fellows in a group.

“Give it to him, Bandy; hit him over the head!” I heard one of them exclaim.

“Fair share of plunder, Mickey,” cried another.

And then I saw a helpless young man in their midst, who was being beaten and no doubt robbed.

I did not give thought to the great risk I ran, but hurried at once to the scene.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“Help me! help me!” called out the young man, in a beseeching voice.

I stared at him in amazement.  And no wonder.  The young man was Duncan Woodward.

CHAPTER XXXII