"Why, Charley, how you have shot up!" he cried gaily. "You'll soon overtake me."
I shook my head. "While I am growing, Tom, you will be growing also."
"What was it you said in your last letter?" he went on, as we began tea. "That you were going to leave school?"
"Well, I fancy so, Tom. Uncle Stillingfar gave notice at Michaelmas."
"Thinks you know enough, eh, lad?"
I could not say much about that. That I was unusually well educated for my years there could be no doubt about, especially in the classics and French. My father had laid a good foundation to begin with, and the school chosen for me was a first-rate one. The French resident master had taken a liking to me, and had me much with him. Once during the midsummer holidays he had taken me to stay with his people in France: to Abbeville, with its interesting old church and market-place, its quaint costumes and uncomfortable inns. Altogether, I spoke and wrote French almost as well as he did.
"What are they going to make of you, Charley? Is it as old Stillingfar pleases?"
"I think so. I dare say they'll put me to the law."
"Unfortunate martyr! I'd rather command a pirate-boat on the high seas than stew my brains over dry law-books and musty parchments!"
"Tastes differ," struck in Miss Blanche. "And you are not going to sea at all, Tom."