fearless deviltry in him besides his gentle love of books. I'm bound
to say that now, for the first time, I really admired him. I had
burnt my own very respectable boats behind me, and I rather enjoyed
knowing that he, too, could act briskly in a pinch.

"Well!" I said. "You are a cool hand! It's a good job for you that
you didn't stay a schoolmaster. You might have taught your pupils
some fine deviltries! And at your age, too!"

I'm afraid my raillery goes a little too far sometimes. He flushed
a bit at my reference to his age, and puffed sharply at his pipe.

"I say," he rejoined, "how old do you think I am, anyway? Only
forty-one, by the bones of Byron! Henry VIII was only forty-one
when he married Anne Boleyn. There are many consolations in history
for people over forty! Remember that when you get there.

"Shakespeare wrote 'King Lear' at forty-one," he added, more
humorously; and then burst out laughing. "I'd like to edit a series
of 'Chloroform Classics,' to include only books written after forty.
Who was that doctor man who recommended anaesthetics for us at that
age? Now isn't that just like a medico? Nurse us through the
diseases of childhood, and as soon as we settle down into permanent
good health and worldly wisdom, and freedom from doctors' fees, why
he loses interest in us! Jove! I must note that down and bring it
into my book."

He pulled out a memorandum book and jotted down "Chloroform
Classics" in a small, neat hand.