Not that he was in a hurry to get away from his work. That would not have been like Dick at all, for his heart was in the business, and there was nothing too hard or too inky for him to undertake. It was because he thought his fate was to be decided that evening that he was anxious for evening to come. And so it was, but very differently from the way he expected. He considered it an eventful day in his life, but he had no idea how very eventful it was to be. The trouble was that the three dollars a week he was earning in the Record office was not enough for him to make. It did very well when he went into the office, about a year before, when his father was alive and his money was not needed at home; but since then his father had died and left hardly anything for the support of the family. Dick felt that it was his place to take care of his mother and his sister Florrie, but he could not do it on three dollars a week. By giving up his place and going to work in the saw-mill he could earn about a dollar and a half a day, for he was large and strong for a boy of eighteen; but if he did that he could hardly hope for advancement, and it would put an end to his learning the trade he liked better than any other. That was the problem in the Sumner family, and as he dropped the letters into their boxes, Dick could not help thinking about it. Inclination said: “Stick to your trade;” and Duty said--well, there was a difficulty, for he was not sure what Duty said. On the one hand he was learning the trade of his choice, and after a while his wages would increase; but on the other hand the dollar and a half a day was greatly needed at home. If his mother had advised him one way or the other, Dick would have followed her advice on the instant; but she was as undecided about it as Dick was. They had had many serious talks about it, Mrs. Sumner and Dick and Florrie, without making up their minds; but the time had come when Mrs. Sumner must begin to make a little money by sewing, or else Dick must leave the Record office and go to the saw-mill. “Think it over this afternoon, Dick,” she said when he went away after dinner, “and to-night we will decide it one way or the other.” There was not the least doubt in Dick’s mind, as he kept the types click, click, clicking into their boxes, that he was to be either a printer or a saw-mill hand. There were just two fates before him, he thought, and that night was to decide between them. But he was mistaken. No wonder the clock moved slowly. He was about to take up another handful of type, when there came a summons that he was accustomed to hearing so often that it always made him smile:-- “Here, Dick!” The call came from the editor’s room in the front. The Record office is a small place, with only two rooms. In the front room the editor sits with his pen and shears and his pile of exchanges; and in the back room the three printers work. The door between them always stands open.