My mother looked anxiously at my father. “It will indeed be a great thing for Sisty,” said she timidly; and then taking courage she added—“And that is just the sort of life he is formed for—”
“Hem!” said my uncle.
My father rubbed his spectacles thoughtfully, and replied, after a long pause,—
“You may be right, Kitty: I don’t think Pisistratus is meant for study; action will suit him better. But what does this office lead to?”
“Public employment, sir,” said I boldly; “the service of my country.”
“If that be the case,” quoth Roland, “I have not a word to say. But I should have thought that for a lad of spirit, a descendant of the old De Caxtons, the army would have—”
“The army!” exclaimed my mother, clasping her hands, and looking involuntarily at my uncle’s cork leg.
“The army!” repeated my father peevishly. “Bless my soul, Roland, you seem to think man is made for nothing else but to be shot at! You would not like the army, Pisistratus?”
“Why, sir, not if it pained you and my dear mother; otherwise, indeed—”
“Papæ!” said my father interrupting me. “This all comes of your giving the boy that ambitious, uncomfortable name, Mrs Caxton; what could a Pisistratus be but the plague of one’s life? That idea of serving his country is Pisistratus ipsissimus all over. If ever I have another son, (Dii meliora!) he has only got to be called Eratostratus, and then he will be burning down St Paul’s; which I believe was, by the way, first made out of the stones of the temple of Diana! Of the two, certainly, you had better serve your country with a goose-quill than by poking a bayonet into the ribs of some unfortunate Indian;—I don’t think there are any other people whom the service of one’s country makes it necessary to kill just at present,—eh, Roland?”