My appointment in Washington at that time was extraordinary; that is
to say, I was a member of one of those committees that are born
frequently and suddenly in Washington, and which almost immediately
after registration in the vital statistics of national politics. I
had been sent to Congress, a dazzling halo over my head, the pride
and hope of my little country town; I had been defeated for second
term; had been recommended to serve on the committee aforesaid;
served with honor, got my name in the great newspapers, and was sent
back to Congress, where I am still to-day, waiting patiently for a
discerning president and a vacancy in the legal department of the
cabinet. That's about all I am willing to say about myself.

As for this hero of mine, he was the handsomest, liveliest rascal you
would expect to meet in a day's ride. By handsome I do not mean
perfect features, red cheeks, Byronic eyes, and so forth. That style
of beauty belongs to the department of lady novelists. I mean that
peculiar manly beauty which attracts men almost as powerfully as it
does women. For the sake of a name I shall call him Warburton. His
given name in actual life is Robert. But I am afraid that nobody but
his mother and one other woman ever called him Robert. The world at
large dubbed him Bob, and such he will remain up to that day (and may
it be many years hence!) when recourse will be had to Robert, because
"Bob" would certainly look very silly on a marble shaft.

What a friendly sign is a nickname! It is always a good fellow who is
called Bob or Bill, Jack or Jim, Tom, Dick or Harry. Even out of
Theodore there comes a Teddy. I know in my own case the boys used to
call me Chuck, simply because I was named Charles. (I haven't the
slightest doubt that I was named Charles because my good mother
thought I looked something like Vandyke's _Charles I_, though at