That Boy Of Norcott's. Lever Charles James

What of the Homer, eh?”

      “‘It ‘s Xenophon, sir.”

      “‘To be sure it is. I was forgetting, as a man might who had my headache. And, by the way, Digby, why will your father give Burgundy at supper instead of Bordeaux? Some one must surely have told him accidentally it was a deadly poison, for he adheres to it with desperate fidelity.”

      “I believe I know my Greek, sir,” would I say, modestly, to recall him to the theme.

      “Of course you do; you’d cut a sorry figure here this morning if you did not know it. No, sir; I ‘m not the man to enjoy your father’s confidence, and take his money, and betray my trust His words to me were, ‘Make him a gentleman, Eccles. I could find scores of fellows to cram him with Greek particles and double equations, but I want the man who can turn out the perfect article, – the gentleman.’ Come now, what relations subsisted between Cyrus and Xenophon?”

      “Xenophon coached him, sir.”

      “So he did. Just strike a light for me. My head is splitting for want of a cigar. You may have a cigarette too. I don’t object Virgil we’ll keep till to-morrow. Virgil was a muff, after all. Virgil was a decentish sort of Martin Tupper, Digby. He had no wit, no repartee, no smartness; he prosed about ploughs and shepherds, like a maudlin old squire; or he told a very shady sort of anecdote about Dido, which I always doubted should be put into the hands of youth. Horace is free, too, a thought too free; but he could n’t help it. Horace lived the same kind of life we do here, a species of roast-partridge and pretty woman sort of life; but then he was the gentleman always. If old Flaccus had lived now, he’d have been pretty much like Bob Eccles, and putting in his divinity lectures perhaps. By the way, I hope your father won’t go and give away that small rectory in Kent. ‘We who live to preach, must preach to live.’ That is n’t exactly the line, but it will do. Pulvis et umbra sumus, Digby; and take what care we may of ourselves, we must go back, as the judges say, to the place from whence we came. There, now, you ‘ve had classical criticism, sound morality, worldly wisdom, and the rest of it; and, with your permission, we’ll pack up the books, and stand prorogued till – let me see – Saturday next.”

      Of course I moved no amendment, and went my way rejoicing.

      From that hour I was free to follow my own inclinations, which usually took a horsey turn; and as the stable offered several mounts, I very often rode six hours a day. Hotham was always to be found in the pistol-gallery about four of an afternoon, and I usually joined him there, and speedily became more than his match.

      “Well, youngster,” he would say, when beaten and irritable, “I can beat your head off at billiards, anyhow.”

      But I was not long in robbing him of even this boast, and in less than three months I could defy the best player in the house. The fact was, I had in a remarkable degree that small talent for games of every kind which is a speciality with certain persons. I could not only learn a game quickly, but almost always attain considerable skill in it.

      “So, sir,” said my father to me one day at dinner, – and nothing was more rare than for him to address a word to me, and I was startled as he did so, – “so, sir, you are going to turn out an Admirable Crichton on my hands, it seems. I hear of nothing but your billiard-playing, your horsemanship, and your cricketing, while Mr. Eccles tells me that your progress with him is equally remarkable.”

      He stopped and seemed to expect me to make some rejoinder; but I could not utter a word, and felt overwhelmed at the observation and notice his speech had drawn upon me.

      “It’s better I should tell you at once,” resumed my father, “that I dislike prodigies. I dislike because I distrust them. The fellow who knows at fourteen what he might reasonably have known at thirty is not unlikely to stop short at fifteen and grow no more. I don’t wish to be personal, but I have heard it said Cleremont was a very clever boy.”

      The impertinence of this speech, and the laughter it at once excited, served to turn attention away from me; but, through the buzz and murmur around, I overheard Cleremont say to Hotham, “I shall pull him up short one of these days, and you ‘ll see an end of all this.”

      “Now,” continued my father, “if Eccles had told me that the boy was a skilful hand at sherry-cobbler, or a rare judge of a Cuban cigar, I ‘d have reposed more faith in the assurance than when he spoke of his classics.”

      “He ain’t bad at a gin-sling with bitters, that I must say,” said Eccles, whose self-control or good-humor, or mayhap some less worthy trait, always carried him successfully over a difficulty.

      “So, sir,” said my father, turning again on me, “the range of your accomplishments is complete. You might be a tapster or a jockey. When the nobility of France came to ruin in the Revolution, the best blood of the kingdom became barbers and dancing-masters: so that when some fine morning that gay gentleman yonder will discover that he is a beggar, he ‘ll have no difficulty in finding a calling to suit his tastes, and square with his abilities. What’s Hotham grumbling about? Will any one interpret him for me?”

      “Hotham is saying that this claret is corked,” said the sea-captain, with a hoarse loud voice.

      “Bottled at home!” said my father, “and, like your own education, Hotham, spoiled for a beggarly economy.”

      “I ‘m glad you ‘ve got it,” muttered Cleremont, whose eyes glistened with malignant spite. “I have had enough of this; I ‘m for coffee,” and he arose as he spoke.

      “Has Cleremont left us?” asked my father.

      “Yes; that last bottle has finished him. I told you before, Nixon knows nothing about wine. I saw that hogshead lying bung up for eight weeks before it was drawn off for bottling.”

      “Why didn’t you speak to him about it, then?”

      “And be told that I’m not his master, eh? You don’t seem to know, Norcott, that you ‘ve got a houseful of the most insolent servants in Christendom. Cleremont’s wife wanted the chestnuts yesterday in the phaeton, and George refused her: she might take the cobs, or nothing.”

      “Quite true,” chimed in Eccles; “and the fellow said, ‘I ‘m a-taking the young horses out in the break, and if the missis wants to see the chestnuts, she’d better come with me.‘**

      “And as to a late breakfast now, it’s quite impossible; they delay and delay till they run you into luncheon,” growled Hotham.

      “They serve me my chocolate pretty regularly,” said my father, negligently, and he arose and strolled out of the room. As he went, he slipped his arm within mine, and said, in a half-whisper, “I suppose it will come to this, – I shall have to change my friends or my household. Which would you advise?”

      “I ‘d say the friends, sir.”

      “So should I, but that they would not easily find another place. There, go and see is the billiard-room lighted. I want to see you play a game with Cleremont.”

      Cleremont was evidently sulking under the sarcasm passed on him, and took up his cue to play with a bad grace.

      “Who will have five francs on the party?” said my father. “I ‘m going to back the boy.”

      “Make it pounds, Norcott,” said Hotham.

      “I’ll give you six to five, in tens,” said Cleremont to my father. “Will you take it?”

      I was growing white and red by turns all this time. I was terrified at the thought that money was to be staked on my play, and frightened by the mere presence of my father at the table.

      “The youngster is too nervous to play. Don’t let him, Norcott,” said Hotham, with a kindness I had not given him credit for.

      “Give me the cue, Digby; I ‘ll take your place,” said my father; and Cleremont and Hotham both drew nigh, and talked to him in a low tone.

      “Eight and the stroke then be it,” said my father, “and the bet in fifties.” The others nodded, and Cleremont began the game.

      I could not have believed