“He told me that he would get to gambling, and wished me to take money enough to pay his bill here.  He handed me the ten-dollar bill which you say is bad, and I gave him five in return.  I think now he only wanted to get good money for bad.”

“Your story may be true, or it may not,” said the clerk, whose manner indicated incredulity.  “That is nothing to me.  All you have to do is to pay your hotel bill, and you can settle with Mr. Hubbard when you see him.”

“But I have no other money,” said Carl, desperately.

“Then I shall feel justified in ordering your arrest on a charge of passing, or trying to pass, counterfeit money.”

“Don’t do that, sir!  I will see that you are paid out of the first money I earn.”

“You must think I am soft,” said the clerk, contemptuously.  “I have seen persons of your stripe before.  I dare say, if you were searched, more counterfeit money would be found in your pockets.”

“Search me, then!” cried Carl, indignantly.  “I am perfectly willing that you should.”

“Haven’t you any relations who will pay your bill?”

“I have no one to call upon,” answered Carl, soberly.  “Couldn’t you let me work it out?  I am ready to do any kind of work.”

“Our list of workers is full,” said the clerk, coldly.

Poor Carl! he felt that he was decidedly in a tight place.  He had never before found himself unable to meet his bills, nor would he have been so placed now but for Hubbard’s rascality.  A dollar and a quarter seems a small sum, but if you are absolutely penniless it might as well be a thousand.  Suppose he should be arrested and the story get into the papers?  How his stepmother would exult in the record of his disgrace!  He could anticipate what she would say.  Peter, too, would rejoice, and between them both his father would be persuaded that he was thoroughly unprincipled.

“What have you got in your valise?” asked the clerk.

“Only some underclothing.  If there were anything of any value I would cheerfully leave it as security.  Wait a minute, though,” he said, with a sudden thought.  “Here is a gold pencil!  It is worth five dollars; at any rate, it cost more than that.  I can place that in your hands.”

“Let me see it.”

Carl handed the clerk a neat gold pencil, on which his name was inscribed.  It was evidently of good quality, and found favor with the clerk.

“I’ll give you a dollar and a quarter for the pencil,” he said, “and call it square.”

“I wouldn’t like to sell it,” said Carl.

“You won’t get any more for it.”

“I wasn’t thinking of that; but it was given me by my mother, who is now dead.  I would not like to part with anything that she gave me.”

“You would prefer to get off scot-free, I suppose?” retorted the clerk, with a sneer.

“No; I am willing to leave it in your hands, but I should like the privilege of redeeming it when I have the money.”