"It was all he had," said James, who was in the habit of jumping at conclusions. "My father says he gets a small pension from some person in the city. Some rich relative, I suppose, is taking care of him. Do you know, Tom, I should be glad to come across Mark blacking boots, or selling papers in the city?"
"Why?"
"He is so mighty independent—poor and proud—that I believe he actually thinks himself as good as you or I."
"He is pretty pert, that's a fact."
"If he were only humble, and showed that he knew his place, I'd get father to take him back into the shop. It's his own fault that he got discharged."
"It's a good thing for his mother having a boarder, as Mark isn't able to help her."
"Pooh! what does that amount to? He probably pays two or three dollars a week. However, I suppose that's a good deal to her."
Mark would have been amused, but not surprised, if he could have heard this conversation between his two old companions. At present, however, he had other things to occupy his attention.
He had already reached Chicago and was staying there a day or two before going farther.
His ultimate destination was Claremont, in Indiana, the place where the daughter of the hermit was understood to have died. It was about seventy-five miles from Chicago, and could be reached in three hours. Mark felt that he could do no better in his brief stay in Chicago than walk about, and make himself familiar with the principal streets and avenues, and gain some knowledge of the western metropolis.