If I give one day of my life, I give, with very nearly exactness, the unbroken course of my existence. I rose very early—hours ere the rest of the household was stirring—to work at my lessons, which Mr. Eccles apportioned for me with a liberality that showed he had the highest opinion of my abilities, or—as I discovered later on to be the truth—a profound indifference about them. Thus, a hundred lines of Virgil, thirty of Xenophon, three propositions of Euclid, with a sufficient amount of history, geography, and logic, would be an ordinary day's work. It is fair I should own that when the time of examination came, I found him usually imbibing seltzer and curacoa, with a wet towel round his head; or, in his robuster moments, practising the dumbbells to develop his muscles. So that the interrogatories-were generally in this wise:—

“How goes it, Digby? What of the Homer, eh?”

“'It 's Xenophon, sir.”

“'To be sure it is. I was forgetting, as a man might who had my headache. And, by the way, Digby, why will your father give Burgundy at supper instead of Bordeaux? Some one must surely have told him accidentally it was a deadly poison, for he adheres to it with desperate fidelity.”

“I believe I know my Greek, sir,” would I say, modestly, to recall him to the theme.

“Of course you do; you'd cut a sorry figure here this morning if you did not know it. No, sir; I 'm not the man to enjoy your father's confidence, and take his money, and betray my trust His words to me were, 'Make him a gentleman, Eccles. I could find scores of fellows to cram him with Greek particles and double equations, but I want the man who can turn out the perfect article,—the gentleman.' Come now, what relations subsisted between Cyrus and Xenophon?”

“Xenophon coached him, sir.”

“So he did. Just strike a light for me. My head is splitting for want of a cigar. You may have a cigarette too. I don't object Virgil we'll keep till to-morrow. Virgil was a muff, after all. Virgil was a decentish sort of Martin Tupper, Digby. He had no wit, no repartee, no smartness; he prosed about ploughs and shepherds, like a maudlin old squire; or he told a very shady sort of anecdote about Dido, which I always doubted should be put into the hands of youth. Horace is free, too, a thought too free; but he could n't help it. Horace lived the same kind of life we do here, a species of roast-partridge and pretty woman sort of life; but then he was the gentleman always. If old Flaccus had lived now, he'd have been pretty much like Bob Eccles, and putting in his divinity lectures perhaps. By the way, I hope your father won't go and give away that small rectory in Kent. 'We who live to preach, must preach to live.' That is n't exactly the line, but it will do. Pulvis et umbra sumus, Digby; and take what care we may of ourselves, we must go back, as the judges say, to the place from whence we came. There, now, you 've had classical criticism, sound morality, worldly wisdom, and the rest of it; and, with your permission, we'll pack up the books, and stand prorogued till—let me see—Saturday next.”

Of course I moved no amendment, and went my way rejoicing.

From that hour I was free to follow my own inclinations, which usually took a horsey turn; and as the stable offered several mounts, I very often rode six hours a day. Hotham was always to be found in the pistol-gallery about four of an afternoon, and I usually joined him there, and speedily became more than his match.

“Well, youngster,” he would say, when beaten and irritable, “I can beat your head off at billiards, anyhow.”

But I was not long in robbing him of even this boast, and in less than three months I could defy the best player in the house. The fact was, I had in a remarkable degree that small talent for games of every kind which is a speciality with certain persons. I could not only learn a game quickly, but almost always attain considerable skill in it.

“So, sir,” said my father to me one day at dinner,—and nothing was more rare than for him to address a word to me, and I was startled as he did so,—“so, sir, you are going to turn out an Admirable Crichton on my hands, it seems. I hear of nothing but your billiard-playing, your horsemanship, and your cricketing, while Mr. Eccles tells me that your progress with him is equally remarkable.”

He stopped and seemed to expect me to make some rejoinder; but I could not utter a word, and felt overwhelmed at the observation and notice his speech had drawn upon me.

“It's better I should tell you at once,” resumed my father, “that I dislike prodigies. I dislike because I distrust them. The fellow who knows at fourteen what he might reasonably have known at thirty is not unlikely to stop short at fifteen and grow no more. I don't wish to be personal, but I have heard it said Cleremont was a very clever boy.”

The impertinence of this speech, and the laughter it at once excited, served to turn attention away from me; but, through the buzz and murmur around, I overheard Cleremont say to Hotham, “I shall pull him up short one of these days, and you 'll see an end of all this.”

“Now,” continued my father, “if Eccles had told me that the boy was a skilful hand at sherry-cobbler, or a rare judge of a Cuban cigar, I 'd have reposed more faith in the assurance than when he spoke of his classics.”

“He ain't bad at a gin-sling with bitters, that I must say,” said Eccles, whose self-control or good-humor, or mayhap some less worthy trait, always carried him successfully over a difficulty.

“So, sir,” said my father, turning again on me, “the range of your accomplishments is complete. You might be a tapster or a jockey. When the nobility of France came to ruin in the Revolution, the best blood of the kingdom became barbers and dancing-masters: so that when some fine morning that gay gentleman yonder will discover that he is a beggar, he 'll have no difficulty in finding a calling to suit his tastes, and square with his abilities. What's Hotham grumbling about? Will any one interpret him for me?”

“Hotham is saying that this claret is corked,” said the sea-captain, with a hoarse loud voice.

