“No.”
“Why, ‘taint very common,” said the driver, a little surprised at this negative.
“That is what I mean,” said Margaret, hurriedly.
“I s’pose you wonder what made me give him such a name, but the fact is my own name is pretty common. You may have heard of John Smith?”
“I think I have heard the name,” said Margaret, absently.
Her grave manner was thought to conceal something jocose by Mr. Smith, who laughed heartily, ejaculating “Good, by jingo!” somewhat to Margaret’s surprise.
“That’s why,” he resumed, “I thought I’d give my children at least one name that wasn’t common, so I concluded to ask the schoolmaster for some. He told me I’d find what I wanted in Shakespeare, so I bought a copy second hand, and the very fust name I come across was Hamlet. So I gave that name to my oldest boy. My second boy’s name is Othello—the boys call him Old Fellow; pretty good joke, isn’t it? I didn’t know till afterwards that it was the name of a nigger, or I shouldn’t have taken it. However, it sounds pretty well; think so?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ve got two girls, I call them Desdemony and Parsley, and the baby we haven’t decided about, but I reckon we shall call him Falstaff. Falstaff was a good-natured old fellow as fur as I’ve read about him. But I don’t know as you’re interested about these matters.”
“Oh, yes,” said Margaret, looking straight before her in the direction of the city, whose spires were now discernible.