“Stitched on with wire,” said Mr. Dodson, “but every sucking Cabinet Minister as-sim-i-lates that at his Board School now-a-days. And there are a lot of other little things you have got to have in these days, my son, if you want to see your name in _The Times_ when they are handing around the Birthday Honours. And there is one little thing you have not got, which to my mind is fun-da-ment-ally necessary.” Mr. Dodson’s voice sank into mystery. “Fun-da-mentally necessary. Octavius will tell you the same. You want a manner.” “A--a m-manner, sir?” said the boy. “Yes, my son, a manner,” said Mr. Dodson. “And for heaven’s sake drop the sir. I’m not a King or a Commissioner of Police or a Colonel in the volunteers, not yet at any rate. As I say, you want a manner.” “A m-manner!” said the boy anxiously. “Never heard of a manner, I suppose,” said Mr. Dodson in as withering a tone as two tankards of “half-and-half with plenty of top” would permit. “Bright boy! As Pa says, you are about as fit to sit on a stool in the counting-house of Crumpett and Hawker as Pontius Pilate was to sit on the Board of Governors of Eternal Bliss. I suppose you’ll be saying next you have never heard of Eton and Oxford.” “E-Eton and O-Oxford,” said the boy. His desperate ignorance caused him to take a leap in the dark. “Oh, y-y-yes,” he said anxiously, “I--I--s-suppose, sir, they would be eminent p-publishers the same as Messrs. Crumpett and Hawker.” “Stars above!” Mr. Dodson so far forgot the exigencies of polite life as to dance several steps in public. “If you go on at this rate, my son, we shall have to have you bled for the simples. I must get Pa to tell that to Octavius. Why, can’t you see, lunatic, that Octavius has got Eton and Oxford written all over him, and therefore that every cove in the counting-house of Crumpett and Hawker, from Pa himself who sits at a table and snubs his betters to underpaid menials like you and me, have got to have Eton and Oxford written all over them too?” “I--I d-don’t understand,” the boy stammered feebly. “What is there to understand, fathead?” said Mr. Dodson. “It simply means that, like everybody else, you have got to take Octavius for your model. Of course you needn’t keep it up out of office hours unless you like. Only chaps with a strong constitution can keep it up all the time.” “I--I d-don’t understand,” said the boy.