“CÆSAR will be the death of Dash some day, Tot,” said Nelly Pollard to her favourite brother—not a little boy in petticoats, as his name might imply, but a young man upwards of six feet, and “bearded like the pard.” The origin of his inappropriate name was capable of easy explanation, when it came to be investigated. He had been christened Reginald—an imposing and euphonious title which his numerous brothers and sisters in the nursery abbreviated unceremoniously to “Wretch.” The child naturally objecting to this corruption, an indulgent mother substituted the neutral epithet “Tot,” which was in keeping with a mite in a white frock and blue shoes; but “Tot,” in spite of the glaring discrepancy, stuck to the man after he had attained his full stature, and the frock and the shoes had been exchanged for a frock-coat and Blücher boots. “I am afraid that will be about it,” said Tot, with all a man’s barbarous _sang-froid_, in marked contrast to the accent of trepidation and terror with which Nelly had spoken. [Illustration] “Serve him right. Why need he play Boswell unasked to Cæsar’s Johnson?” “But if father would only see that Cæsar is a dreadful brute, and have him put away in time to save Dash,” she said pleadingly. “Why, you cannot complain of our father’s predilection, when it is shared to so great an extent by your silly favourite,” remonstrated Tot. “It is on the principle of Carlyle’s admiration of Frederick the Great, and of the present furor for Bismarck,” added Tot, who was fond of historical parallels. “What do you mean by putting away?” he pressed Nelly with pitiless directness. “I have no patience with euphemisms, Nell. Say at once that you would have Cæsar shot or hanged, in order to protect Dash from the natural consequences of his folly. Well, though I must say that is a queer kind of justice, by way of mercy, too——” “Oh! not shot or hanged, Tot. You know I did not mean that,” exclaimed Nelly piteously, interrupting her brother; “and you do not like Cæsar yourself.” “I am perfectly aware that he is a truculent ruffian,” said Tot, composedly. “He has grossly imposed on the governor. I would see him despatched with all the pleasure in life——” “I don’t believe you,” Nelly interrupted him again with energy. “Wait till I have finished my sentence,” complained Tot. “I was going to say that while I should have no objection to Cæsar’s meeting his deserts, I really cannot recognise the propriety of his falling a sacrifice to the stubborn idiotcy of Dash.”