STORY._

My story, boys, shall be what you ask. I shall call it "The Young
Soap-Boiler," for I suppose you'll admit that boiling soap is about as
unpleasant work as there is.

"Touched bottom that time," interposed Harry Wilson.

Well, the boy that I'm going to tell about was Dudley Crawford. With a
cheery eye and voice, a quick eye, a quicker hand and a fleet foot, he
was a great favorite on the play-ground. If there was a weak boy, whom
the others imposed upon, Dudley was always his fast friend, and the mean
fellows who make up for their cowardice toward boys of their size by
"picking" at little fellows or green boys, had always a wholesome fear of
Dudley, though I do not think he ever struck one of them. But his
fearless, honest eye cowed them, and I am sure he would have struck hard
if it had been necessary to protect the poor little fellows who kept
under his wing. The boys called them "Dud's chickens."

There was one boy in the school, Walter Whittaker, who had a special
desire to be on good terms with Dudley. Walter's father had gotten rich
during the war, and Walter had a special fondness for being genteel. He
wore gloves, and kept his boots brighter than there was any occasion for.
He was not much of a scholar, though older than Dudley. But he was fond
of calling young Crawford his friend, because Dudley's father was a rich
and talented lawyer.

At last, there came a financial crash that sent all of Mr. Crawford's
half-million of dollars to the winds. He was in feeble health when it
came, and the loss of his property hastened his death. The very same
"panic" left Whittaker poor also. But the two boys took it very
differently. Whittaker looked as crestfallen as if he had committed a
crime. Dudley mourned the loss of his father, but held up his head
bravely under the sudden poverty. Whittaker looked around for a
"situation." But the times were hard, and situations were not to be had.
Every clerk that could be dispensed with was sent away, and besides,
merchants do not like to employ a fellow who wears gloves and looks
afraid of soiling his hands. Dudley had his mother to support, and looked
about bravely for work. But no work was to be had. He tried everything,
as it seemed, until at last he asked stern old Mr. Bluff, who owned half
a dozen factories of different kinds.

"You want work, do you, young man? I s'pose you want to keep books or
suthin' o' that sort. I never saw such a lot o' fellers askin' for