speak for both of us."
"Then I say I hope I can command better associates than this friend of yours."
"You may, but I doubt it."
"You seem to be carried away by him," said Fitzgerald, pettishly. "I don't see anything very wonderful about him, except dirty hands."
"Then you have seen more than I have."
"Of course a fellow who meddles with printer's ink must have dirty hands. Faugh!" said Fletcher, turning up his nose.
At the same time he regarded complacently his own fingers, which he carefully kept aloof from anything that would soil or mar their aristocratic whiteness.
"The fact is, Fitz," said Oscar, argumentatively, "our upper ten, as we call them, spring from just such beginnings as my friend Harry Walton. My own father commenced life in a printing office. But, as you say, he occupies a high position at present."
"Really!" said Fletcher, a little taken aback, for he knew that Vincent's father ranked higher than his own.
"I daresay your own ancestors were not always patricians."
Fletcher winced. He knew well enough that his father commenced life as a boy in a country grocery, but in the mutations of fortune had risen to be the proprietor of a large dry-goods store on Washington Street. None of the family cared to look back to the beginning of his career. They overlooked the fact that it was creditable to him to have risen from the ranks, though the rise was only in wealth, for Mr. Fletcher was a purse-proud parvenu, who owed all the consideration he enjoyed to his commercial position. Fitz liked to have it understood that he was of patrician lineage, and carefully ignored the little grocery, and certain country relations who occasionally paid a visit to their wealthy relatives, in spite of the rather frigid welcome they received.
"Oh, I suppose there are exceptions," Fletcher admitted reluctantly.
"Your father was smart."
"So is Harry Walton. I know what he is aiming at, and I predict that he will be an influential editor some day."
"Have you got your Greek lesson?" asked Fletcher, abruptly, who did not relish the course the conversation had taken.
"Yes."
"Then I want you to translate a passage for me. I couldn't make it out."
"All right."
Half an hour later Fletcher left Vincent's room.
"What a snob he is!" thought Oscar.
And Oscar was right.
CHAPTER IX
On Thursday evening the main school of the Academy building was lighted up, and groups of boys, varying in age from thirteen to nineteen, were standing in different parts of the room. These were members of the Clionian Society, whose weekly meeting was about to take place.
At eight o'clock precisely the President took his place at the teacher's desk, with the Secretary at his side, and rapped for order. The presiding officer was Alfred DeWitt, a member of the Senior Class, and now nearly ready for college. The Secretary was a member of the same class, by name George Sanborn.
"The Secretary will read the minutes of the last meeting," said the President, when order had been obtained.
George Sanborn rose and read his report, which was accepted.
"Are any committees prepared to report?" asked the President.
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