Harry Raymond had been employed in Mr. Porter’s store but a few days when he had a difficulty with James Turner, which deserves to be chronicled. For various reasons James cherished a dislike of our hero, which he was not likely to get over very soon. Harry had always distanced him in his studies, and, as we have seen, had carried off the prize for declamation, which James persuaded himself would have been his but for the partiality of Mr. Tower. Again, James aspired to be a leader among the boys at school and in the village. He felt that this position was due to him on account of the superior wealth of his father. When boys assert this claim to consideration, it is generally a sign that they have little else to boast of; and this was precisely the case with James Turner.

Now, it may appear strange, that though Squire Turner was the richest man in the village, and Mr. Raymond one of the poorest, the boys paid much more respect to Harry than to the son of the wealthy squire. Harry was put forward prominently on all occasions; as, for example, when a military company was formed, he was elected captain, while James could not even obtain the post of simple corporal. Of course the latter withdrew his name from the roll in disgust; but the company, so far from being thrown into consternation, appeared to thrive about as well as before. This military organization went by the name of the Vernon Guards, and consisted of about thirty boys. They used to parade on Saturday afternoons, when a sufficient number could be gathered for duty, and the young captain, who had studied up his duties, discharged them in a very creditable manner.

James Turner, however, had one consolation in all this strange neglect. His superiority was conceded by one boy, who was in the habit of revolving round him like a humble satellite. This was Tom Barton, who has already been referred to. Tom was a born sycophant, and was ready on all occasions to natter James and join him in abusing Harry and Harry’s friends. Tom’s father was in California at the mines. His mother was a weak woman, of an envious disposition, who was always bewailing her fate in having married a poor man instead of a certain other person who had turned out rich, and who, as she asserted, had offered her his hand in early life. In fact, it was generally supposed that her complaints had driven her husband to California to seek for the fortune for which she was continually pining. As for Tom, she considered him one of the smartest boys in America, and, as might be expected, asserted that he took after her, and not after his father.

“There aint any Barton about him,” she said. “He’s all Jessup.”

This was not far from true. Tom certainly did inherit his mother’s mean and disagreeable qualities, and there were very few points in which he resembled his father, who was really a worthy man, and deserved a better wife than had been allotted to him.

It might have been supposed that Harry’s misfortune in losing his father would have led to a suspension of ill feeling on the part of James and his sycophant. But I have already said that James was a mean boy, and Tom was in this respect a very fitting companion for him. Indeed, Tom, besides espousing James’s quarrel, had a personal grievance of his own. At the time that Alfred Harper entered the village store, Mr. Porter had an application for the place from Tom, which he had seen fit to decline without assigning any reasons for so doing. In fact, Tom had the reputation of being lazy and self-sufficient, and the store-keeper rightly concluded that he would not be likely to prove a very valuable assistant. When Tom heard that the coveted place had been given to Harry, he felt highly indignant, not only with Mr. Porter, but with Harry himself, and was anxious for an opportunity of wreaking vengeance upon our hero. Now, the manliest way would have been to make a direct assault upon him; but this he did not care to do. He knew that Harry had a pair of good, strong arms, and was ready on all occasions to defend himself. If he should venture upon an attack, it was pretty clear to him that he would get the worst of it, and this would be very far from suiting him. He preferred to wait for some secret way of injuring him.

That opportunity came about a week after Harry had entered upon his duties in Mr. Porter’s store.

It has already been said that one of his duties was to drive the store-wagon, and deliver groceries in different parts of the village. One afternoon he was driving at about half a mile distance from the store. Among other articles in the wagon was a basket containing three dozen eggs, which, by the way, were to be delivered to Squire Turner’s house-keeper.

Just about this part of the road there was a cliff on one side, about twenty feet in height, with a steep, almost perpendicular, descent. The field terminating thus abruptly belonged to Squire Turner. It so happened that James Turner and Tom Barton were walking leisurely along the cliff just as Harry came driving by.

“There’s Harry Raymond,” said Tom, spitefully. “Old Barton must have been hard up for a clerk when he took him.”

