“At any rate he knew the Yankee,” put in Mr. Bang.
I looked at Uncle and smiled. Uncle smiled too, then drew his face into a fearful frown and bringing his clenched fist down on the table thundered—in what must have been meant for the Johnsonian manner—“Sir! they are a race of convicts.”
“Yes, that’s it,” cried Jack and burst out laughing. So did I.
“What’s the joke?” demanded Sister Mary.
Poor Mr. Bang! I’m quite sure he gave me the Vicar of Wakefield because he thought it might do me good. How kind of him! Pooh! as Auntie says.
January 6th.
What luck I am in! We are going to Ottawa, Uncle and Mumsie, their nephew and myself. I am going to attend the Drawing-room. Hoo, hoo!
I had the blues all day before I knew. Perhaps it was because I worked so hard at this diary this morning. In the afternoon—to get rid of cobwebs—I walked out by myself. Indeed, I had the blues. I realized I had lost the grip on life that was mine by inheritance, and I saw no other in prospect. I feel I am a social derelict.
On my return home I came softly up the stairs and entered my room. Mr. Bang was with the children and I left the door ajar that I might hear them.
“Tell me a story, Uncle Dack,” Jessie demanded.