"Perhaps that isn't saying much," said Roswell, with a sneer. "Can you read yourself?"
"Yes."
"That is more than I expected. What induced Mr. Baker to take a boy from the street is more than I can tell."
"I suppose I can run errands just as well, if I was once a match boy," said Mark, who did not fancy the tone which Roswell assumed towards him, and began to doubt whether he was a person of as much importance as he at first supposed.
"We shall see," said Roswell, loftily. "But there's one thing I'll advise you, young man, and that is, to treat me with proper respect. You'll find it best to keep friends with me. I can get you turned away any time."
Mark hardly knew whether to believe this or not. He already began to suspect that Roswell was something of a humbug, and though it was not in his nature to form a causeless dislike, he certainly did not feel disposed to like Roswell. He did not care as much for any slighting remarks upon himself, as for the scorn with which Roswell saw fit to speak of his friend, Richard Hunter, who by his good offices had won the little boy's lasting gratitude. Mark did not reply to the threat contained in these last words of Roswell.
"Is there anything for me to do?" he asked.
"Yes, you may dust off those books on the counter. There's the duster hanging up."
This was really Roswell's business, and he ought to have been at work in this way instead of reading; but it was characteristic of him to shift his duties upon others. He was not aware of how much time had passed, and supposed that Mark would be through before Mr. Barker returned. But that gentleman came in while Roswell was busily engaged in reading.
"Is that the way you do your work, Roswell?" asked his employer.