"Thank you," said Richard. "I am glad you like my name."
At this moment they were passing the Fifth Avenue Hotel. Standing on the steps were two acquaintances of ours, Roswell Crawford and Ralph Graham. They had cigars in their mouths, and there was a swaggering air about them, which was not likely to prepossess any sensible person in their favor. They had not been to church, but had spent the morning in sauntering about the city, finally bringing up at the Fifth Avenue Hotel, where, posting themselves conspicuously on the steps, they watched the people passing by on their way from church.
Richard Hunter bowed to Roswell, as it was his rule never to be found wanting in politeness. Roswell was ill-mannered enough not to return the salutation.
"Who is that, Roswell?" asked Ralph Graham.
"It's a boot-black," said Roswell, sneeringly.
"What do you mean? I am speaking of that nice-looking young fellow that bowed to you just now."
"His name is Hunter. He used to be a boot-black, as I told you; but he's got up in the world, and now he's putting on airs."
"He seems to have got into good company, at any rate. He is walking with the daughter of Mr. Greyson, a rich merchant down town."
"He's got impudence enough for anything," said Roswell, with a feeling of bitter envy which he could not conceal. "It really makes me sick to see him strutting about as if he were a gentleman's son."
"Like you," suggested Ralph, slyly; for he had already been informed by Roswell, on various occasions, that he was "a gentleman's son."