He was turning away disappointed when Dr. Townley, of the lower village, who lived near Mr. Leavitt, entered the library.
“My wife wants a book in exchange for this, Mr. Parmenter,” he said. “Have you got anything new in? Ah, Harry Walton, how came you here? Do you take books out of the library?”
“That is what I came up for, but the librarian says I must bring a line from Mr. Leavitt, telling who I am.”
“If Dr. Townley knows you, that is sufficient,” said the librarian.
“He is all right, Mr. Parmenter. He is a young neighbor of mine.”
“That is enough. He can select a book.”
Harry, after a little reflection, selected the first volume of “Rollin’s Universal History.”
“That’s a good, solid book, Harry,” said the doctor. “Most of our young people select stories.”
“I like stories very much,” said Harry; “but I have only a little time to read, and I must try to learn something.”
“You are a sensible boy,” said the doctor, emphatically. “Most care only for present enjoyment.”
“I have got my own way to make,” said Harry, “and I suppose that is what influences me. My father cannot help me, and I want to rise in the world.”
“You are going the right way to work. Do you intend to take out books often from the library?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It will be a long walk from the lower village.”
“I would walk farther rather than do without the books,”
“I can save you at any rate from walking back. My chaise is outside, and, if you will jump in, I will carry you home.”
“Thank you, doctor. I shall be very glad to ride.”
On the way, Dr. Townley said: “I have a few miscellaneous books which I will lend to you, if you will come in.”
Harry thanked him, and not long afterward availed himself of this considerate proposal.
Once a week regularly Harry wrote home. He knew that his letters would give pleasure to the family, and he never allowed anything to interfere with his duty.
His father wrote: “We are getting on about as usual. The cow does tolerably well, but is not as good as the one I lost. I have not yet succeeded in laying up anything toward paying for her.”
Harry wrote in reply: “Don’t trouble yourself, father, about your debt to Squire Green. If I have steady work, and keep my health, I shall have enough to pay it by the time it comes due.”
CHAPTER XII.
THE TAILOR’S CUSTOMER.
At the end of six weeks from the date of Robert’s departure, Harry had been paid eighteen dollars. Of this sum he had spent but one dollar, and kept the balance in his pocketbook. He did not care to send it home until ho had enough to meet Squire Green’s demand, knowing that his father would be able to meet his ordinary expenses.
“See how the fellow dresses,” said Luke Harrison to two of his companions. “His clothes are shabby enough, and he hasn’t got an overcoat at all. He hoards his money, and is too stingy to buy one.”
“You’d rather get trusted for your clothes than do without them,” said Frank Heath, slyly.
“What if I do,” said Luke sharply, “as long as I am going to pay for them?”
“Oh, nothing,” said Frank.
By this time Harry had come up.
“Where are you going, Walton?” asked Luke.
“Left your overcoat at home, didn’t you?”
Harry colored.
“I did not leave it at home, for I have none to leave.”
The tailor, Merrill by name, had a shop over the dry goods store, and thither Harry directed his steps. There was one other person in the shop, a young fellow but little larger than Harry, though two years older, who was on a visit to an aunt in the neighborhood, but lived in Boston. His name was Maurice Tudor. He had gone into the shop to leave a coat to be repaired.
“How are you, Walton?” he said.
“Pretty well, thank you.”
“It’s pretty cold for October.”
“Yes, unusually so.”
“Mr. Merrill,” said Harry, “I should like to inquire the price of an overcoat.”