to the Saxons and Normans a second too soon:
"See if Ivanhoe isn't going to smash that big-mouthed Sir Brian de
Bois-Guilbert!" And all the time he felt as if he were--Ivanhoe? No,
as if he were the deity, who must give the hero strength to overcome
that infamous scoundrel, Brian de Bois-Guilbert.

Then all at once the door-bell would ring, and the magnanimous Walter
would have to occupy himself with things less chivalrous.

The only thing he could do in such moments was to weigh accurately,
and not give anybody a cigar from the "tens" instead of from
the "eights." Such conscienciousness, however, was futile, for
in the cigar-boxes were cigars that ought to have been called
"twenties." Mr. Motto said that the customers were usually drunk,
and that it was all right to give them cabbage leaves to smoke. "You
must size up your customer. That's the main thing."

This was something Walter never could learn. With him, ten was ten,
eight eight--no matter who the customer was. To take an unfair
advantage, or tell a lie never occurred to him. From fear or
embarrassment he might possibly tell an untruth; but if he had been
asked a second time----

As strange as it may seem, this aversion to lying and deception
was nourished by the books he read. The brave knight fought till he
was victorious, or dead. Only the fatally wounded surrendered. All
this had Walter's hearty endorsement: He would not have acted
differently. The beautiful heroine was loved by everybody; and the
rejected suitors died of despair, or joined some desperate band. All
quite proper. The good remained steadfast, in spite of the Devil and
all his machinations--yes, in spite of tedium. Once selected by the
author to be a high-toned, moral hero--then spotless garments! Walter
wondered if such a one could have a pain in the stomach, or suffer
other inconvenience. Certainly not in books!

He did not know that such perfection was humbug. He was satisfied
when the characters in such novels did what was required of them by
the author. The villains were always betraying somebody; the heroes
killed everything that got in their way; and the beautiful virgins
charmed everybody. Even God, the God of romance, did his duty much
better than--but that's another detail.

Yesterday on the Zeedyk a big boy had beaten a little fellow. That
ought to happen in a book. How all the knights would have come
running! Walter, too, was going to--but how could he help it if his
employe