"A nothing," replied his father, "it is just A. Now, what is it?"

"Just A," said Rollo.

"Do not be flip, my son," said Mr. Holliday, "but attend to your lesson.
What letter is this?"

"I dunno," said Rollo.

"Don't fib to me," said his father, gently, "you said a minute ago that
you knew. That is N."

"Yes, sir," replied Rollo, meekly. Rollo, although he was a little boy,
was no slouch, if he did wear bibs; he knew where he lived without
looking at the door-plate. When it came time to be meek, there was no
boy this side of the planet Mars who could be meeker, on shorter notice.
So he said, "Yes, sir," with that subdued and well pleased alacrity of a
boy who has just been asked to guess the answer to the conundrum, "Will
you have another piece of pie?"

"Well," said his father, rather suddenly, "what is it?"

"M," said Rollo, confidently.

"N!" yelled his father, in three-line Gothic.

"N," echoed Rollo, in lower case nonpareil.

"B-a-n," said his father, "what does that spell?"