“Why, do you know, my son,” said Mr. Dodson, “it takes Pa himself all his time to read Homer without a crib.”
This contribution to national biography awoke no response in the breast of the boy.
“And yet, Luney,” said Mr. Dodson, in a voice that had a thrill of emotion in it, “here are you in your dinner hour reading it as naturally as I read the Sporting Times. Let me look at you, you lunatic.”
Mr. Dodson grasped his protégé by the chin in the manner in which a veterinary surgeon grasps a horse, and peered somewhat aggressively into the gentle and pale countenance of William Jordan, Junior.
“Well, all I can say is, my son,” said Mr. Dodson, after he had conducted his researches with a thoroughness which made the subject of them tremble, “all I can say is you can’t be such a blighter as you look.”
William Jordan, Junior, could frame no reply to this profound judgment.
“How old are you, Luney?” Mr. Dodson inquired.
“E-eighteen years and f-fifty-nine days, sir,” stammered William Jordan, Junior.
“My aunt!” said Mr. Dodson, with incredulity, “you don’t look a day more than twelve and a half. You might travel half-fare on the District Railway.”
Suddenly Mr. Dodson clenched his hands.