Now Dr. Dunstan picked up a tidy-looking book, as far as its outside was concerned.
"What have we here?" he said, as if he had just found a bird's nest. "Why, no less a classic than Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress! Fortunate boy! Here, bound in scarlet and gold, and richly illustrated, is a copy of that immortal work. Know, Thwaites, that in receiving the Pilgrim's Progress you become enriched by possession of one among the noblest and most elevated and improving masterpieces in the English language. Take it and read it again and again, my lad; and when you shall have mastered it, lend it to those less fortunate, that they, too, may profit by the wisdom and piety of these luminous pages."
Then the chaps clapped and stamped, and I bowed and took the book, and shook hands with the Doctor and cleared out.
Needless to say, my father was even more astonished than Dr. Dunstan. I came into his study to wish him good-evening when I got home, and he said, "Well, boy, holidays again? How have you got on? Don't—don't tell me there's any more trouble!"
"Far from it, father," I said. "I've got a prize."
"Good Heavens!" said my father. "You—a prize. What on earth for?"
"You mightn't think it, but for good conduct," I said.
"Good what?" cried out my father.
"Good conduct," said my mother. "I always told you there was a mistake. A beautiful, expensive-looking book with his name in it, written by Dr. Dunstan himself—the name I mean—not the book."
"Wonders never cease," said my father. Then he added, "Well done, capital! I'm more pleased to hear this than you've any idea of. You must keep it up through the holidays, though."