OPENING THE CAMPAIGN
Not knowing his way, but wandering wherever the fancy seized him, Herbert finally came to Washington Square, and took a seat on one of the benches provided for the public. He looked around him with interest, surveying the groups that passed him, though without the expectation of recognizing anyone. But, as good fortune would have it, the very person he most desired to see strolled by.
Mr. Cornelius Dixon looked like a cheap swell. In his dress he caricatured the fashion, and exhibited a sort of pretentious gentility which betrayed his innate vulgarity. He stared in wonder when a boy with a bundle under his arm started from his seat, and hurried toward him with the greeting: “How do you do, Mr. Dixon?”
“Really,” drawled Cornelius, “you have the advantage of me.”
“Don't you remember me? I am your cousin, Herbert Carter.”
“What! the boy the old fellow left his old clothes to?” asked Cornelius.
“The same one,” answered Herbert, smiling.
“You haven't got any of 'em on, have you?” asked Mr. Dixon, surveying him with curiosity.
“Yes; this coat was made from my uncle's cloak.”
“Shouldn't have thought it. It looks quite respectable, 'pon my honor. When did you come to the city?”