The Store Boy

CHAPTER VI TWO YOUNG RIVALS

Tom Dav­en­port, for it was the son of Squire Dav­en­port who had of­fered his es­cort to Rose, glanced su­per­cil­ious­ly at our hero.

“I con­grat­ulate you on hav­ing se­cured a gro­cer's boy as es­cort,” he said in a tone of an­noy­ance.

Ben's fist con­tract­ed, and he longed to give the pre­ten­tious aris­to­crat a les­son, but he had the good sense to wait for the young la­dy's re­ply.

“I ac­cept your con­grat­ula­tions, Mr. Dav­en­port,” said Rose cold­ly. “I have no de­sire to change my es­cort.”

Tom Dav­en­port laughed de­ri­sive­ly, and walked away.

“I'd like to box his ears,” said Ben, red­den­ing.

“He doesn't de­serve your no­tice, Ben,” said Rose, tak­ing his arm.

But Ben was not eas­ily ap­peased.

“Just be­cause his fa­ther is a rich man,” he re­sumed.

“He pre­sumes up­on it,” in­ter­rupt­ed Rose, good-​na­tured­ly. “Well, let him. That's his chief claim to con­sid­er­ation, and it is nat­ural for him to make the most of it.”

“At any rate, I hope that can't be said of me,” re­turned Ben, his brow clear­ing. “If I had noth­ing but mon­ey to be proud of, I should be very poor­ly off.”

“You wouldn't ob­ject to it, though.”

“No, I hope, for moth­er's sake, some day to be rich.”

“Most of our rich men were once poor boys,” said Rose qui­et­ly. “I have a book of bi­ogra­phies at home, and I find that not on­ly rich men, but men dis­tin­guished in oth­er ways, gen­er­al­ly com­menced in pover­ty.”

“I wish you'd lend me that book,” said Ben. “Some­times I get de­spon­dent and that will give me courage.”

“You shall have it when­ev­er you call at the house. But you mustn't think too much of get­ting mon­ey.”

“I don't mean to; but I should like to make my moth­er com­fort­able. I don't see much chance of it while I re­main a 'gro­cer's boy,' as Tom Dav­en­port calls me.”

“Bet­ter be a gro­cer's boy than spend your time in idle­ness, as Tom does.”

“Tom thinks it be­neath him to work.”

“If his fa­ther had been of the sane mind when he was a boy, he would nev­er have be­come a rich man.”

“Was Squire Dav­en­port a poor boy?”

“Yes, so un­cle told me the oth­er day. When he was a boy he worked on a farm. I don't know how he made his mon­ey, but I pre­sume he laid the foun­da­tion of his wealth by hard work. So, Tom hasn't any right to look down up­on those who are be­gin­ning now as his fa­ther be­gan.”

They had by this time tra­versed half the dis­tance from the Town Hall to the young la­dy's home. The sub­ject of con­ver­sa­tion was changed and they be­gan to talk about the evening's en­ter­tain­ment. At length they reached the min­is­ter's house.

“Won't you come in, Ben?” asked Rose.

“Isn't it too late?”

“No, un­cle al­ways sits up late read­ing, and will be glad to see you.”

“Then I will come in for a few min­utes.”

Ben's few min­utes ex­tend­ed to three-​quar­ters of an hour. When he came out, the moon was ob­scured and it was quite dark. Ben had not gone far when he heard steps be­hind him, and present­ly a hand was laid on his shoul­der.

“Hel­lo, boy!” said a rough voice.

Ben start­ed, and turn­ing sud­den­ly, rec­og­nized in spite of the dark­ness, the tramp who had at­tempt­ed to rob him dur­ing the day. He paused, un­cer­tain whether he was not go­ing to be at­tacked, but the tramp laughed re­as­sur­ing­ly.

“Don't be afraid, boy,” he said. “I owe you some mon­ey, and here it is.”

He pressed in­to the hand of the as­ton­ished Ben the dol­lar which our hero had giv­en him.

“I don't think it will do me any good,” he said. “I've giv­en it back, and now you can't say I robbed you.”

“You are a strange man,” said Ben.

“I'm not so bad as I look,” said the tramp. “Some day I may do you a ser­vice. I'm goin' out of town to-​night, and you'll hear from me again some time.”

He turned swift­ly, and Ben lost sight of him.