A year after the resolution thus come to, I was at home for the holidays.
“I hope,” said my mother, “that they are doing Sisty justice. I do think he is not nearly so quick a child as he was before he went to school. I wish you would examine him, Austin.”
“I have examined him, my dear. It is just as I expected; and I am quite satisfied.”
“What! you really think he has come on?” said my mother joyfully.
“He does not care a button for botany now,” said Mr Squills.
“And he used to be so fond of music, dear boy!” observed my mother with a sigh. “Good gracious! what noise is that?”
“Your son’s pop-gun against the window,” said my father. “It is lucky it is only the window; it would have made a less deafening noise, though, if it had been Mr Squills’ head, as it was yesterday morning.”
“The left ear,” observed Squills; “and a very sharp blow it was, too. Yet you are satisfied, Mr Caxton?”
“Yes; I think the boy is now as great a blockhead as most boys of his age are,” observed my father with great complacency.
“Dear me, Austin—a great blockhead!”