“None of that,” said the stern voice of Mr. Dodson, who had crept up behind him, he having returned by a special dispensation on the part of providence, which took the form of a lack of means, some twenty minutes before his usual time. In consequence, the philosophic calm, upon which Mr. Dodson justly prided himself, was a little ruffled. “If Pa sees you there’ll be trouble,” he said, taking his charge by the ear for due admonishment. “_Dick Deadeye, The Adventures of Jack Sheppard_, and that sort of truck, doesn’t do in the counting-house of Crumpett and Hawker. I am surprised at you, Luney, I really am.” Each of these sentences was punctuated by a solemn blow on the ear, which made the recipient gasp. “Why, what the dooce is it?” said Mr. Dodson, as his eye fell on the curious old black volume. “It looks like a Bible for the blind, or a privately printed copy of Magna Charta. Give it to me!” The boy, oppressed with a dreadful sense of guilt and humiliation that he should be detected in the act of reading in the ancient authors almost on the first occasion he had attempted to do so outside the little room, yielded his treasure with a sinking heart into the ruthless grasp of his mentor. “I k-k-knew it was w-wrong, wicked,” he gasped, “to b-b-ring the ancient authors into the great world out of doors, but--but they give me such a great s-s-strength in my veins that----” “What are you burbling about, you lunatic?” said Mr. Dodson truculently. “Stow it; and tell me the name of this very fishy-looking volume. Is it a Russian hymn-book, or a bit of Chinese, or a copy of the last will and testament of Omar Khayyam, or what the dooce is it? I hope there is nothing in it there shouldn’t be, that’s all.” “It is the _Adventures of Odysseus_,” said the boy, with the blood springing to his cheeks. Even as he spoke he speculated as to what dire fate would overtake him for having dared to expose his sacred intercourse with heroes to the scorn of the great world out of doors; yet he was fain to marvel also that one such as his mentor should not recognize at a glance the nature of his crime. “Who’s he?” said his mentor sternly. “Who in the name of thunder is Odys---- Stars above! I never saw such rum-looking stuff in my life. I should say it is a pretty fair imitation of a bad dream.” “I k-k-know it is an offence against the gods,” said the culprit, with a scared face, “to bring the sacred words of Homer into the great world out of doors; but you do not know how he sustains me in my heavy tasks.” “Homer, did you say?” inquired his mentor incredulously. “Homer; why then, that’s Greek!” “Oh y-y-yes,” said the boy, his fear yielding somewhat to bewilderment that one of his mentor’s attainments should ply him with a question so unnecessary. “You are not going to come it over James Dodson, my son, that you read Greek,” said that gentleman, renouncing his own magisterial air for one of protest and astonishment.