It had not been altogether easy to save this sum. Harry's
income had always been small, and he might, without incurring the
charge of excessive extravagance, have spent the whole. He had
denied himself on many occasions, where most boys of his age would
have yielded to the temptation of spending money for pleasure or
personal gratification; but he had been rewarded by the thought that
he was getting on in the world.
"This is my birthday, Mr. Ferguson," he said, as he entered the
printing-office on that particular morning.
"Is it?" asked Ferguson, looking up from his case with interest.
"How venerable are you, may I ask?"
"I don't feel very venerable as yet," said Harry, with a smile. "I
am nineteen."
"You were sixteen when you entered the office."
"As printer's devil--yes."
"You have learned the business pretty thoroughly. You are as good a
workman as I now, though I am fifteen years older."
"You are too modest, Mr. Ferguson."
"No, it is quite true. You are as rapid and accurate as I am, and
you ought to receive as high pay."
"That will come in time. You know I make something by writing for
the papers."
"That's extra work. How much did you make in that way last year?"
"I can tell you, because I figured it up last night. It was one
hundred and twenty-five dollars, and I put every cent into the
savings-bank.
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