“What is that, boy?” said Mr Knapps, pointing to the letter A.
I looked attentively, and recognising, as I thought, one of my father’s hieroglyphics, replied, “That’s half-a-bushel;” and I was certainly warranted in my supposition.
“Half-a-bushel! You’re more than half a fool. That’s the letter A.”
“No; it’s half-a-bushel; father told me so.”
“Then your father was as big a fool as yourself.”
“Father knew what half-a-bushel was, and so do I: that’s half-a-bushel.”
“I tell you it’s the letter A,” cried Mr Knapps, in a rage.
“It’s half-a-bushel,” replied I, doggedly. I persisted in my assertion: and Mr Knapps, who dared not punish me while the Dominie was present, descended his throne of one step, and led me up to the master.
“I can do nothing with this boy, sir,” said he, red as fire; “he denies the first letter in the alphabet, and insists upon it that the letter A is not A, but half-a-bushel.”
“Dost thou, in thine ignorance, pretend to teach when thou comest here to learn, Jacob Faithful?”