It was at his second visit, when we were nine, that I remember his
announcing his intention of being an author when he was grown up.
My mother still delights in telling the story. She was sitting at
work in the south parlour one day, when I dashed into the room
calling out:

"Derrick's head is stuck between the banisters in the gallery; come
quick, mother, come quick!"

She ran up the little winding staircase, and there, sure enough, in
the musician's gallery, was poor Derrick, his manuscript and pen on
the floor and his head in durance vile.

"You silly boy!" said my mother, a little frightened when she found
that to get the head back was no easy matter, "What made you put it
through?"

"You look like King Charles at Carisbrooke," I cried, forgetting how
much Derrick would resent the speech.

And being released at that moment he took me by the shoulders and
gave me an angry shake or two, as he said vehemently, "I'm not like
King Charles! King Charles was a liar."

I saw my mother smile a little as she separated us.

"Come, boys, don't quarrel," she said. "And Derrick will tell me
the truth, for indeed I am curious to know why he thrust his head in
such a place."