He is not brilliant, but steady-going; he is improving slowly but surely. He goes on his jog-trot way, and always succeeds in being placed among the first twelve boys of the class. He is what is called a "respectable person."
He never smiles, and you would think he had on his shoulders the responsibility of the management of the London and Westminster Bank.
His books are carefully covered in brown paper or American cloth. He writes rough copies on the backs of old exercises, and wipes his pen when he has finished his work. He buys his books second-hand in Holywell Street, [ [6] ] and when he has finished with them they have the same market value as when he bought them.
He lends old nibs and half-sheets of paper, and requires the borrower to give him back new nibs and foolscap sheets.
He studies French with all the energy he is capable of, because his father has told him that, with a good knowledge of French, he will command a good salary in the City.
You ask him what he will be, and he answers you:
"In business."
This boy will be a successful man—a lord-mayor, perhaps.
I can not take leave of the class-room without mentioning the boy who is proud of his name.
"What is your name, my boy?"