“If you write it down I shall have less chance of forgetting it,” I replied.
“That would be little use to you, my man,” he observed; “you cannot read, I should suppose.”
“But I can, though,” I replied. “Give me your card, and you will see I speak the truth.”
On this one of the gentlemen drew out a card from his pocket, and wrote some words on it with a pencil, while I washed my hands and dried them in my shirt-sleeves. He then handed me the card. I looked at it and saw that it was in a language I could not understand.
“Those are Latin words, and I did not say I could read any language,” I observed, handing him back his card.
“You are right, my boy,” said the gentleman who had lost his ring; “but here are some lines in English: let us hear if you can read them.”
I looked at the lines attentively: they were at the commencement of a poem my mother had taught me; so I not only read them off fluently, but, to the great surprise of all present, went on repeating the succeeding ones.
“Bravo! bravo!” exclaimed the gentlemen, highly delighted. “You’re a genius, my lad—a perfect marvel. A mudlark spout poetry! Truly the schoolmaster is abroad.”
“Who taught you your learning, my boy?” asked another.
“My mother, sir,” I replied, calmly, and rather surprised at their expressions, for I saw nothing wonderful in my performance.