Risen from the Ranks: Harry Walton's Success

A young F. F. B.

As the two boys sat in front of the fire, popping and eating the corn, and chatting of one thing and another, their acquaintance improved rapidly.  Harry learned that Oscar’s father was a Boston merchant, in the Calcutta trade, with a counting-room on Long Wharf.  Oscar was a year older than himself, and the oldest child.  He had a sister of thirteen, named Florence, and a younger brother, Charlie, now ten.  They lived on Beacon Street, opposite the Common.  Though Harry had never lived in Boston, be knew that this was a fashionable street, and he had no difficulty in inferring that Mr. Vincent was a rich man.  He felt what a wide gulf there was socially between himself and Oscar; one the son of a very poor country farmer, the other the son of a merchant prince.  But nothing in Oscar’s manner indicated the faintest feeling of superiority, and this pleased Harry.  I may as well say, however, that our hero was not one to show any foolish subserviency to a richer boy; he thought mainly of Oscar’s superiority in knowledge; and although the latter was far ahead of Harry on this score, he was not one to boast of it.

Harry, in return for Oscar’s confidence, acquainted him with his own adventures since he had started out to earn his own living.  Oscar was most interested in his apprenticeship to the ventriloquist.

“It must have been jolly fun,” he said.  “I shouldn’t mind travelling round with him myself.  Can you perform any tricks?”

“A few,” said Harry.

“Show me some, that’s a good fellow.”

“If you won’t show others.  Professor Henderson wouldn’t like to have his tricks generally known.  I could show more if I had the articles he uses.  But I can do some without.”

“Go ahead, Professor.  I’m all attention.”

Not having served an apprenticeship to a magician, as Harry did, I will not undertake to describe the few simple tricks which he had picked up, and now exhibited for the entertainment of his companion.  It is enough to say that they were quite satisfactory, and that Oscar professed his intention to puzzle his Boston friends with them, when his vacation arrived.

About half-past eight, a knock was heard at the door.

“Come in!” called out Oscar.

The door was opened, and a boy about his own age entered.  His name was Fitzgerald Fletcher.  He was also a Boston boy, and the son of a retail merchant, doing business on Washington street.  His father lived handsomely, and was supposed to be rich.  At any rate Fitzgerald supposed him to be so, and was very proud of the fact.  He generally let any new acquaintances understand very speedily that his father was a man of property, and that his family moved in the first circles of Boston Society.  He cultivated the acquaintance of those boys who belonged to rich families, and did not fail to show the superiority which he felt to those of less abundant means.  For example, he liked to be considered intimate with Oscar, as the social position of Mr. Vincent was higher than that of his own family.  It gave him an excuse also for calling on Oscar in Boston.  He had tried to ingratiate himself also with Oscar’s sister Florence, but had only disgusted her with his airs, so that he could not flatter himself with his success in this direction.  Oscar had very little liking for him, but as school-fellows they often met, and Fitzgerald often called upon him.  On such occasions he treated him politely enough, for it was not in his nature to be rude without cause.

Fitz was elaborately dressed, feeling that handsome clothes would help convey the impression of wealth, which he was anxious to establish.  In particular he paid attention to his neckties, of which he boasted a greater variety than any of his school-mates.  It was not a lofty ambition, but, such as it was, he was able to gratify it.

“How are you, Fitz?” said Oscar, when he saw who was his visitor.  “Draw up a chair to the fire, and make yourself comfortable.”

“Thank you, Oscar,” said Fitzgerald, leisurely drawing off a pair of kid gloves; “I thought I would drop in and see you.”

“All right!  Will you have some popped corn?”

“No, thank you,” answered Fitzgerald, shrugging his shoulders.  “I don’t fancy the article.”

“Don’t you?  Then you don’t know what’s good.”

“Fancy passing round popped corn at a party in Boston,” said the other.  “How people would stare!”

“Would they?  I don’t know about that.  I think some would be more sensible and eat.  But, I beg your pardon, I haven’t introduced you to my friend, Harry Walton.  Harry, this is a classmate of mine.  Fitzgerald Fletcher, Esq., of Boston.”

Fitzgerald did not appear to perceive that the title Esq. was sportively added to his name.  He took it seriously, and was pleased with it, as a recognition of his social superiority.  He bowed ceremoniously to our hero, and said, formally, “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Walton.”

“Thank you, Mr. Fletcher,” replied Harry, bowing in turn.

“I wonder who he is,” thought Fitzgerald.

