"What's the name of _your_ schoolmaster's daughter, Jemmy?" asks my
respected friend.

"Polly!" replied Jemmy, pointing his forefinger at her. "There now!
Caught you! Ha, ha, ha!"

When he and my respected friend had had a laugh and a hug together, our
admittedly remarkable boy resumed with a great relish:

"Well! And so he loved her. And so he thought about her, and dreamed
about her, and made her presents of oranges and nuts, and would have made
her presents of pearls and diamonds if he could have afforded it out of
his pocket-money, but he couldn't. And so her father--O, he WAS a
Tartar! Keeping the boys up to the mark, holding examinations once a
month, lecturing upon all sorts of subjects at all sorts of times, and
knowing everything in the world out of book. And so this boy--"

"Had he any name?" asks my respected friend.

"No, he hadn't, Gran. Ha, ha! There now! Caught you again!"

After this, they had another laugh and another hug, and then our boy went
on.

"Well! And so this boy, he had a friend about as old as himself at the
same school, and his name (for He _had_ a name, as it happened) was--let
me remember--was Bobbo."

"Not Bob," says my respected friend.