"It's nearly fifteen years, as you say," he began, "since you used to
call me 'butter-fingers' for always missing the ball. That's a long time
to give an account of, and yet they have been, for me, such eventless,
monotonous years, that I could almost tell their history in ten words.
You, I suppose, have had all kinds of adventures and travelled over half
the world. I remember you had a turn for deeds of daring; I used to
think you a little Captain Cook in roundabouts, for climbing the garden
fence to get the ball when I had let it fly over. I climbed no fences
then or since. You remember my father, I suppose, and the great care he
took of me? I lost him some five months ago. From those boyish days up
to his death we were always together. I don't think that in fifteen
years we spent half a dozen hours apart. We lived in the country, winter
and summer, seeing but three or four people. I had a succession of
tutors, and a library to browse about in; I assure you I am a tremendous
scholar. It was a dull life for a growing boy, and a duller life for a
young man grown, but I never knew it. I was perfectly happy." He spoke
of his father at some length, and with a respect which I privately
declined to emulate. Mr.
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