Horatio Alger

Making His Way Horatio Alger

Mark Manning was slender and dark, with a soft voice and rather effeminate ways. He didn't care for the rough sports in which most boys delight; never played baseball or took part in athletic exercises, but liked to walk about, sprucely dressed, and had even been seen on the campus on a Saturday afternoon with his hands incased in kid gloves. For this, however, he was so ridiculed and laughed at that he had to draw them off and replace them in his pocket. As Frank and Herbert walked together to the railway station, the latter said: "It seems to me, Frank, that the telegram should have been sent to you, rather than to Mark Manning. You are the one who is most interested in the contents." "I thought of that, Herbert, but I was too much affected by the contents to speak of it. I am not surprised, however. It is like Mr. Manning. It jarred upon me to have him speak of mother as his wife. She is so, but I never could reconcile myself to the fact." "Do you remember your father-your own father, Frank?" "You need not have said 'your own father.' I don't recognize Mr. Manning as a father, at all. Yes, I remember him. I was eight years old when he died. He was a fine-looking man, always kind-a man to be loved and respected. There was not a particle of similarity between him and Mr. Manning. He was strong and manly."