The Kenosha telegraph. [volume] (Kenosha, Wis.) 1860-1888, 1877-01-11

meal. Then he decided he would run
over On Broadway and tell Jerry of his
good luck. It was too late to think of
going to the bank.
No little chap sat on the well-known
corner. Tim walked up block, down
again, and studied the cross streets
sharply. Had he sold out and gone
home? Or may be he had taken the
money to the bank Tim ran home
again. Yes, that was it. The money
was gone.
He waited and waited. Somehow he
did not feel q bit jolly; but he boiled
the kettle and laid the supper. No
Jerry yet. What had become of him /?
Had he put on his best suit?
They had made q clothes-press out
of 81 dry goods box, and Tim went to
inspect it. Why-Jerry's shelf was
entirely empty. Shirts, stockings, yes,
everything, even to his old everyday
suit, gone. Tim dropped on the floor,
and hid his face in his hands. Had
jerry
1t was funny, but Tim squared off
and gave the box thump that bruised
his knuckless It seemed to him that
the box had breathed q suspicion that
Jerry had stolen the money and run
away. Then he kicked it, and sat down
and cried as if his heart would break.
His pardner, little Jerry, thief. No,
he would never, never believe it.
He sat up till midnight, and itseemed
to him there had never been such lone
illness since the world began. Then the
next morning he made some inquiries.
Their two nearest nejghbors were wash
erwcm men. Both had been out all day.
No one had seen Jerry.
If Jerry's father were not in prison
but he had been sent up in February
for g year, and here 1t was only the last
of June. Or if there had been any
evil companions hanging around; but
Jerry and every scrap of his belongings,
as well as the money, had surely dis
appeared.
There was no gay excursion for Tim.
He brooded over his desertiOn, and
grew morose, began to save his money
again, and shut himself up like q her
NIT. The poor, crippled boy that he
had taken to his heart, that he had
warmed and fed All it was very
bitter. Perhaps not even his beautiful
Miss May would care to remember him.
So he did not go near her. Autumn
came on apace. One dreary Novem-
Der day. when he could find nothing to
do, be turned homeward, weary and
heart-sick. All, if there was only
CHEEKY voice to welcome him
Some one stood by his door, lady
in dainty attire. Some one caught his
arm, and cried.
90, Tim, I'm so glad you have
come I have been waiting almost an
hour. Tim, I've found little Jerry, and
he is dying, but he asks for you con-
stantly. Come right away. Don't lose
a moment"
Gerry" in a sort of dazed way, as
if he but half understood. Little
Jerry-my pardner? Q, Miss May
no, you can't mean it--dying"
Yes. Hurry, Tim. I've waited so
long already !"
They walked down the stairs, scud-
ded through the street to horse car.
Il seemed to Tim as if they rode an
hour. Then they alighted, and a short
walk brought them to q decent looking
tenement house. Up one fight of stairs,
and the door opened.
is it Tim?" asked a weak voice.
Tim threw himself on his knees by
the bedside, and kissed the sweet, wan
face with the tenderness of a mother.
For some minutes only sobs were
heard.
You told him, Miss May?"
"No, Jerry. We hurried SO there
was no chance. But I will tell him
every word
] go. Tim: Won didn't think / was q