Of Lemuel Warner, it need only be said that he was a pleasant-looking boy of fourteen, the son of a prosperous merchant in New York. Walter Conrad was from a small inland town, where his father was the wealthiest and most prominent and influential citizen, having a handsome mansion-house, surrounded by extensive grounds.
How rich he was, was a matter of conjecture; but he was generally rated as high as two hundred thousand dollars. Mrs. Conrad had been dead for five years, so that Walter, who was an only child, had no immediate relation except his father. It was for this reason, perhaps, that he had been sent to the Essex Classical Institute, of which we find him a member at the opening of our story. Being a boy of talent, and well grounded in Latin, he was easily able to take a high rank in his class. Lemuel Warner had become his intimate friend, being in the same class, but considerably inferior to him in scholarship. They usually got their Latin lessons together, and it was owing to this circumstance that Lemuel made a better figure in his recitations than before Walter became a member of the school.
"There, that job's done," said Lemuel, closing his book with an air of satisfaction. "Now we can rest."
"You forget the Latin exercise."
"Oh, bother the Latin exercise! I don't see what's the use of writing Latin any way. English composition is hard enough. What's to be done?"
"You know the doctor expects each boy to write a letter in Latin, addressed to his father, not less than twelve lines in length."
"It isn't to be sent home, is it? Mr. Warner senior, I reckon, would stare a little when he got his. He wouldn't know Latin from Cherokee."
"Possibly your Latin won't differ much from Cherokee, Lem."
"What's the use of being sarcastic on a fellow, and hurting his feelings?" said Lem, laughing in a way to show that his feelings were not very seriously hurt. "I say, couldn't one crib a little from Cæsar?"
"Not very well, considering the doctor is slightly familiar with that author."