"Where are you going, Jack?"
"To the shops of John Fowler
"To look for a job?"
"Yes."
"Then you are in luck, for I heard this morning that they want another striker in the lower shop at once."
"Then I'll strike for the opening at once, and my name is not Jack North if I don't land it."
"It will be John Slowshanks when you do get it, mind me!" cried out another voice, from an alley-way near at hand, and before Jack North or his companion could recover from their surprise the speaker, a tall, awkward youth of twenty, sped up the street at the top of his speed.
The scene was in Bauton, a large manufacturing city of New England. The first speaker was a workman at the shops that had been mentioned, but beyond the fact that he placed the youth before him in the way of getting work, he needs no special introduction.
The other person was a lad of eighteen, with brown, curly hair, blue eyes, and a round, robust figure. His name was John North, and he was the son of a couple in humble circumstances.