everybody miserable, it turns out that the child of his own female gardener hasn't any. Such a discovery would shut up any one but a French exercise man. It has no effect at all, though, on this shameless creature. He never thinks of apologising, but says his aunt has some mustard.
So, in the acquisition of more or less useless knowledge, soon happily to be forgotten, boyhood passes away. The red-brick schoolhouse fades from view, and we turn down into the world's high road. My little friend is no longer little now. The short jacket has sprouted tails. The battered cap, so useful as a combination of pocket-handerkerchief, drinking-cup, and weapon of attack, has grown high and glossy; and instead of a slate pencil in his mouth there is a cigarette, the smoke of which troubles him, for it will get up his nose. He tries a cigar a little later on, as being more stylish—a big, black Havannah. It doesn't seem altogether to agree with him, for I find him sitting over a bucket in the back kitchen afterwards, solemnly swearing never to smoke again.
And now his moustache begins to be almost visible to the naked eye, whereupon he immediately takes to brandy-and-sodas, and fancies himself a man. He talks about "two to one against the favourite," refers to actresses as "Little Emmy," and "Kate" and "Baby," and murmurs about his "losses at cards the other night," in a style implying that thousands have been
