“Jack, my dear, Jack Bang, (What a name!) is a railway contractor, miner, prospector, or what not; as strong as an ox, as cheery as a sand-boy, as generous as a sailor on leave, and with a jaw like that of Napoleon.”
“Is he——”
“Yes, very good looking. Jack was the misfit of the family.”
“He is the only one of the six who has any brains,” protested Uncle stormily.
“He came to visit us once when he was fifteen, and he and my Micawber, (Mumsie sometimes speaks of Uncle as her Micawber) became great friends. The result———”
“Leave Jack alone; let the girl form her own opinion of him,” put in Uncle, and Mumsie complied with his request by being silent.
I wonder if I shall like Mr. Bang. Jack Bang! Such an odd name. Mrs. Bang! I don’t think I like westerners; not that I have ever seen any.
December 19th, Sunday.
Of course we went to church. The afternoon I put in writing this diary. I often wonder what makes me write it, but write it I will. I believe Mumsie knows already I’m keeping it. If I am forced to confess, I will say I am doing it for practice, that some day I shall publish a novel.
I know Uncle would think more of me if I had such an ambition. Perhaps it would be a good thing to tell him. No, he would cease then to be such “good copy,” as the journalists call it. I do so enjoy getting him and Mumsie at verbal fighting; it’s great fun.