I prophesy that you will go far, Mr. Bossom. May I inquire what books
you thumb?"

"Thumb?" Sam, his hard hand released, stared at it a moment perplexed.
"That ain't the _method_, sir; not at our school. But I'm gettin'
along, and the book is called Lord Macaulay."

"What? Macaulay's _Essays?_"

"It's called _Lays_, sir--Lord Macaulay's _Lays_. The rest of the class
chose it, an' I didn' like to cry off, though I 'd not a-flown so high
as a lord myself--not to start with."

"The _Lays of Ancient Rome?_ My dear Bossom--my dear Smiles--you'll
allow me to dub you Smiles? _On Self Help_, you know. I like to call
my friends by these playful sobriquets, and friends we are going to be,
you and I. My dear fellow, I used to know 'em by heart--"

'Lars Porsena of Clusium
By the nine gods he swore--'

"--Is that the ticket, hey?"

Mr. Mortimer clapped him on the shoulder. "Dang it!" breathed Sam,
"how small the world is!"

"Smiles, we must be friends. Even if, for a paltry trifle of seven
pounds fifteen and six, I am condemned by your master (whom you will
excuse my terming a miscreant) to eke out the dregs of my worthless
existence in this infernal yard--no, my loved Arabella, you will pardon