“This is my birthday, Mr. Ferguson,” he said, as he entered the printing-office on that particular morning.

“Is it?” asked Ferguson, looking up from his case with interest.  “How venerable are you, may I ask?”

“I don’t feel very venerable as yet,” said Harry, with a smile.  “I am nineteen.”

“You were sixteen when you entered the office.”

“As printer’s devil—­yes.”

“You have learned the business pretty thoroughly.  You are as good a workman as I now, though I am fifteen years older.”

“You are too modest, Mr. Ferguson.”

“No, it is quite true.  You are as rapid and accurate as I am, and you ought to receive as high pay.”

“That will come in time.  You know I make something by writing for the papers.”

“That’s extra work.  How much did you make in that way last year?”

“I can tell you, because I figured it up last night.  It was one hundred and twenty-five dollars, and I put every cent into the savings-bank.”

“That is quite an addition to your income.”

“I shall make more this year.  I am to receive two dollars a column, hereafter, for my sketches.”

“I congratulate you, Harry,—­the more heartily, because I think you deserve it.  Your recent sketches show quite an improvement over those you wrote a year ago.”

“Do you really think so?” said Harry, with evident pleasure.

“I have no hesitation in saying so.  You write with greater ease than formerly, and your style is less that of a novice.”

“So I have hoped and thought; but of course I was prejudiced in my own favor.”

“You may rely upon it.  Indeed, your increased pay is proof of it.  Did you ask it?”

“The increase?  No, the editor of the ‘Standard’ wrote me voluntarily that he considered my contributions worth the additional amount.”

“That must be very pleasant.  I tell you what, Harry, I’ve a great mind to set up opposition to you in the story line.”

“Do so,” said Harry, smiling.

“I would if I had the slightest particle of imagination; but the fact is, I’m too practical and matter-of-fact.  Besides, I never had any talent for writing of any kind.  Some time I may become publisher of a village paper like this; but farther than that I don’t aspire.”

“We are to be partners in that, you know, Ferguson.”

“That may be, for a time; but you will rise higher than that, Harry.”

“I am afraid you overrate me.”

“No; I have observed you closely in the time we have been together, and I have long felt that you are destined to rise from the ranks in which I am content to remain.  Haven’t you ever felt so, yourself, Harry?”

Harry’s cheek flushed, and his eye lighted up.

“I won’t deny that I have such thoughts sometimes,” he said; “but it may end in that.”

“It often does end in that; but it is only where ambition is not accompanied by faithful work.  Now you are always at work.  You are doing what you can to help fortune, and the end will be that fortune will help you.”