"
"Any one would think, to hear you, that you had no end of
self-conceit, Oscar," said Harry, laughing.
"How do you know that I haven't? Most people think they are
beautiful. A photographer told my sister that he was once visited by
a frightfully homely man from the the country, who wanted his 'picter
took.' When the result was placed before him, he seemed
dissatisfied. 'Don't you think it like?' said the artist.--'Well,
ye-es,' he answered slowly, 'but it hasn't got my sweet expression
about the mouth!'"
"Very good," said Harry, laughing; "that's what's the matter with
your picture."
"Precisely. I am glad your artistic eye detects what is wanting.
But, hold! there's a knock. It's Fitz, I'll bet a hat."
"Come in!" he cried, and Fletcher walked in.
"Good-evening, Fletcher," said Oscar. "You see I'm packing, or
rather Walton is packing. He's a capital packer."
"Indeed!" sneered Fletcher. "I was not aware that Mr. Walton was in
that line of business. What are his terms?"
"I refer you to him."
"What do you charge for packing trunks, Mr. Walton?"
"I think fifty cents would be about right," answered Harry, with
perfect gravity. "Can you give me a job, Mr. Fletcher?"
"I might, if I had known it in time, though I am particular who
handles my things."
"Walton is careful, and I can vouch for his honesty," said Oscar,
carrying out the joke.
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