Risen from the Ranks; Or, Harry Walton's Success. Alger Horatio Jr.
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and make yourself comfortable. You know my friend, Harry Walton, I believe?"
"I believe I had the honor to meet him here one evening," said Fitzgerald stiffly, slightly emphasizing the word "honor."
"I hope you are well, Mr. Fletcher," said Harry, more amused than disturbed by the manner of the aristocratic visitor.
"Thank you, my health is good," said Fitzgerald with equal stiffness, and forthwith turned to Oscar, not deigning to devote any more attention to Harry.
Our hero had intended to remain a short time longer, but, under the circumstances, as Oscar's attention would be occupied by Fletcher, with whom he was not on intimate terms, he thought he might spend the evening more profitably at home in study.
"If you'll excuse me, Oscar," he said, rising, "I will leave you now, as I have something to do this evening."
"If you insist upon it, Harry, I will excuse you. Come round Friday evening."
"Thank you."
"Do you have to work at the printing office in the evening?" Fletcher deigned to inquire.
"No; I have some studying to do."
"Reading and spelling, I suppose," sneered Fletcher.
"I am studying French."
"Indeed!" returned Fletcher, rather surprised. "How can you study it without a teacher?"
"I have a teacher."
"Who is it?"
"Professor Vincent," said Harry, smiling.
"You didn't know that I had developed into a French Professor, did you, Fitz? Well, it's so, and whether it's the superior teaching or not, I can't say, but my scholar is getting on famously."
"It must be a great bore to teach," said Fletcher.
"Not at all. I like it."
"Every one to his taste," said Fitzgerald unpleasantly.
"Good-night, Oscar. Good-night, Mr. Fletcher," said Harry, and made his exit.
"You're a strange fellow, Oscar," said Fletcher, after Harry's departure.
"Very likely, but what particular strangeness do you refer to now?"
"No one but you would think of giving lessons to a printer's devil."
"I don't know about that."
"No one, I mean, that holds your position in society."
"I don't know that I hold any particular position in society."
"Your family live on Beacon Street, and move in the first circles. I am sure my mother would be disgusted if I should demean myself so far as to give lessons to any vulgar apprentice."
"I don't propose to give lessons to any vulgar apprentice."
"You know whom I mean. This Walton is only a printer's devil."
"I don't know that that is any objection to him. It isn't morally wrong to be a printer's devil, is it?"
"What a queer fellow you are, Oscar. Of course I don't mean that. I daresay he's well enough in his place, though he seems to be very forward and presuming, but you know that he's not your equal."
"He is not my equal in knowledge, but I shouldn't be surprised if he would be some time. You'd be astonished to see how fast he gets on."
"I daresay. But I mean in social position."
"It seems to me you can't think of anything but social position."
"Well, it's worth thinking about."
"No doubt, as far as it is deserved. But when it is founded on nothing but money, I wouldn't give much for it."
"Of course we all know that the higher classes are more refined—"
"Than printers' devils and vulgar apprentices, I suppose," put in Oscar, laughing,
"Yes."
"Well, if refinement consists in wearing kid gloves and stunning neckties, I suppose the higher classes, as you call them, are more refined."
"Do you mean me?" demanded Fletcher, who was noted for the character of his neckties.
"Well, I can't say I don't. I suppose you regard yourself as a representative of the higher classes, don't you?"
"To be sure I do," said Fletcher, complacently.
"So I supposed. Then you see I had a right to refer to you. Now listen to my prediction. Twenty-five years from now, the boy whom you look down upon as a vulgar apprentice will occupy a high position, and you will be glad to number him among your acquaintances."
"Speak for yourself, Oscar," said Fletcher, scornfully.
"I speak for both of us."
"Then I say I hope I can command better associates than this friend of yours."
"You may, but I doubt it."
"You seem to be carried away by him," said Fitzgerald, pettishly. "I don't see anything very wonderful about him, except dirty hands."
"Then you have seen more than I have."
"Of course a fellow who meddles with printer's ink must have dirty hands. Faugh!" said Fletcher, turning up his nose.
At the same time he regarded complacently his own fingers, which he carefully kept aloof from anything that would soil or mar their aristocratic whiteness.
"The fact is, Fitz," said Oscar, argumentatively, "our upper ten, as we call them, spring from just such beginnings as my friend Harry Walton. My own father commenced life in a printing office. But, as you say, he occupies a high position at present."
"Really!" said Fletcher, a little taken aback, for he knew that Vincent's father ranked higher than his own.
"I daresay your own ancestors were not always patricians."
Fletcher winced. He knew well enough that his father commenced life as a boy in a country grocery, but in the mutations of fortune had risen to be the proprietor of a large dry-goods store on Washington Street. None of the family cared to look back to the beginning of his career. They overlooked the fact that it was creditable to him to have risen from the ranks, though the rise was only in wealth, for Mr. Fletcher was a purse-proud parvenu, who owed all the consideration he enjoyed to his commercial position. Fitz liked to have it understood that he was of patrician lineage, and carefully ignored the little grocery, and certain country relations who occasionally paid a visit to their wealthy relatives, in spite of the rather frigid welcome they received.
"Oh, I suppose there are exceptions," Fletcher admitted reluctantly.
"Your father was smart."
"So is Harry Walton. I know what he is aiming at, and I predict that he will be an influential editor some day."
"Have you got your Greek lesson?" asked Fletcher, abruptly, who did not relish the course the conversation had taken.
"Yes."
"Then I want you to translate a passage for me. I couldn't make it out."
"All right."
Half an hour later Fletcher left Vincent's room.
"What a snob he is!" thought Oscar.
And Oscar was right.
CHAPTER IX
On Thursday evening the main school of the Academy building was lighted up, and groups of boys, varying in age from thirteen to nineteen, were standing in different parts of the room. These were members of the Clionian Society, whose weekly meeting was about to take place.
At eight o'clock precisely the President took his place at the teacher's desk, with the Secretary at his side, and rapped for order. The presiding officer was Alfred DeWitt, a member of the Senior Class, and now nearly ready for college. The Secretary was a member of the same class, by name George Sanborn.
"The Secretary will read the minutes of the last meeting," said the President, when order had been obtained.
George