"Wait! Hold on a minute!" cried Dick, leaning forward at the sound of the other lad's voice, and a sight of his face in the gleam of an electric lamp. "How are you, Tim Muldoon?"
For a moment the other stared at the well-dressed youth in the taxicab, for the vehicle had come to a stop. Then over the features came a look of glad surprise.
"Why, if it isn't Mr. Hamilton!" cried the lad in the street. "Who'd ever think to see you here? How are you, Mr. Hamilton?"
"Make it Dick, if you don't mind, Tim," suggested the millionaire's son. "I'm Dick and you're Tim," and the wealthy lad reached out and shook hands with the lad, whom he had once befriended as a "fresh-air kid," and who, later, he had set up in the newspaper business. Tim Muldoon, a typical New York newsboy, had accompanied Dick on a trip out west, to inspect a gold mine, and had been instrumental in aiding him. Our hero had not seen his protégé in some time, though he knew him at once when the auto so nearly ran him down.
"Well, well, Tim," went on Dick. "What have you been doing with yourself since last we met? You've have grown considerable. Is the paper business good?"
"Fine, thanks to the start you gave me, Mr. Ham—I mean Dick. I'm running three stands now, and I have two assistants. I get time to go
