"Yes."

"Then you are in luck, for I heard this morning that they want another
striker in the lower shop at once."

"Then I'll strike for the opening at once, and my name is not Jack
North if I don't land it."

"It will be John Slowshanks when you do get it, mind me!" cried out
another voice, from an alley-way near at hand, and before Jack North or
his companion could recover from their surprise the speaker, a tall,
awkward youth of twenty, sped up the street at the top of his speed.

The scene was in Bauton, a large manufacturing city of New England. The
first speaker was a workman at the shops that had been mentioned, but
beyond the fact that he placed the youth before him in the way of getting
work, he needs no special introduction.

The other person was a lad of eighteen, with brown, curly hair, blue eyes,
and a round, robust figure. His name was John North, and he was the son of
a couple in humble circumstances.

"Take care!" cried the man, "that sneak will get in ahead of you, and then
a snap of your little finger for your chance of getting the job at
Fowler's."

Jack North did not stop to hear his friend through. He was very much in
need of a situation, and he knew the young man who had rushed in ahead of
him as a bitter enemy. That fact, coupled with his desire to get work,