But the story that delighted him most was that of the man who hacked his way into the palace. This was an adventure after his own heart. He read it over and over again, and was unsparing in his admiration of the hero, whom he compared for prowess with “Will Warspite the Pirate,” and “Dick Turpin,” and even his late favourite “Tim Tigerskin.” His interest in him was indeed so great that he allowed Reginald in a few simple words to say what it meant, and to explain how we could all, if we went the right way about it, do as great things as he did.
“Why you, youngster, when you made up your mind you wouldn’t read any more of those bad books, you knocked over one of your enemies.”
“Did I, though? how far in did I get?”
“You got over the doorstep, anyhow; but you’ve got plenty more to knock over before you get right into the place. So have I.”
“My eye, gov’nor,” cried the boy, his grimy face lighting up with an excited flush, “we’ll let ’em ’ave it!”
They read and discussed and argued far into the night; and when at last Reginald gave the order to go to bed there were no two friends more devoted than the Secretary of the Select Agency Corporation and his office-boy.
Love’s sleep that night was like the sleep of a pugilistic terrier, who in his dreams encounters and overcomes even deep-mouthed mastiffs and colossal Saint Bernards. He sniffed and snorted defiance as he lay, and his brow was damp with the sweat of battle, and his lips curled with the smile of victory. As soon as he awoke his hand sought the pocket where the wonderful book lay; and even as he tidied up the office and prepared the gov’nor’s breakfast, he was engaged in mortal inward combats.
“Say, gov’nor,” cried he, with jubilant face, as Reginald entered, “I’ve done for another of ’em. Topped him clean over.”
“Another of whom?” said Reginald.
“Them pals a-waitin’ in the ’all,” said he; “you know, in that there pallis.”