I was talking to my old friend St.
Vincent last week, and he most heartily agreed with me. However, I don't
mean to blame you, Frank. You cannot help your unfortunate nature for
stringing ends of words together that happen to sound alike. Johnny will
make a fine Officer, not in the Navy, but of Artillery--Stubbard says
that he has the rarest eyes he ever came across in one so young, and he
wishes he could put them into his Bob's head. He shall not go back to
Harrow; he can spell his own name, which seems to be all they teach them
there, instead of fine scholarship, such as I obtained at Winton. But to
spell his own name is quite enough for a soldier. In the Navy we always
were better educated. Johnny shall go to Chatham, when his togs are
ready. I settled all about it in London, last week. Nothing hurts him.
He is water-proof and thunder-proof. Toss him up anyhow, he falls upon
his feet. But that sort of nature very seldom goes up high. But you,
Frank, you might have done some good, without that nasty twist of
yours for writing and for rhyming, which is a sure indication of spinal
complaint. Don't interrupt me; I speak from long experience. Things
might be worse, and I ought to be thankful. None of my children will
ever disgrace me. At the same time, things would go on better if I were
able to be more at home. That Caryl Carne, for instance, what does he
come here for?"
"Well, sir, he has only been here twice.
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