one does, the rest must do; whatever there
is, the rest must share; whereas, if a fellow was an only son, he would
have the whole--and by all the rules of arithmetic, one is better than a
tenth."

"And by the same rules, ten is better than one," said the friend.

"Sold again!" sang out Master Jack from the floor, and went head over
heels against the fender.

His brother boxed his ears with great promptitude; and went on--"Well, I
don't care; confess, sir; isn't it rather a nuisance?"

Paterfamilias's friend looked very grave, and said quietly, "I don't
think I am able to judge. I never had brother or sister but one, and he
was drowned at sea. Whatever I have had, I have had the whole of, and
would have given it away willingly for some one to give it to. I
remember that I got a lot of sticks at last, and cut heads and faces to
all of them, and carved names on their sides, and called them my
brothers and sisters. If you want to know what I thought a nice number
for a fellow to have, I can only say that I remember carving
twenty-five. I used to stick them in the ground and talk to them. I have
been only, and lonely, and alone, all my life, and have never felt the
nuisance you speak of."

"I know what would be very nice," insinuated one of the sisters.

"What?"

"If you wouldn't mind telling us a very short story till supper-time."

"Well, what sort of a story is it to be?"

"Any sort," said Richard; "only not too true, if you please. I don't
like stories like tracts. There was an usher at a school I was at, and
he used to read tracts about good boys and bad boys to the fellows on
Sunday afternoon. He always took out the real names, and put in the
names of the fellows instead. Those who had done well in the week, he
put in as good ones, and those who hadn't as the bad. He didn't like me,
and I was always put in as a bad boy, and I came to so many untimely
ends, I got sick of it. I was hanged twice, and transported once for
sheep stealing; I committed suicide one week, and broke into the bank
the next; I ruined three families, became a hopeless drunkard, and broke
the hearts of my twelve distinct parents. I used to beg him to let me
be reformed next week; but he said he never would till I did my Caesar
better. So, if you please, we'll have a story that can't be true."

"Very well," said the friend, laughing; "but if it isn't true, may I put
you in? All the best writers, you know, draw their characters from their