Ben did not venture to tell his companion that he was really a poor boy, as Mrs. Harcourt would have been displeased to have it known that he was not really her son.
“Were you a poor boy?” asked Ben, after a pause.
“Yes. At your age I had to hustle for a living.”
“You seem to have succeeded.”
“Yes,” answered the general complacently. “I don’t like to boast, but I suppose I may be worth not far from half a million dollars.”
“I think I could live on the income of that,” said Ben with a smile. “If you don’t mind telling me, how did you make your money?”
“I made the first thousand dollars in the woods; in fact, as a woodchopper. Then I bought a considerable tract of woodland, agreeing to pay on instalments. I hired men to help me clear it, and became quite a lumber king. I have large tracts of land now, which yield me a handsome revenue. I shouldn’t like to go through those early days of hard work again.”
“I can hardly imagine you chopping down trees, General Flint.”
“Perhaps not, Edwin, but I could do it still,” and the general straightened up his tall and slender form. “Why, I’m only fifty-five, and there is Gladstone, who is at least twenty years older, makes nothing of going out before breakfast and cutting down a tree. Do you remember your father, Edwin?”
“Yes,” answered Ben briefly, for he felt that they were getting on dangerous ground.