again Mrs. Bangs turned to her book.

"Can't you give me a dollar?"

Again there was no answer.

"I say, can't you give me a dollar?"

"I cannot. Now go away and be quiet until supper time."

"Then give me fifty cents."

"I haven't a penny. Ask your father."

"Oh, you're a mean thing!" growled the wayward son, and stalked out of the sitting room, slamming the door after him.

"What a boy!" sighed the lady of the house. "He never considers my comfort—and after all I have done for him!" And then she turned once more to her precious novel.

It wanted half an hour to supper time and Bob, not caring to do anything else, took himself back to his room. Like his mother, he, too, loved to read. Stowed away in a trunk, he had a score or more of cheap paper-covered novels, of daring adventures among the Indians, and of alluring detective tales, books on which he had squandered many a dime. One was called "Bowery Bob, the Boy Detective of the Docks; or, Winning a Cool Million," and he wanted to finish this, to see how Bob got the million dollars. The absurdity of the stories was never noticed by him, and he thought them the finest tales ever penned.

He was deep in a chapter where the hero in rags was holding three men with pistols at bay when he heard a noise below and saw his father leaping from the family carriage. Mr. Bangs' face wore a look of great satisfaction, showing plainly that his day's business had agreed with him.

"How do you do, dad?" he said, running down to greet his parent.

"First-rate, Bob," said Mr. Bangs, with a smile. "How have things gone with you to-day?"

"Not very well."

"What's the matter?"

"You forgot to give me my spending money this week."

"I thought I gave it to you Saturday."

"That was for last week."

"I think you are mistaken, Bob. However, it doesn't matter much," went on Mr. Bangs, as he entered the house.

"Phew! He's in a fine humor to-night," thought Bob. "I'll have to strike him for more than a dollar."

"Where's your mother?" went on the gentleman.

"In the sitting room, reading. But I say, dad, what about that money?"

"Oh, do you want it right away?"

"I'd like to have it after supper."

"Very well."

"Can I have three dollars? I want to buy something extra this week—some things I really need."

"Ahem! Three dollars is quite a sum. I don't know of any other boy in Riverport who gets as much as three dollars in one week to spend."

"Well, but they haven't as rich a father as I have."

"Ah, quite true," nodded Mr. Bangs, with satisfaction. "I think I can safely lay claim to being the richest man in this district."

"Then I can have the three dollars?" went on Bob, anxiously.

"Yes. Here you are," and his parent brought forth a well-filled wallet and handed over three new one-dollar bills.

Bob was stowing the money away in his pocket and congratulating himself on his luck when a door opened and Mrs. Bangs appeared.

"So you are back, Amos," she said, sweetly. "It has been such a long, lonesome day without you."

"And a busy day for me," answered Amos Bangs, as he passed into the sitting room and dropped into an easy chair.

"Did you go to Springfield?"

"I did, and met Tuller and the rest. We've got that thing in our grip now."

"Yes," she said, vaguely. In reality she took no interest whatever in her husband's affairs so long as she got what money she desired.

"Yes, sir—we've got the thing just where we want it," continued Amos Bangs.

"You mean——?" his wife hesitated.

"I mean that iron works affair of course, Viola. Can't you understand at all?"

"Oh—er—yes, of course. Let me see, you were trying to get control so you said."

"Exactly, and I've got it."

"Was not that the works in which Mr. Bartlett is interested?"

"The same."

"Did not he have the control?"

"Yes, but I have it now, and I am going to keep it," answered Amos Bangs, with evident satisfaction.

"Do you mean Jack Bartlett's father, dad?" questioned Bob, eagerly.

"I do."

"Have you got the best of him?"

"Well, I have—ahem—carried my point and the iron works will be absorbed by the concern in Springfield."

"And Jack Bartlett's father won't like that?"

"No. In fact, I am afraid he will fight it. But he can do nothing, absolutely nothing," went on Amos Bangs. "I hold the whip hand—and I shall continue to hold it."

"I hate the Bartletts and I hope you do get the best of them."

"This will make Mrs. Bartlett take a back seat," said Mrs. Bangs, maliciously.

"Maybe you mean that seat in church," said Bob, slyly.

"Not that particularly, although it is time they went to the rear—they have had a front seat so long. Amos, we must take a front seat now."

"As you please, Viola."

"And I must have some new dresses."

"You shall have them, my dear."

"You dear, good man!" cried the fashionable wife; and then the whole family went in to supper. Bob felt particularly elated. He had gotten three dollars for spending money and he felt sure that the Bartletts, including Jack, would have to suffer.

"I wish dad could do something to injure the Thompsons," he said to himself. "But Mr. Thompson is only a carpenter. I must watch my chance and get square with Randy on my own account."

CHAPTER IV

RANDY AT HOME

All unmindful of the trouble that had already come to the Bartletts, and of the trouble Bob Bangs was hatching out for him, Randy divided the mess of fish with Jack and hurried home.

"See what a fine mess I've got, mother!" he cried, as he entered the kitchen, where his mother had just started to prepare the evening meal. "Aren't they real beauties?"

"They are, Randy," answered Mrs. Thompson, and smiled brightly. "Did Jack do as well?"

"Almost as well as I did, and we divided evenly, because, you see, he furnished the boat. And, mother, I've found out where we can get a fine lot of blackberries. If you want me to, I'll go for them to-morrow."

"I wish you would, Randy. Your father loves blackberry pie and blackberry pudding."

"And so do I."

"I've got time to fry some of these fish for supper," went on Mrs. Thompson. "And we can have some more to-morrow, too. But I don't think we can use them all."

"I was thinking we might give Mrs. Gilligan a couple."

"That will be very nice. If you will, take them over at once."

Mrs. Gilligan was a poor Irishwoman who took in washing and ironing for a living. She was alone in the world and often had a struggle to make both ends meet.

"Just to look at that now!" she cried, as Randy held up the fish. "Sure an' ye air a great fisher b'y, Randy, so ye air!"

"I got so many I thought I'd bring you a couple," said our hero.

"Now that's rale kind of ye," answered Mrs. Gilligan, as she dried her hands and took the fish. "Just loike my Pat used to catch afore he was kilt on the railroad."

"I caught them this afternoon, so you can be sure they are fresh."

"I'm much obliged to ye, I am indade," said Mrs. Gilligan. She drew a long breath. "Sure an' the Lord is good to us after all. I was just afther thinkin' I had nothin' but throuble, whin in comes these iligant fish."

"Is something wrong?" asked Randy, curiously.

"It's not a great dale, yet it's enough fer a poor woman loike me. It's Mrs. Bangs' wash, so it is. Nothin' suits that lady, an' she always wants to pay less than she agreed."

"You mean Bob Bangs' mother?"

"Th' same, Randy. Oh, they are a hard-hearted family, so they are!"

"I believe you. And yet Mr. Bangs is rich."

"It's little enough I see of his money," sighed Mrs. Gilligan. "Although I do me besht wid the washin' an' ironin', so I do!"

"It's a wonder Mrs. Bangs don't make the servant do the washing and ironing."