“No; but I can buy one.”

“You can use mine while I am gone.  You may as well have it as not.  I have no copy of Telemaque, but I will send you one from Boston.”

“Agreed, provided you will let me pay you for it.”

“So I would, if I had to buy one.  But I have got an old copy, not very ornamental, but complete.  I will send it through the mail.”

“Thank you, Oscar.  How kind you are!”

“Don’t flatter me, Harry.  The favors you refer to are but trifles.  I will ask a favor of you in return.”

“I wish you would.”

“Then help me pack my trunk.  There’s nothing I detest so much.  Generally I tumble things in helter-skelter, and get a good scolding from mother for doing it, when she inspects my trunk.”

“I’ll save you the trouble, then.  Bring what you want to carry home, and pile it on the floor, and I’ll do the packing.”

“A thousand thanks, as the French say.  It takes a load off my mind.  By the way, here’s a lot of my photographs.  Would you like one to remember your professor by?”

“Very much, Oscar.”

“Then take your choice.  They don’t do justice to my beauty, which is of a stunning description, as you are aware, nor do they convey an idea of the lofty intellect which sits enthroned behind my classic brow; but such as they are, you are welcome to one.”

“Any one would think, to hear you, that you had no end of self-conceit, Oscar,” said Harry, laughing.

“How do you know that I haven’t?  Most people think they are beautiful.  A photographer told my sister that he was once visited by a frightfully homely man from the the country, who wanted his ’picter took.’  When the result was placed before him, he seemed dissatisfied.  ‘Don’t you think it like?’ said the artist.—­’Well, ye-es,’ he answered slowly, ’but it hasn’t got my sweet expression about the mouth!’”

“Very good,” said Harry, laughing; “that’s what’s the matter with your picture.”

“Precisely.  I am glad your artistic eye detects what is wanting.  But, hold! there’s a knock.  It’s Fitz, I’ll bet a hat.”

“Come in!” he cried, and Fletcher walked in.

“Good-evening, Fletcher,” said Oscar.  “You see I’m packing, or rather Walton is packing.  He’s a capital packer.”

“Indeed!” sneered Fletcher.  “I was not aware that Mr. Walton was in that line of business.  What are his terms?”

“I refer you to him.”

“What do you charge for packing trunks, Mr. Walton?”

“I think fifty cents would be about right,” answered Harry, with perfect gravity.  “Can you give me a job, Mr. Fletcher?”

“I might, if I had known it in time, though I am particular who handles my things.”

“Walton is careful, and I can vouch for his honesty,” said Oscar, carrying out the joke.  “His wages in the printing office are not large, and he would be glad to make a little extra money.”