“Oh, friends, please,” I said, holding out my hand.
“Then there’s mine, young Antony,” he cried seizing it in his great, fingers. “And mind, I’m Bill, or old Bill, whichever you like.”
“I’m sure—Bill, I should be glad to be the best of friends,” I said, “for I have none.”
“Oh, come now, you said that Polly was very good to you.”
“What, Mary? Oh yes!”
“Well, then, that’s one. But, I say, you know you mustn’t be so precious innocent.”
“Mustn’t I, sir?”
“What!” he cried, bringing his hand down crash on the table.
“Mustn’t I, Bill?”
“That’s better. No: that you mustn’t. I seem to look upon you as quite an old friend since you lived so long with my Polly. But, I say, your education has been horribly neglected. You’re quite a baby to the boys up here at your age.”