To my mind there was no reason why I should be treated as one so far beneath the family. My mother had been a gentlewoman and my father a gentleman, and I was conceited enough to think that by both breeding and education I was fully the equal of my cousins. Besides, my father had been well-to-do, and had, no doubt, left me a fair inheritance.
Had I had less to do I would have been lonely in a city where I hardly knew a soul. But my work kept me so busy I had no time to think of myself, and perhaps this is one reason why I did not rebel before I did.
In the whole of the metropolis there was but one person whom I considered a friend. That was Mr. Ira Mason, who had his law offices in the same building with Stillwell, Grinder & Co. I had done a number of errands for this gentleman, and in return he had become interested in me.
To Mr. Mason I confided my story in all its details, and when I had finished he told me that if matters did not mend, or got worse, to let him know, and he would see what could be done for me.
My uncle did not like Mr. Mason, who, on several occasions, had had clients who wished to obtain patents, and whom he had taken elsewhere; the reason given being that Stillwell, Grinder & Co.'s rates were too high, though their peculiar methods of getting patents had much to do with it.
It was the morning of my seventeenth birthday. I had requested my uncle, several days previous, to give me a holiday, which I intended to spend with an old school chum of mine, Harry Banker, at his home in Locustville, a pretty village, fifty miles northwest of the city.
The Banker family and mine had been well acquainted, and I had received numerous invitations from them to spend some time at their home, a large farm; but was each time forced to decline.
When I had requested my uncle to let me go for just one day, I had thought it would be impossible for him to refuse, as it was the middle of July, and business was dull. I had saved my money for some time, determined to be prepared to pay my own way if he should not give me the price of a ticket.
My request for a day off was met with a sharp refusal. It wasn't necessary, there was work to do, and, besides, Gus was going to take the day to go to Coney Island, and I must attend to his desk during his absence.
I was taken back by the curt negative that I received, and was inclined to "air my mind." I had had no holiday for two years, and was clearly entitled to one. Gus had had a week at Christmas, and half a dozen days since. It was not treating me fairly to pile up the work upon me, and give me no breathing spells.