"He's a good, faithful boy," he admitted, "but it takes more than
that to rise to distinction. If all the smart boys turned out smart
men, they'd be a drug in the market."
But Ferguson held to his own opinion, notwithstanding. Time will
show which was right.
The next day Ferguson said, "Harry, come round to my house, and take
tea to-night. I've spoken to my wife about you, and she wants to see
you."
"Thank you, Mr. Ferguson," said Harry. "I shall be very glad to
come."
"I'll wait till you are ready, and you can walk along with me."
"All right; I will be ready in five minutes."
They set out together for Ferguson's modest home, which was about
half a mile distant. As they passed up the village street Harry's
attention was drawn to two boys who were approaching them. One he
recognized at once as Fitzgerald Fletcher. He had an even more
stunning necktie than when Harry first met him, and sported a jaunty
little cane, which he swung in his neatly gloved hand.
"I wonder if he'll notice me," thought Harry. "At any rate, I won't
be wanting in politeness."
"Good-afternoon, Mr. Fletcher," he said, as they met.
Fitzgerald stared at him superciliously, and made the slightest
possible nod.
"Who is that?" asked Ferguson.
"It is a boy who has great contempt for printers' devils and low
apprentices," answered Harry. "I was introduced to him two evenings
ago, but he evidently doesn't care about keeping up the acquaintance.
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