"I don't know but you ought to have some new shirts. You haven't
got but two except the one you have on."

"I can get along, mother. Father hasn't got any money to spend for
me. By the time I want some new shirts, I'll buy them myself."

"Where do you think of going, Harry? Have you any idea?"

"No, mother. I'm going to trust to luck. I shan't go very far. When
I've got fixed anywhere I'll write, and let you know."

In the evening Harry resumed the "Life of Franklin," and before he
was ready to go to bed he had got two thirds through with it. It
possessed for him a singular fascination. To Harry it was no alone
the "Life of Benjamin Franklin." It was the chart by which he
meant to steer in the unknown career which stretched before him. He
knew so little of the world that he trusted implicitly to that as
a guide, and he silently stored away the wise precepts in conformity
with which the great practical philosopher had shaped and molded
his life.

During that evening, however, another chance was offered to Harry,
as I shall now describe.

As the family were sitting around the kitchen table, on which was
placed the humble tallow candle by which the room was lighted, there
was heard a scraping at the door, and presently a knock. Mr. Walton
answered it in person, and admitted the thin figure and sharp,
calculating face of Squire Green.