esk-mate.

"Evan," he said, thoughtfully, "in about two years more you'll be just
where I am."

"Where's that?"

"In debt, and a spendthrift--if you can call me a spendthrift for
getting away with $400 a year."

Nelson sighed. It was unusual for Watson to turn monitor. What he
said was all the more effective on that account.

The Hometon boy thought of his tailor's account. He would have to be
writing home for more money before long--unless he could borrow it.
The very caution Bill had sounded suggested to Nelson a way out. He
would borrow from a stranger. He could pay his father back the cheque,
and also he could settle the tailor's bill. Just how he would settle
the real debt itself was not for present consideration. It never is.
It is the humanest thing in the world to borrow money.

Evan turned the light on his desk and wrote a letter to his father. It
thanked the merchant for his loan, in rather a businesslike manner, and
assured him he would get the money back. This was the letter of an
ostensibly self-made son to his merchant father, reversing the title of
a well-known story.

Another letter Evan wrote--to Frankie Arling. This one was as follows:

"Dear Frank,--It is quite a while since I wrote you. I hope you have
not been accusing me of negligence. I am pretty busy, you know.

"The people up here are mighty kind to us bank-fellows. There is one
family in particular that uses us white. Miss Watersea--that is the
daughter--told me last night I was to come up as often as I could.
They have a magnificent home. I wish I were making more money so that
I could take Julia (that's her name) out more.

"How are you getting along at school? It's surprising how soon a
person forgets those lessons you are now learning. Bill is calling
me--I must close for this time.

"Yours, as before,
"EVAN."

If he had known the comments Frankie would make on a conspicuous
sentence of one of his paragraphs, Evan would have made the letter
still shorter than it was. It was natural that he should refer to
Julia. One should never write a letter to anyone when someone else is
on his mind, unless the third party is a mutual friend. Letters, like
young children just able to talk, have a habit of telling tales. Often
we say to a sheet of paper what we would scarcely tell by word of mouth
to the one to whom it is addressed; and yet the letter is mailed and
forgotten with the profoundest nonchalance.

T