“You voted for yourself, didn’t you, Sheffield?” said Will Pomeroy.
“I’m not going to expose myself, if I did,” said Walter.
“Shouldn’t wonder if Turner voted for himself,” said one of the boys, in a low voice.
“But he had two votes.”
“Oh, Tom Barton cast the other vote, of course,” said Will Pomeroy, rather contemptuously. “He fawns upon Turner just because he’s rich. I wish him joy of his friend.”
“Say, Turner, did you vote for yourself?” called out one of the boys.
“None of your business!” said James Turner, sharply.
He stood a little on one side with his crony, Tom Barton, surveying the scene with an ill-tempered scowl. It was very disagreeable to him to see Harry Raymond’s triumph. In fact, he hated our hero, for no good reason except that Harry was his acknowledged superior in acquirements, always standing higher in his classes, and received from his school-mates a degree of respect and deference which James Turner with all his money could not buy.
“Why don’t you come and congratulate Raymond on his prize?”
“I’d rather congratulate him on his pantaloons,” said James, with a sneer.