Here you are at nineteen, while I am only a
rattle-brained sophomore. I don't mind being called that, by the
way, for at least it credits me with the possession of brains. Not
that I am doing so very badly. I am probably in the first third of
the class, and that implies respectable scholarship here.
"But you--I can hardly realize that you, whom I knew only two or
three years since as a printer's apprentice (I won't use Fletcher's
word), have lifted yourself to the responsible position of sole
editor. Truly you have risen from the ranks!
"Speaking of Fletcher, by the way, you know he is my classmate. He
occupies an honorable position somewhere near the foot of the class,
where he is likely to stay, unless he receives from the faculty leave
of absence for an unlimited period. I met him yesterday, swinging
his little cane, and looking as dandified as he used to.
"'Hallo! Fletcher,' said I, 'I've just got a letter from a friend of
yours.'
"'Who is it?' he asked.
"'Harry Walton.'
"'He never was a friend of mine,' said Fitz, turning up his
delicately chiselled nose,--'the beggarly printer's devil!'
"I hope you won't feel sensitive about the manner in which Fitz spoke
of you.
"'You've made two mistakes,' said I. 'He's neither a beggar nor a
printer's devil.'
"'He used to be,' retorted Fitz.
"'The last, not the first.
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