“He!” retorted Dick, loftily. “Didn’t you know his father was a member of Congress, and intimately acquainted with all the biggest men in the State?”
The boys surveyed Fosdick as if they did not quite know whether to credit this statement, which, for the credit of Dick’s veracity, it will be observed he did not assert, but only propounded in the form of a question. There was no time for comment, however, as just then the proprietor of the store came to the door, and, casting his eyes over the waiting group, singled out Roswell Crawford, and asked him to enter.
“Well, my lad, how old are you?”
“Fourteen years old,” said Roswell, consequentially.
“Are your parents living?”
“Only my mother. My father is dead. He was a gentleman,” he added, complacently.
“Oh, was he?” said the shop-keeper. “Do you live in the city?”
“Yes, sir. In Clinton Place.”
“Have you ever been in a situation before?”
“Yes, sir,” said Roswell, a little reluctantly.