"I know what would be very nice," insinuated the young lady.

"What?"

"If you wouldn't mind telling us a very short story till supper-time.
The boys like stories."

"That's a good idea," said Benjamin. "As if the girls didn't!"

But the friend proclaimed order, and seated himself with the girl in
question on his knee. "Well, what sort of a story is it to be?"

"Any sort," said Richard; "only not too true, if you please. I don't
like stories like tracts. There was an usher at a school I was at, and
he used to read tracts about good boys and bad boys to the fellows on
Sunday afternoon. He always took out the real names, and put in the
names of the fellows instead. Those who had done well in the week he
put in as good ones, and those who hadn't as the bad. He didn't like
me, and I was always put in as a bad boy, and I came to so many
untimely ends I got sick of it. I was hanged twice, and transported
once for sheep-stealing; I committed suicide one week, and broke into
the bank the next; I ruined three families, became a hopeless
drunkard, and broke the hearts of my twelve distinct parents. I used
to beg him to let me be reformed next week; but he said he never would
till I did my Cæsar better. So, if you please, we'll have a story that
can't be true."

"Very well," said the friend, laughing; "but if it isn't true, may I
put you in? All the best writers, you know, draw their characters from