I don't know whether it was the thunder-storm; it may have been the atmospheric influences (what hard words) that made me feel so stupid. I looked at the big book with a sigh. 'Did one man write all that, sir?'
'Ay, that, and a vast deal more. It was written, Willie, by Professor Bruce.'
No wonder he spoke the name in an impressive under-tone. It was one very familiar to all Master Caleb's friends. Professor Bruce was his hero. Professor Bruce was seldom out of his mouth. According to him, Professor Bruce had written something to prove everything that could be proved. Master Caleb's one boast and source of pride was that he knew the great man well. Several years ago Professor Bruce—now growing old—had left London, where he had passed most of his life, writing books and lecturing, and to the everlasting glory of our quiet old town, Morechester, he had lived there ever since.
It was the greatest honour Master Caleb could bestow on me, the only one of his many kindnesses that he ever thought deserved my gratitude, that a time came when he deemed me worthy to see Professor Bruce. It was on the day of the thunder-storm that I knew my good fortune first.
'You're a hard-working boy, Willie, and the sight of a great man like that will do you good. I'll take you into Morechester.'
'To Morechester, Master Caleb! will you really? I've never seen a town before.'
'You will see Professor Bruce,' he answered sternly.
'Oh yes,' I said hurriedly. 'Professor Bruce of course. I meant that. Thank you, sir.'
So it was settled.
Master Caleb, good man, need not have been so sharp on me for wishing to see Morechester. It was not only to visit Professor Bruce, as I found out afterwards, that he cared so much for going there himself.