Risen from the Ranks: Harry Walton's Success

The printing office.

Jotham Anderson, editor and publisher of the “Centreville Gazette,” was sitting at his desk penning an editorial paragraph, when the office door opened, and Harry Walton entered.

“Good-morning, Mr. Anderson,” said our hero, removing his hat.

“Good-morning, my friend.  I believe you have the advantage of me,” replied the editor.

Our hero was taken aback.  It didn’t occur to him that the engagement was a far less important event to the publisher than to himself.  He began to be afraid that the place had not been kept open for him.

“My name is Harry Walton,” he explained.  “I was travelling with Prof.  Henderson last winter, and called here to get some bills printed.”

“Oh yes, I remember you now.  I agreed to take you into the office,” said the editor, to Harry’s great relief.

“Yes, air.”

“You haven’t changed your mind, then?—­You still want to be a printer?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You have left the Professor, I suppose.”

“I left him yesterday.”

“What did he pay you?”

“Five dollars a week.  He offered me six, if I would stay with him.”

“Of course you know that I can’t pay you any such wages at present.”

“Yes, sir.  You agreed to give me my board the first month, and two dollars a week for six months afterward.”

“That is all you will be worth to me at first.  It is a good deal less than you would earn with Professor Henderson.”

“I know that, sir; but I am willing to come for that.”

“Good.  I see you are in earnest about printing, and that is a good sign.  I wanted you to understand just what you had to expect, so that you need not be disappointed.”

“I sha’n’t be disappointed, sir,” said Harry confidently.  “I have made up my mind to be a printer, and if you didn’t receive me into your office, I would try to get in somewhere else.”

“Then no more need be said.  When do you want to begin?”

“I am ready any time.”

“Where is your trunk?”

“At the tavern.”

“You can have it brought over to my house whenever you please.  The hotel-keeper will send it over for you.  He is our expressman.  Come into the house now, and I will introduce you to my wife.”

The editor’s home was just across the street from his printing office.  Followed by Harry he crossed the street, opened the front door, and led the way into the sitting-room, where a pleasant-looking lady of middle age was seated.

“My dear,” he said, “I bring you a new boarder.”

She looked at Harry inquiringly.

“This young man,” her husband explained, “is going into the office to learn printing.  I have taken a contract to make a second Benjamin Franklin of him.”

“Then you’ll do more for him than you have been able to do for yourself,” said Mrs. Anderson, smiling.

“You are inclined to be severe, Mrs. Anderson, but I fear you are correct.  However, I can be like a guide-post, which points the way which it does not travel.  Can you show Harry Walton—­for that is his name—­where you propose to put him?”

“I am afraid I must give you a room in the attic,” said Mrs. Anderson.  “Our house is small, and all the chambers on the second floor are occupied.”

“I am not at all particular,” said Harry.  “I have not been accustomed to elegant accommodations.”

“If you will follow me upstairs, I will show you your room.”

Pausing on the third landing, Mrs. Anderson found the door of a small but comfortable bed-room.  There was no carpet on the floor, but it was painted yellow, and scrupulously clean.  A bed, two chairs, a bureau and wash-stand completed the list of furniture.

“I shall like this room very well,” said our hero.

“There is a closet,” said the lady, pointing to a door in the corner.  “It is large enough to contain your trunk, if you choose to put it in there.  I hope you don’t smoke.”

“Oh, no, indeed,” said Harry, laughing.  “I haven’t got so far along as that.”

“Mr. Anderson’s last apprentice—­he is a journeyman now—­was a smoker.  He not only scented up the room, but as he was very careless about lights, I was continually alarmed lest he should set the house on fire.  Finally, I got so nervous that I asked him to board somewhere else.”

“Is he working for Mr. Anderson now?”

“Yes; you probably saw him in the office.”

“I saw two young men at the case.”

“The one I speak of is the youngest.  His name is John Clapp.”

“There is no danger of my smoking.  I don’t think it would do me any good.  Besides, it is expensive, and I can’t afford it.”

“I see we think alike,” said Mrs. Anderson, smiling.  “I am sure we will get along well together.”

“I shall try not to give you any trouble,” said our hero, and his tone, which was evidently sincere, impressed Mrs. Anderson still more favorably.

“You won’t find me very hard to suit, I hope.  I suppose you will be here to supper?”

“If it will he quite convenient.  My trunk is at the tavern, and I could stay there till morning, if you wished.”

“Oh, no, come at once.  Take possession of the room now, if you like, and leave an order to have your trunk brought here.”

“Thank you.  What is your hour for supper?”

“Half-past five.”

“Thank you.  I will go over and speak to Mr. Anderson a minute.”

The editor looked up as Harry reappeared.

“Well, have you settled arrangements with Mrs. Anderson?” he asked.

“Yes, sir, I believe so.”

“I hope you like your room.”

“It is very comfortable.  It won’t take me long to feel at home there.”

“Did she ask you whether you smoked?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I thought she would.  That’s where Clapp and she fell out.”

Harry’s attention was drawn to a thin, sallow young man of about twenty, who stood at a case on the opposite side of the room.

“Mrs. Anderson was afraid I would set the house on fire,” said the young man thus referred to.

“Yes, she felt nervous about it.  However, it is not surprising.  An uncle of hers lost his house in that way.  I suppose you don’t smoke, Walton?”

“No, sir.”

“Clapp smokes for his health.  You see how stout and robust he is,” said the editor, a little satirically.

“It doesn’t do me any harm,” said Clapp, a little testily.

“Oh, well, I don’t interfere with you, though I think you would be better off if you should give up the habit.  Ferguson don’t smoke.”

This was the other compositor, a man of thirty, whose case was not far distant from Clapp’s.

“I can’t afford it,” said Ferguson; “nor could Clapp, if he had a wife and two young children to support.”

“Smoking doesn’t cost much,” said the younger journeyman.

“So you think; but did you ever reckon it up?”

“No.”

“Don’t you keep any accounts?”

“No; I spend when I need to, and I can always tell how much I have left.  What’s the use of keeping accounts?”

“You can tell how you stand.”

“I can tell that without taking so much trouble.”

“You see we must all agree to disagree,” said Mr. Anderson.  “I am afraid Clapp isn’t going to be a second Benjamin Franklin.”

“Who is?” asked Clapp.

“Our young friend here,” said the editor.

“Oh, is he?” queried the other with a sneer.  “It’ll be a great honor I’m sure, to have him in the office.”

“Come, no chaffing, Clapp,” said Mr. Anderson.

Harry hastened to disclaim the charge, for Clapp’s sneer affected him disagreeably.

“I admire Franklin,” he said, “but there isn’t much danger of my turning out a second edition of him.”

“Professional already, I see, Walton,” said the editor.

“When shall I go to work, Mr. Anderson?”

“Whenever you are ready.”

“I am ready now.”

“You are prompt.”

“You won’t be in such a hurry to go to work a week hence,” said Clapp.

“I think I shall,” said Harry.  “I am anxious to learn as fast as possible.”

“Oh, I forgot.  You want to become a second Franklin.”

“I sha’n’t like him,” thought our hero.  “He seems to try to make himself disagreeable.”

“Mr. Ferguson will give you some instruction, and set you to work,” said his employer.

Harry was glad that it was from the older journeyman that he was to receive his first lesson, and not from the younger.