“I b-b-bear every word of all the sacred writings of Homer imprinted in my heart,” said the boy, with only a partial understanding of Mr. Dodson’s very visible surprise. “P-p-perchance after the callow days of our childhood have passed, when the mind is like sand, it is a violation of the dream knowledge that has grown up all about our hearts to turn yet again to those pages in which the great wonders were first revealed to us. But even to this hour I love to gaze on the printed pages which these long years have lain in my soul.” Mr. Dodson paid no heed to the strange and incoherent phrases which proceeded from the lips of William Jordan, Junior. He was too greatly preoccupied with an examination of the curious volume that was now in his hands. After turning it over and inspecting it inside and out a look of immense perplexity settled upon his wizened countenance. “My aunt!” he said, “it _is_ Homer.” He looked from the book to the boy, from the boy to the book. “Luney,” he said, with slow-drawn solemnity, “you beat cock-fighting, you do.” The boy quailed under a gaze, whose blank surprise he misinterpreted as some more truculent emotion. “Why, do you know, my son,” said Mr. Dodson, “it takes Pa himself all his time to read Homer without a crib.” This contribution to national biography awoke no response in the breast of the boy. “And yet, Luney,” said Mr. Dodson, in a voice that had a thrill of emotion in it, “here are you in your dinner hour reading it as naturally as I read the _Sporting Times_. Let me look at you, you lunatic.” Mr. Dodson grasped his _protégé_ by the chin in the manner in which a veterinary surgeon grasps a horse, and peered somewhat aggressively into the gentle and pale countenance of William Jordan, Junior. “Well, all I can say is, my son,” said Mr. Dodson, after he had conducted his researches with a thoroughness which made the subject of them tremble, “all I can say is you can’t be such a blighter as you look.” William Jordan, Junior, could frame no reply to this profound judgment. “How old are you, Luney?” Mr. Dodson inquired. “E-eighteen years and f-fifty-nine days, sir,” stammered William Jordan, Junior. “My aunt!” said Mr. Dodson, with incredulity, “you don’t look a day more than twelve and a half. You might travel half-fare on the District Railway.” Suddenly Mr. Dodson clenched his hands. “Luney,” said he vehemently, “do you suppose if _I_ were you _I_ should be sitting down-stairs on a high stool? Not me. You ought to go far, my son, you ought. But you never will. You haven’t got it about you; and,” concluded Mr. Dodson grimly, “it is a good thing for some of us you ain’t.”