the greatest crime against their creations that authors can
commit--they have made them non-human. If the stories about George
Washington had narrated how on one occasion he laughed uproariously,
or how he once ate too many mince-pies, he might have escaped the
lamentable and unjust reputation which seems likely to be his fate for
another æon or two. That boys can be good and human everybody knows,
and the man who loves Tom Sawyer and sneers at Eric would be the first
to flog and abuse his son if he bore a closer resemblance to the
former than to the latter.

Baden-Powell as a boy was delightful. A grin always hovered about his
face, and the Spirit of Fun herself looked out of his sharp, brown
eyes. He was for ever making "the other chaps" roar; keeping a
football field on the giggle; sending a concert-audience into fits.
But he was just the sort of schoolboy of whom there would be no
incidents to record. Men who knew him and lived with him in those days
remember him, perhaps, more distinctly than any other boy of their
time, and at the merest mention of his name their eyes twinkle with
delight. "Oh, old Bathing Towel. George! what a funny beggar he was.
Remember him? I should think I did. Stories about him? Well, I don't
remember any just now, but dear old Bathing Towel----!" and off they
go into another roar of laughter. All they can tell you is how he used
to act and recite, and play all manner of musical instruments, or, if
you drag them away from the stage, how he used to rend the air with
his terrible war-whoop at the critical moment in a football match.

But although this is how it strikes a contemporary, Baden-Powell was
in deadly earnest when it was a matter of books and ink-pots. He might
be the funny man of the school, but he was also one of the most
brilliant. He gave his masters the impression of a boy who really