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I cried, and I patted applause, as she deserved. "And you had better make over your stocks to me at once," I continued. "I cannot without your Uncle Bratley's permission. He is my trustee. Go to him, my dear son." I went to him very unwillingly. My father and I had always as much as possible ignored the Bratley connection.
I was silent, and bore the scornful looks of my persecutors with patience and dignity. Plickaman repeated the sentence. "But hear the rest," said he, and read on: "From what you say of her tinge of African blood and other charming traits, I have constructed this portrait of the future Mrs. Bratley Chylde, as the Hottentot Venus. Behold it!"
It should have allow me a vulgar term "indorsed" me with the tradesmen who have the honor to supply me with the glove, the boot, the general habiliment, and all the requisites of an elegant appearance upon the carpet or the trottoir. But, alas! I am not so indorsed pardon the mercantile aroma of the word by the name Bratley. The late Mr.
When I state that my name is A. Bratley Chylde, I presume that I am already sufficiently introduced. My patronymic establishes my fashionable position. Chylde, the distinguished monosyllable, is a card of admission everywhere, everywhere that is anywhere. And my matronymic, Bratley, should have established my financial position for life.
I need not say that I was suffering extremities of apprehension all this time; but still I could not refrain from a slight sympathetic smile of triumph as the others roared with laughter at my accurate analysis of my rival. "You'll pay for this, Mr. A. Bratley Chylde!" says Plickaman. So long as my Saccharissa was on my side, I felt no special fear of what my foes might do.
My mother is a good, faithful creature. She looks up to me as a Bratley should to a Chylde. She appreciates the honor my father did her by his marriage, and I by my birth. I have frequently remarked a touching fidelity of these persons of the lower classes of society toward those of higher rank. "I would make any sacrifice in the world," she said, "to help you, my dear A " "Hush!" I cried.
"And now, Colonel, read the letter upon which our sentence is principally based, that traitorous document which you and our patriotic postmaster arrested." The ruffian, with a triumphant glance at me, took from his pocket a letter from Derby Deblore. He cleared his throat by a plenteous expectoration, and then proceeded to read as follows: "Dear Bratley, Nigger ran like a hound.
"Continue, Colonel," said Judge Pyke, severely. Plickaman resumed the reading of my friend's letter. "Well, Bratley," Deblore went on, "I hope you'll be able to stand Bayou La Farouche till you're married. I couldn't do it. I roar over your letters. But I swear I respect your powers of humbug. I suppose, if you didn't let out to me, you never could lie so to your dear Saccharissa.
The creature grinned. "I shall pay your mother's income quarterly, and do the best I can by her," he continued; "and if you want to make a man of yourself, I'll give you a chance in the bakery with me; or Sam Bratley will take you into his brewery; or Bob into his pork-packery." I checked my indignation. The vulgarian wished to drag me, a Chylde, down to the Bratley level.
I cannot blame him for these and similar gentlemanly tastes. My own are the same. The late Mr. A. Bratley, at that time in his dotage, and recurring to the crude idioms of his homely youth, constantly said to my father, "Harold, you are a spendthrift and a rake, and are bringing up your son the same."
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