“What do you mean?” demanded Eben, coloring.
“You know better than I do. How much do I owe you?”
“Thirty-three cents.”
“There is your money,” said Herbert, and walked out of the store.
“I hate that boy!” said Eben, scowling at Herbert's retreating figure. “He puts on too many airs, just because a city man's taken him in charity and is paying his expenses. Some time I'll be able to come up with him, I hope.”
Herbert was not of an unforgiving nature, but he felt that Eben had wronged him deeply, and saw no reason why he would not repeat the injury if he ever got the chance. He had at least a partial understanding of Eben's mean nature and utter selfishness, and felt that he wished to have nothing to do with him. Ebenezer Graham was very “close,” but he was a hard-working man and honest as the world goes. He was tolerably respected in Wayneboro, though not popular, but Eben seemed on the high road to become a rascal.
A week slipped by, and a circular containing the list of prizes drawn was sent to Eben.
He ran his eyes over it in a flutter of excitement. Alas! for his hopes. In the list of lucky numbers the number on his ticket was not included.
“I have drawn a blank! Curse the luck!” he muttered, savagely. “The old man needn't think I am going to stay here in Wayneboro. If he won't give me money to go out West, why, then—”
But he did not say what then.