"Hem!" said my uncle.

My father rubbed his spectacles thoughtfully, and replied, after a long
pause,--

"You may be right, Kitty: I don't think Pisistratus is meant for study;
action will suit him better. But what does this office lead to?"

"Public employment, sir," said I, boldly; "the service of my country."

"If that be the case," quoth Roland, "have not a word to say. But I
should have thought that for a lad of spirit, a descendant of the old De
Caxtons, the army would have--"

"The army!" exclaimed my mother, clasping her hands, and looking
involuntarily at my uncle's cork leg.

"The army!" repeated my father, peevishly. "Bless my soul, Roland, you
seem to think man is made for nothing else but to be shot at! You would
not like the army, Pisistratus?"

"Why, sir, not if it pained you and my dear mother; otherwise, indeed--"

"Papoe!" said my father, interrupting me. "This all comes of your
giving the boy that ambitious, uncomfortable name, Mrs. Caxton; what
could a Pisistratus be but the plague of one's life? That idea of
serving his country is Pisistratus ipsissimus all over. If ever I have
another son (Dii metiora!) he has only got to be called Eratostratus,
and then he will be burning down St. Paul's,--which I believe was, by
the way, first made out of the stones of a temple to Diana. Of the two,