Harry Raymond lived in a small house, just off the main street, fronting on a narrow road or lane. The building lot, consisting of an acre of land, his father had bought three years before for one hundred and fifty dollars. After purchasing and paying for it cash down, he found that he had but one hundred dollars left towards the house which he wanted to build. Under these circumstances he went to Squire Turner, who was the moneyed man of the village, and asked for a loan. Knowing that his money would be safe, the squire agreed to furnish him what money he might need towards the house, taking a mortgage upon it when it was completed.

Mr. Raymond, therefore, at once commenced building. His house cost a thousand dollars, of which Squire Turner furnished him seven hundred, the balance being made up of his own labor and cash in hand. So, when all was done, he regarded himself as worth a property of twelve hundred dollars, subject to a mortgage of seven hundred. During the three years that had since elapsed he had managed, besides paying interest, to pay up three hundred dollars of the mortgage, leaving only four hundred due. This had not been accomplished without some economy; but his wife and Harry had cheerfully acquiesced in this, being anxious for the time to come when they might be clear owners of the little house.

The house contained six rooms, and stood about fifty feet back from the street. The land in the rear made an excellent garden, supplying them with all the vegetables of which they had need.

Besides Harry, there was his sister Katy, a little girl of ten, sweet and winning in her ways, to whom he was warmly attached.

Mr. Raymond had kept Harry steadily at school, feeling that a good education would be of far more value to him in after life than the small amount he might earn if kept at work. Harry had justified this determination, having acquitted himself on all occasions most creditably in all the studies which he pursued. Out of school he found time to work in the garden, and assist in various ways, by sawing and splitting what wood was required for family use, so that his father, on returning from his day’s labor was not under the necessity of fatiguing himself by extra work.

We will now return to the Vernon High School.

When school was dismissed, Harry Raymond was surrounded by his friends, eager to congratulate him on his success.

“I congratulate you, Harry,” said Walter Sheffield, good-naturedly, “which is doing the handsome thing, considering that I was your rival. You only had forty-six more votes than I. That’s what I call a close shave.”

“You voted for yourself, didn’t you, Sheffield?” said Will Pomeroy.

“I’m not going to expose myself, if I did,” said Walter.

“Shouldn’t wonder if Turner voted for himself,” said one of the boys, in a low voice.

“But he had two votes.”

“Oh, Tom Barton cast the other vote, of course,” said Will Pomeroy, rather contemptuously. “He fawns upon Turner just because he’s rich. I wish him joy of his friend.”

“Say, Turner, did you vote for yourself?” called out one of the boys.

“None of your business!” said James Turner, sharply.

He stood a little on one side with his crony, Tom Barton, surveying the scene with an ill-tempered scowl. It was very disagreeable to him to see Harry Raymond’s triumph. In fact, he hated our hero, for no good reason except that Harry was his acknowledged superior in acquirements, always standing higher in his classes, and received from his school-mates a degree of respect and deference which James Turner with all his money could not buy.

“Why don’t you come and congratulate Raymond on his prize?”

“I’d rather congratulate him on his pantaloons,” said James, with a sneer.

“What’s the matter with them?” demanded Will Pomeroy, supposing at first that Harry might have soiled them in some way.

“Patches seem to be in fashion,” said James, with another sneer.

Of course the attention of all the boys was attracted to Harry’s knee, and the patch, which had hitherto escaped observation, was discovered.

Harry Raymond’s cheek flushed, for he saw that an insult was intended, but he did not at once speak.

“For shame, Turner!” said Will Pomeroy, indignantly, and it was evident that the other boys sympathized with him in his feeling.

“What should I be ashamed of?” retorted Turner.

“For your meanness in twitting Harry with the patch.”

“I didn’t; I only mentioned it.”

“You are envious because he got the prize.”

“What do I care for the trumpery prize? It didn’t cost more than a dollar and a half. My father will buy me a dozen such books, if I want them.”

“Perhaps he will; but for all that you’d have taken it quick enough if you could have got it. It isn’t the value of the book, it’s what it means.”

“What does it mean?”

“That Harry Raymond is the best speaker in the Vernon High School.”

“Boys,” said Harry, quietly, “don’t trouble yourselves to defend me. I don’t care what James Turner says. Perhaps the book didn’t cost more than a dollar and a half, but it was given me by your votes, and that makes it worth more to me than if it cost a hundred dollars. I haven’t had a chance to say it before, but I am grateful to you for your kindness in awarding it to me, and I shall always treasure it for that reason.”

“Three cheers for Harry Raymond!” called out Walter Sheffield, waving his arm, and giving the signal.

The three cheers were given with a will, and Harry looked gratified at this proof of the regard in which he was held.

“Now three groans for James Turner!” said another.

“No, boys,” said Harry, promptly; “don’t do that.”

“But he insulted you.”

“I suppose you mean about the patch. But never mind about that. You all know that my father is a poor man, and can’t afford to buy me expensive clothes. If I get my clothes torn, I can’t afford to throw them aside. I don’t like patches any better than anybody, but till I get richer I shall wear them.”

Harry spoke so manfully, that the boys heartily sympathized with him. It might have been supposed that James Turner would have been convinced of his meanness, and ashamed of it; but he was essentially a mean boy, and it may be added that a part of his meanness came to him from his father, who, though a rich man, was sordid and covetous, and never known to do a generous action. So James now could not refrain from a parting sneer.

“If Raymond wears patches because he is poor,” he said, “I’ll give him a pair of pants that I’ve got through wearing, any time when he’ll come up to the house.”

“You needn’t trouble yourself,” said Harry, angry at the insult. “When I want your cast-off clothes I’ll let you know. I’ll go in rags first.”

“Just as you choose,” said James, sneering. “There’s no accounting for tastes. Come along, Barton.”

The two boys walked away, not much regretted by those they left behind. If they had heard the remarks made about them after their departure, neither would have felt particularly complimented.

“The beggarly upstart!” said James to his companion. “He puts on airs enough for a pauper.”

“So he does,” said Barton. “He can’t speak half as well as you. But Mr. Tower’s prejudiced.”

“I don’t care for his miserable prizes,” said James. “They’re not worth thinking of.”

It was only another illustration of the well-known fable of the fox and the grapes.