“I think you’ll get along,” said Darius Darke. “You have good common sense ideas. By the way, hasn’t John Simpson got a son?”
“Yes, a boy of about my own age.”
“What sort of a boy is he?”
“He is not a friend of mine, and I might speak too harshly of him,” said Tom. “He knows that his father is rich and he puts on airs accordingly.”
“How does he treat you?”
“He looks down upon me—says I am a low shoe-pegger. He doesn’t think me fit to associate with him.”
“The time may come when he will have to look up to you. Patience, Tom! You may be as rich as his father some day.”
“I don’t want to be rich unless I can get money honestly.”
“Stick to that, Tom. I haven’t led a model life. I’ve made mistakes, and committed errors, but I don’t look upon them now as I once did. I have turned over a new leaf, and I mean to do what I can to redeem myself.”
Before the two new friends parted, Darius Darke gave Tom an address in New York, where he could direct any communication. It was at the office of Mellish & Co., already referred to.