He pays me fifteen dollars a week as
compositor."
"You're doing well," said Luke, enviously. "Got a big pile of money
laid up, haven't you?"
"I have something in the bank."
"Harry writes stories for the Boston papers, also," said Ferguson.
"He makes a hundred or two that way."
"Some folks are born to luck," said Clapp, discontentedly. "Here am
I, six or eight years older, out of a place, and without a cent to
fall back upon. I wish I was one of your lucky ones."
"You might have had a few hundred dollars, at any rate," said
Ferguson, "if you hadn't chosen to spend all your money when you were
earning good wages."
"A man must have a little enjoyment. We can't drudge all the time."
"It's better to do that than to be where you are now."
But Clapp was not to be convinced that he was himself to blame for
his present disagreeable position. He laid the blame on fortune,
like thousands of others. He could not see that Harry's good luck
was the legitimate consequence of industry and frugality.
After a while the two left the office. They decided to seek their
old boarding-house, and remain there for a week, waiting for
something to turn up.
The next day Harry received the following letter from Mr. Anderson:--
"DEAR WALTON: My brother urges me to settle permanently at the West.
I am offered a partnership in a paper in this vicinity, and my health
has much improved here.
Pages:
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215