“I don’t think you’re in any danger,” said Ferguson, who did not mind his fellow-workman’s little ebullitions of temper.

Clapp scowled, but did not deign to reply, partly, perhaps, because he knew that there was nothing to say.

From the outset Ferguson took a fancy to the young apprentice.

“He’s got good, solid ideas,” said he to Mr. Anderson, when Harry was absent.  “He isn’t so thoughtless as most boys of his age.  He looks ahead.”

“I think you are right in your judgment of him,” said Mr. Anderson.  “He promises to be a faithful workman.”

“He promises more than that,” said Ferguson.  “Mark my words, Mr. Anderson; that boy is going to make his mark some day.”

“It is a little too soon to say that, isn’t it?”

“No; I judge from what I see.  He is industrious and ambitious, and is bound to succeed.  The world will hear of him yet.”

Mr. Anderson smiled.  He liked what he had seen of his new apprentice, but he thought Ferguson altogether too sanguine.

“He’s a good, faithful boy,” he admitted, “but it takes more than that to rise to distinction.  If all the smart boys turned out smart men, they’d be a drug in the market.”

But Ferguson held to his own opinion, notwithstanding.  Time will show which was right.

The next day Ferguson said, “Harry, come round to my house, and take tea to-night.  I’ve spoken to my wife about you, and she wants to see you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Ferguson,” said Harry.  “I shall be very glad to come.”

“I’ll wait till you are ready, and you can walk along with me.”

“All right; I will be ready in five minutes.”

They set out together for Ferguson’s modest home, which was about half a mile distant.  As they passed up the village street Harry’s attention was drawn to two boys who were approaching them.  One he recognized at once as Fitzgerald Fletcher.  He had an even more stunning necktie than when Harry first met him, and sported a jaunty little cane, which he swung in his neatly gloved hand.

“I wonder if he’ll notice me,” thought Harry.  “At any rate, I won’t be wanting in politeness.”

“Good-afternoon, Mr. Fletcher,” he said, as they met.

Fitzgerald stared at him superciliously, and made the slightest possible nod.

“Who is that?” asked Ferguson.

“It is a boy who has great contempt for printers’ devils and low apprentices,” answered Harry.  “I was introduced to him two evenings ago, but he evidently doesn’t care about keeping up the acquaintance.”

“Who is that, Fitz?” asked his companion in turn.

“It’s a low fellow—­a printer’s devil,” answered Fitz, shortly.

“How do you happen to know him?”

“Oscar Vincent introduced him to me.  Oscar’s a queer fellow.  He belongs to one of the first families in Boston—­one of my set, you know, and yet he actually invited that boy to his room.”