Suppose we listen to their
conversation, as they walked up the village street, one evening about
this time, smoking cigars.
"I say, Luke," said John Clapp, "I've got tired of this kind of life.
Here I've been in the office a year, and I'm not a cent richer than
when I entered it, besides working like a dog all the while."
"Just my case," said Luke. "I've been shoe-makin' ever since I was
fourteen, and I'll be blest if I can show five dollars, to save my
life."
"What's worse," said Clapp, "there isn't any prospect of anything
better in my case. What's a feller to do on fifteen dollars a week?"
"Won't old Anderson raise your wages?"
"Not he! He thinks I ought to get rich on what he pays me now," and
Clapp laughed scornfully. "If I were like Ferguson, I might. He
never spends a cent without taking twenty-four hours to think it over
beforehand."
My readers, who are familiar with Mr. Ferguson's views and ways of
life, will at once see that this was unjust, but justice cannot be
expected from an angry and discontented man.
"Just so," said Luke. "If a feller was to live on bread and water,
and get along with one suit of clothes a year, he might save
something, but that aint _my_ style."
"Nor mine."
"It's strange how lucky some men are," said Luke. "They get rich
without tryin'. I never was lucky. I bought a ticket in a lottery
once, but of course I didn't draw anything.
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