He was up bright and early, having slept little, if the truth must be told, on account of the excitement which he felt. His mother was up, of course, also, and prepared a better breakfast than usual.
“I don’t know how I shall get along without you, Harry,” she said, despondently. “The house will be lonely.”
“Oh, I’ll come home soon to pass Sunday, mother,” said Harry. “Besides, you shall hear from me; I’ll write twice a week, regularly. Then you’ll know I’m doing well.”
“I’m afraid you’ll get run over in the streets; they are so crowded with wagons.”
Harry only laughed at this.
“Don’t fear,” he said. “I’m old enough to take care of myself. You forget how old I am, mother.”
“You’re only fifteen.”
“A boy of fifteen ought to be smart enough not to get run over. You see, mother, you’re a woman, and don’t know much about boys. I’ll do well enough, and you’ll feel better about my going away, soon.”
What Harry said was partly true. If the situation which he intended to fill had been a genuine one, his pluck and good principle would have been likely to insure his success. But he little knew what a plot had been formed against him, and what a series of adventures lay before him ere he would again see his mother and home. Could he have foreseen all this, brave as he was, he might well have quailed. But he supposed that all was fair and aboveboard, and that he would have nothing to encounter beyond the usual experiences of a boy in a city counting-room.