“Bottled at home!” said my father, “and, like your own education, Hotham, spoiled for a beggarly economy.”

“I 'm glad you 've got it,” muttered Cleremont, whose eyes glistened with malignant spite. “I have had enough of this; I 'm for coffee,” and he arose as he spoke.

“Has Cleremont left us?” asked my father.

“Yes; that last bottle has finished him. I told you before, Nixon knows nothing about wine. I saw that hogshead lying bung up for eight weeks before it was drawn off for bottling.”

“Why didn't you speak to him about it, then?”

“And be told that I'm not his master, eh? You don't seem to know, Norcott, that you 've got a houseful of the most insolent servants in Christendom. Cleremont's wife wanted the chestnuts yesterday in the phaeton, and George refused her: she might take the cobs, or nothing.”

“Quite true,” chimed in Eccles; “and the fellow said, 'I 'm a-taking the young horses out in the break, and if the missis wants to see the chestnuts, she'd better come with me.'**

“And as to a late breakfast now, it's quite impossible; they delay and delay till they run you into luncheon,” growled Hotham.

“They serve me my chocolate pretty regularly,” said my father, negligently, and he arose and strolled out of the room. As he went, he slipped his arm within mine, and said, in a half-whisper, “I suppose it will come to this,—I shall have to change my friends or my household. Which would you advise?”

“I 'd say the friends, sir.”

“So should I, but that they would not easily find another place. There, go and see is the billiard-room lighted. I want to see you play a game with Cleremont.”

Cleremont was evidently sulking under the sarcasm passed on him, and took up his cue to play with a bad grace.

“Who will have five francs on the party?” said my father. “I 'm going to back the boy.”

“Make it pounds, Norcott,” said Hotham.

“I'll give you six to five, in tens,” said Cleremont to my father. “Will you take it?”

I was growing white and red by turns all this time. I was terrified at the thought that money was to be staked on my play, and frightened by the mere presence of my father at the table.

“The youngster is too nervous to play. Don't let him, Norcott,” said Hotham, with a kindness I had not given him credit for.

“Give me the cue, Digby; I 'll take your place,” said my father; and Cleremont and Hotham both drew nigh, and talked to him in a low tone.

“Eight and the stroke then be it,” said my father, “and the bet in fifties.” The others nodded, and Cleremont began the game.

I could not have believed I could have suffered the amount of intense anxiety that game cost me. Had my life been on the issue, I do not think I could have gone through greater alternations of hope and fear than now succeeded in my heart Cleremont started with eight points odds, and made thirty-two off the balls before my father began to play. He now took his place, and by the first stroke displayed a perfect mastery of the game. There was a sort of languid grace, an indolent elegance about all he did, that when the stroke required vigor or power made me tremble for the result; but somehow he imparted the exact amount of force needed, and the balls moved about here and there as though obedient to some subtle instinct of which the cue gave a mere sign. He scored forty-two points in a few minutes, and then drawing himself up, said, “There 's an eight-stroke now on the table. I 'll give any one three hundred Naps to two that I do it.”

None spoke. “Or I 'll tell you what I 'll do. I 'll take fifty from each of you and draw the game!” Another as complete silence ensued. “Or here 's a third proposition, Give me fifty between you, and I 'll hand over the cue to the boy; he shall finish the game.”

“Oh, no, sir! I beg you—I entreat—” I began; but already, “Done,” had been loudly uttered by both together, and the bet was ratified.

“Don't be nervous, boy,” said my father, handing me his cue. “You see what's on the balls. You cannon and hold the white, and land the red in the middle pocket. If you can't do the brilliant thing, and finish the game with an eight stroke, do the safe one,—the cannon or the hazard. But, above all, don't lose your stroke, sir. Mind that, for I've a pot of money on the game.”

“I don't think you ought to counsel him, Norcott,” said Cleremont. “If he's a player, he's fit to devise his own game.”

“Oh, hang it, no,” broke in Hotham; “Norcott has a perfect right to tell him what's on the table.”

“If you object seriously, sir,” said my father proudly, “the party is at an end.”

“I put it to yourself,” began Cleremont.

“You shall not appeal to me against myself, sir. You either withdraw your objection, or you maintain it.”

“Of course he withdraws it,” said Hotham, whose eyes never wandered from my father's face.

Cleremont nodded a half-unwilling assent.

“You will do me the courtesy to speak, perhaps,” said my father; and every word came from him with a tremulous roll.

“Yes, yes, I agree. There was really nothing in my remark,” said Cleremont, whose self-control seemed taxed to its last limit.

“There, go on, boy, and finish this stupid affair,” said my father, and he turned to the chimney to light his cigar.

I leaned over the table, and a mist seemed to rise before me. I saw volumes of cloud rolling swiftly across, and meteors, or billiard-balls, I knew not which, shooting through them. I played and missed; I did not even strike a ball. A wild roar of laughter, a cry of joy, and a confused blending of several voices in various tones followed, and I stood there like one stunned into immobility. Meanwhile Cleremont finished the game, and, clapping me gayly on the shoulder, cried, “I 'm more grateful to you than your father is, my lad. That shaking hands of yours has made a difference of two hundred Naps to me.” I turned towards the fire; my father had left the room.