“I don't do anything but open the doors, and show people to their places; I don't call that anything.”
“But if you were a waiter and served at table?”
“I wouldn't be one,” said Lemuel, with a touch of indignation; “and I shouldn't take presents, anyway.”
Evans leaned against the door-jamb.
“Have you heard of the college students who wait at the mountain hotels in vacation? They all take fees. Do you think yourself better than they are?”
“Yes, I do!” cried Lemuel.
“Well, I don't know but you are,” said the editor thoughtfully. “But I think I should distinguish. Perhaps there's no shame in waiting at table, but there is in taking fees.”
“Yes; that's what I meant,” said Lemuel, a little sorry for his heat. “I shouldn't be ashamed to do any kind of work, and to take my pay for it; but I shouldn't want to have folks giving me money over and above, as if I was a beggar.”
The editor stood looking him absently in the face. After a moment he asked, “What part of New England did you come from, Mr. Barker?”
“I came from the middle part of the State—from Willoughby Pastures.”