"I'm in no hurry about a new place. I shall look round a little."
"Well, success to you. I must be getting back to the shop."
"What are you doing?"
"I'm learning a trade."
"Oh!" said Roswell, turning up his nose slightly, which was quite easy for him to do, as nature had given that organ an upward turn. He thought all trades low, and resolved hereafter to hold as little communication as possible with the boy who had so far demeaned himself as to be learning one. That was worse than being in a dry-goods store, and carrying around bundles.
Towards six o'clock Roswell rose from his seat, and sauntered towards Clinton Place, which was nearly a mile distant. He entered the house a little before dinner.
"Are you not earlier than usual, Roswell?" asked his mother.
"I've left the store," he said, abruptly.
"Left the store!" echoed his mother, in some dismay. "Why?"
"Because they don't know how to treat me. It's no fit place for a gentleman's son."