A day came when it looked as if the family name would go. A terrible thing happened to young Titus, and his grandfather’s house was wrapped in gloom. The lad’s unfortunate habit of stuttering was at the root of the trouble.
The Judge knew perfectly well that any physical or mental peculiarity about a boy subjects him to an intermittent martyrdom from his fellow boys, who with respect to teasing are part savages. Therefore he had a private teacher who wrestled with Titus on the subject of stuttering for several hours a week. He also was willing that Titus should have all his lessons at home, but this the boy would not agree to, and the Judge respected him for it.
Titus always went down the street with his eyes rolling about him. It was such an irresistible temptation to the boys to imitate him that usually the air was vocal with mocking-birds.
Fortunately, Titus was exceedingly wiry, and utterly fearless. Otherwise he would certainly have been cowed or injured long before our story begins.
He always marched out of school with the other boys, never waited to walk home in the shadow of a teacher, and if a call of derision reached him and he could locate the boy, if he had time, he took off his coat, intrusted it to a friend, and rushed into the fray. The boys in his set never carried books in the street. They had duplicate copies at home.
On one particular day, which turned out to be the disastrous day for poor Titus, he had got halfway home with, strange to say, not a single fight.
It was not a school day but a holiday, and he had been downtown with a companion. Suddenly, as he strolled along beside him, a teasing voice rang out:
Stuttering Tite, stuttering Tite,
O, he is a daisy!
Give him time and give him words,