"That does not matter at all," answered Aleko. "My father told me that it is a shame always to take, and never to give, however poor you are. He ..." pointing with his thumb backwards, "has given me much; may I not befriend him with three newspapers?" "Ah, that of course alters the question," remarked the officer. "I assure you," began the young man, "that I have never given the child a single thing!" Then turning to Aleko, "Are you thinking of the 'tsourekia'[10] and red eggs at Easter? but that was from all the members of the Parnassos, not from me alone." "No," said Aleko, "I mean that you have taught me many things, and that is more than things which are eaten and finished." "Oh, ho!" laughed the officer, "this is a philosopher we have here." "No," said Aleko gravely, "I have not enough learning; perhaps if I could go to school all day, I might be one, some time." The older man shook his head. "That is the way of the world. My son can go to school all day, and every day, and his one object is to stay away." "What do you want to be when you grow up?" asked the officer of Aleko. "I do not know ... yet," he answered slowly. "I want to learn how to do many things, and then to go and do them." "You could not wish better," said his boxing master. "I think you will be a man anyway. Here is your money, and run off to the Parnassos; I am not coming this evening; it is too hot for boxing." Then turning to the officer he quoted smilingly:-- hôs charien esth' anthrôpos hotan anthrôpos ê Aleko heard him, though he did not understand; and as he ran down Stadium Street, he kept repeating the words to himself for fear of forgetting them, and when he sat down in his place in the class, the first thing he did was to borrow a stump of a pencil from his neighbour, and write the words on the fly leaf of his reading book. Of course they were spelled and accented all wrong, but they could be read quite plainly. The arithmetic lesson came last, and Aleko was the last pupil called up to the blackboard, so that when the boys were leaving the class he ventured to show his sentence to the schoolmaster. "What does this mean, master?" The schoolmaster took up the book. "Why do you write on your school books?" he asked sharply. "I had no paper. What does it mean?" The master read the sentence slowly. "This is ancient Greek," he said. "You have not done any yet: you could not understand it. Even next year in the higher class, you will only do Æsop's fables, and a little Xenophon. Better leave it," he added laughing. "Do not trouble your head! It is not for you!" But Aleko put his book into his shoeblack box to take away with him. V