palavered a bit about the French news, and the weather, and the crops, whatever you like, let alone book learning; but that was not my course, and impatient to see Tom Pike, besides, so I ran slap aboard him at once with an ask to see the school. As I looked for, he was took all aback; however Madam wasn’t thrown so dead in the wind, but jumped up to the bell tackle, and after a bit of a whisper with the servant, we got under way for the school; but contrived to land somehow in the kitchen, with a long row of quartern loaves drawn up on a dresser to receive us, like a file of marines. Then Madam begins to spin a long yarn about plain food, but plenty of it, for growing youths--dear Bob’s very lathy, John, for all that--and then comes the Doctor’s turn to open with a preachment on animal foods, and what will digest, and what won’t; tho’ for my own part, I never met with any meat but would do it in time, more or less. So by way of clapping a stopper I made bold to remind that time is short tho’ life is long, and thereby luffing slap up to my Nevy, “Bob,” says I, “what’s the variation of the compass?” So Master Bob turns it about a bit, and then says he, “Why, it’s one leg shorter than t’other.” Which is about as nigh it, Brother, as you are to Table Bay! And how it gave the Doctor a bad fit of coughing, which his wife caught of him as natural as if it had been the hooping sort--at last says she, “Maybe Master Robert has not progressed yet into navigation.” “Maybe not, Ma’am,” says I, “and so we’ll try on another tack--Nevy, what’s metaphysics?” “Brimstone and Treacle,” says Bob, as ready as gunpowder, and the lady looked as satisfied as Bob did--but the Doctor had another bad fit, and good reason why, for there’s no more physic in metaphysics than a baby might take in its pap. By this time we were going up stairs, but lay-to awhile alongside a garden pump on the landing, to have a yarn about dowsing glims, and fire guards, and going the rounds at night; and as dear Bob hung astarn, I yawed, and let fly at him again with “What’s religion?” “The colic on Sundays,” says he, as smart as you like; tho’ what he meant by colic the Old Gentleman knows. However both the Doctor and Madam pulled a pleasant face at him, and looked as pleased as if he had found out the longitude; but that was too fine weather to last, for thinks I, in course he can carry on a little further on that board, so says I, “What’s the main-top-gallant rule of Christianity?” “Six weeks at Christmas,” says he, as bold as brass from getting encouraged before. So you see, John, he don’t know his own persuasion. In course we were all at wry faces again; but the Doctor had the gumption to shove his out of a window, and sing out an order to nobody in the back yard. As for Madam, she shot ahead into the sleeping rooms, where I saw half a hundred of white dimity cots, two warming-pans, and nine clothes baskets--Master Robert’s berth among the rest. Next we bore away