"No, sir; I'm going to do my duty by that dear old man if I never do
anything else while I live."

He held not a mote of resentment. Indeed was his young heart "attuned
to the sweet melody of forgiveness."

"By the way, Hank, here's a letter for you."

The communication was brief. It was from New Orleans and ran thus:
"The five letters which we have published have awakened no interest
whatever, and I am therefore instructed to discontinue the service.
Inclosed please find check for the amount due you."

"What is it, Hank?"

"Oh, nothing except what I might have expected. Read it."

Witherspoon read the letter, and crumpling it, broke out in his
impulsive way: "That's all right, old fellow. It fits right into my
plan, and now let me tell you what that is. We'll leave here to-morrow
and go over to Dura and settle up there. I don't know how long it will
take, and I won't try to telegraph until we get through. Dura isn't
known as a harbor, it is such a miserably small place, but ships land
there once in awhile, and we can sail from there. But the main part of
my plan is that you are to go with me and live in Chicago; and I'll
bet we have a magnificent time. I'll go in the store, and I'll warrant
that father--don't that sound strange?--that father can get you a good
place on one of the newspapers. You haven't had a chance. Hank, and
when you do get one, I'll bet you can lay out the best of them. What
do you say?"