“James,” said Squire Turner, at the supper-table that evening, “I want you to go over to Mrs. Raymond’s, directly after supper.”
“What for?” asked James.
“I am going to New York to-morrow morning, and have agreed to carry a letter and small parcel to her son Harry.”
James turned up his nose.
“Why don’t she come to the house, and bring it, then?” he asked.
“I promised to send you.”
“I don’t want to be Mrs. Raymond’s errand-boy. Harry Raymond is a low upstart, and I shouldn’t think you would be willing to carry bundles for him.”
“That is my business,” said Squire Turner, who, but for private reasons, might have shared his son’s objections.
“I’ve got a headache,” said James. “I don’t feel like going out.”