aking a
row, it takes away from the fun of your achievement, and makes the whole
affair more than a joke. Or, being asked, let us suppose, to name your
favourite hero in fiction, you are careful to select a somewhat out-of-
the-way name, and reply, "Sidney Carton." You are rather pleased to
think you have thereby not only named some one whom no one else is
likely to hit upon, but also you have delicately let your master see you
have lately read a very good book. It is rather vexing when Ebenezer
replies to the same question, "Sidney Carton," in a knowing sort of
manner, although you are positive he has never read the _Tale of Two
Cities_, and doesn't even know that Dickens was its author. Of course,
your distinction in the matter has gone, and if your answer is judged
the best, you only get half the credit you deserve. Or, to take one
more example, supposing one day, being utterly sick of Ebenezer's
society, and longing to get a little time by yourself, you decline the
tempting offer of a cricket match in which you know he also is likely to
play. You mean to read this afternoon, you say. Well, isn't it too bad
when next moment you hear that wretched Ebenezer saying, in answer to
the same invitation, "Very sorry, but I mean to read this afternoon,"
and then have him come and sit down on a bench beside you with his book?
And the worst of it is, you know if you now change your mind and go in
for the match after all, he will change _his_ mind and do the same.

The most aggravating thing about unoriginal fellows is that you cannot
well get in a rage with them, for if you find fault with them, you find
fault with yourselves.

"What a young ass you are not to play in the match!" you say to
Ebenezer, hardly able to contain yourself.

"Why aren't _you_ playing in it?" he replies.

"Oh! I've some particular reading I want to do," you say.

"So have I," replies he.

You cannot say, "You have no business to read when cricket is going on,"
nor can you say, "What do you mean by it?"

Clearly, if _you_ do it, you are not the person to say _he_ shall not.

I doubt if Ebenezer knows to what an extent he carries this trick of
his. It is so natural for him to do as he sees others do that he fails
to see how his actions appear in the same light as that in which others
see them. Sometimes, indeed, he appears to be conscious of following
his copy pretty closely, for we catch him trying to make some slight
variation which w