He had no idea of the true position of our young hero, or he would not have wasted so much politeness upon him.  The fact was, that Harry was well dressed, having on the suit which had been given him by a friend from the city.  It was therefore fashionably cut, and had been so well kept as still to be in very good condition.  It occurred to Fitz—­to give him the short name he received from his school-fellows—­that it might be a Boston friend of Oscar’s, just entering the Academy.  This might account for his not having met him before.  Perhaps he was from an aristocratic Boston family.  His intimacy with Oscar rendered it probable, and it might be well to cultivate his acquaintance.  On this hint he spoke.

“Are you about to enter the Academy, Mr. Walton?”

“No; I should like to do so, but cannot.”

“You are one of Oscar’s friends from the city, I suppose, then?”

“Oh no; I am living in Centreville.”

“Who can he be?” thought Fitz.  With considerable less cordiality in his manner, he continued, impelled by curiosity,—­

“I don’t think I have met you before.”

“No:  I have only just come to the village.”

Oscar understood thoroughly the bewilderment of his visitor, and enjoyed it.  He knew the weakness of Fitz, and he could imagine how his feelings would change when be ascertained the real position of Harry.

“My friend,” he explained, “is connected with the ’Centreville Gazette.’”

“In what capacity?” asked Fitz, in surprise.

“He is profanely termed the ‘printer’s devil.’  Isn’t that so, Harry?”

“I believe you are right,” said our hero, smiling.  He had a suspicion that this relation would shock his new acquaintance.

“Indeed!” ejaculated Fitz, pursing up his lips, and, I was about to say, turning up his nose, but nature had saved him the little trouble of doing that.

“What in the world brings him here, then?” he thought; but there was no need of saying it, for both Oscar and Harry read it in his manner.  “Strange that Oscar Vincent, from one of the first families of Boston, should demean himself by keeping company with a low printer boy!”

“Harry and I have had a jolly time popping corn this evening!” said Oscar, choosing to ignore his school-mate’s changed manner.

“Indeed!  I can’t see what fun there is in it.”

“Oh, you’ve got no taste.  Has he, Harry?”

“His taste differs from ours,” said our hero, politely.

“I should think so,” remarked Fitz, with significant emphasis.  “Was that all you had to amuse yourself?”

In using the singular pronoun, he expressly ignored the presence of the young printer.

“No, that wasn’t all.  My friend Harry has been amusing me with some tricks which he learned while he was travelling round with Professor Henderson, the ventriloquist and magician.”

“Really, he is quite accomplished,” said Fitz, with a covert sneer.  “Pretty company Oscar has taken up with!” he thought.  “How long were you in the circus business?” he asked, turning to Harry.

“I never was in the circus business.”

“Excuse me.  I should say, travelling about with the ventriloquist.”

“About three months.  I was with him when he performed here last winter.”

“Ah! indeed.  I didn’t go.  My father doesn’t approve of my attending such common performances.  I only attend first-class theatres, and the Italian opera.”

“That’s foolish,” said Oscar.  “You miss a good deal of fun, then.  I went to Professor Henderson’s entertainment, and I now remember seeing you there, Harry.  You took money at the door, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Now I understand what made your face seem so familiar to me, when I saw it this afternoon.  By the way, I have never been into a printing office.  If I come round to yours, will you show me round?”

“I should be very glad to, Oscar, but perhaps you had better wait till I have been there a little while, and learned the ropes.  I know very little about it yet.”

“Won’t you come too, Fitz?” asked Oscar.

“You must really excuse me,” drawled Fitz.  “I have heard that a printing office is a very dirty place.  I should be afraid of soiling my clothes.”

“Especially that stunning cravat.”

“Do you like it?  I flatter myself it’s something a little extra,” said Fitz, who was always gratified by a compliment to his cravats.

“Then you won’t go?”

“I haven’t the slightest curiosity about such a place, I assure you.”

“Then I shall have to go alone.  Let me know when you are ready to receive me, Harry.”

“I won’t forget, Oscar.”

“I wonder he allows such a low fellow to call him by his first name,” thought Fitz.  “Really, he has no proper pride.”

“Well,” he said, rising, “I must be going.”

“What’s your hurry, Fitz?”

“I’ve got to write a letter home this evening.  Besides, I haven’t finished my Greek.  Good-evening, Oscar.”

“Good-evening, Fitz.”

“Good-evening, Mr. Fletcher,” said Harry.

“Evening!” ejaculated Fitz, briefly; and without a look at the low “printer-boy,” he closed the door and went down stairs.