“I suppose he took pity on him,” said James, “and gave him the situation to keep him out of the poor-house.”

“That isn’t the way he looks at it,” said Tom. “He puts on as many airs as if he owned the store himself.”

“Didn’t you try for the place once, Tom?”

“Why, not exactly,” said Tom. “I told him I would take it if he couldn’t get anybody else. It isn’t much of a place.”

Of course this was only a salvo for Tom’s wounded pride, for he had been eager to enter the store.

“I’ll tell you what,” added Tom, after a pause, “suppose we play a trick on Raymond.”

“What sort of a trick?”

“Suppose we pitch a stone into that basket of eggs. There’ll be an awful smash, and he can’t see who did it.”

This was a proposition which just suited James. It would get Harry into trouble with his employer, and this of course would be rare sport. Then, as they could easily withdraw from sight, he would never know to whom he was indebted for the favor. All these considerations darted through James Turner’s mind more quickly than I have stated them, and he responded:—

“All right, Tom. You do it. You can fire straighter than I.”

Tom needed no second approval. He seized a stone about as large as his two fists, or perhaps a little larger, and, bending over the cliff, fired it directly at the basket.

His success was all that he could have wished. His aim was a true one, and the first Harry knew of the “trick,” there was a loud crash behind him, and the contents of the eggs were partially spattered over him. Glancing quickly back, he saw that the wreck was almost total. Of the three dozen eggs not one third had escaped destruction.

Now, though Harry was naturally good-natured, he felt that this was a little too much for good-nature. It might be a joke; but he could not see it in that light. He knew that he was likely to be blamed for the accident, and he resolved to find out how it came about. It was not very probable that the stone came into the basket of its own volition. There was evidently some human agency concerned, and this agency Harry determined to ascertain.

Looking up, he just caught a glimpse of Tom Barton peering over to see what mischief had been done.

“It’s that mean Tom Barton,” he said to himself. “He’s about the only fellow mean enough to play such a trick. Perhaps he thinks I’m going to stand it.”

“Whoa!” shouted Harry.

In obedience to the summons the horse came to a halt.

Harry drew him to the side of the road, and jumped out of the wagon. He hesitated about leaving the horse unattended; but just at that moment Will Pomeroy came along.

“Just mind the horse a minute, Will,” said Harry.

“Where are you going?”

“I’ll tell you when I come back.”

Our hero felt that there was no time for explanation. He began to clamber up the side of the cliff. This was a hard job, for it was nearly perpendicular, but here and there were roots and bushes that helped him along. Probably his indignation helped him, for in a very short time he reached the top.

Tom Barton was elated at the success of his trick. After first looking over to see the extent of the damage, he withdrew to a short distance, and threw himself under a tree by the side of James Turner. He felt entirely safe, not having the least idea that Harry would undertake to climb the cliff.

The two boys were laughing together over the success of their trick, when the figure of our hero, his face red with excitement, and his hands chafed and torn, presented itself unexpectedly.

Tom sprang to his feet in dismay.

“Look here, Tom Barton,” said Harry, in a quick, peremptory way, “what did you mean by pitching a stone into my basket of eggs?”

“Don’t be afraid,” said James Turner, in a low voice; “I’ll stand by you.”

This emboldened Tom. Though he would not have liked to engage in single combat with Harry, he concluded that our hero would be in no haste to engage both. So he answered, insolently:—

“None of your business!”

“It strikes me that it is my business,” said Harry, warmly. “It was a mean, contemptible trick.”

“What are you going to do about it?” sneered Tom.

Now I am not going to justify Harry for the course he took, but it was certainly very natural.

“Stand up here, if you dare, and you’ll see,” he answered, with compressed lips.

“Let’s give him a licking, James,” said Tom. “It’ll do him good.”

Both boys sprang to their feet, and advanced towards our hero. He saw that his task was not going to be an easy one. The united strength of both of his assailants was undoubtedly greater than his own. If he allowed the two to come to close quarters with him, he would probably get the worst of it. Here was a chance for strategy, and he resolved to improve it.