"This is my birthday, Mr. Ferguson," he said, as he entered the printing-office on that particular morning.
"Is it?" asked Ferguson, looking up from his case with interest.
"How venerable are you, may I ask?"
"I don't feel very venerable as yet," said Harry, with a smile. "I am nineteen."
"You were sixteen when you entered the office."
"As printer's devil—yes."
"You have learned the business pretty thoroughly. You are as good a workman as I now, though I am fifteen years older."
"You are too modest, Mr. Ferguson."
"No, it is quite true. You are as rapid and accurate as I am, and you ought to receive as high pay."
"That will come in time. You know I make something by writing for the papers."
"That's extra work. How much did you make in that way last year?"