"On this morning, his tutor arrived, as usual, at nine o'clock; and commenced by giving his pupil a lesson in penmanship. There was an ominous scowl on Arthur's face. He twitched his copy-book before him, pretended he could not find a good pen, scratched and blotted the paper from top to bottom, and so, when the lesson was finished, the page was a sight to behold.
"'You have not tried to write well,' said his master, mildly.
"'My pen was abominable, and the paper was greasy,' said Arthur, sulkily.
"'A bad workman always pretends that his tools are to blame,' said the master.
"'Oh, dear me! you are never satisfied! If I write too lightly, you say it looks as if a spider had scampered over the paper with inky legs; if I bear on harder, you ask me how much horse power I have put on to make such heavy strokes. I don't know what to do! I don't! You are always grumbling.'
"'Oh, no! not always, for here are a great many pages on which I have written, "Very well; very well, indeed."'
"'That was only by chance,' said Arthur.
"'But if these chances do not always occur, whose fault is it?'
"'Oh, mine! I suppose you mean to say,' answered Arthur, pettishly.
"'Well, my dear boy, only look at your writing to-day. It resembles a company of soldiers, each of whom carries his musket to suit himself, this one to the right, that to the left, a third horizontally, a fourth perpendicularly, and all the rest of the letters with broken backs and crooked legs. Just look at it!'