CHAPTER II.
TICKLE-ME-QUICK.
Being naturally of a retiring disposition, and in no sense the hero of the tale which I am about to tell, I shall say no more concerning myself than is absolutely necessary.

At the same time, it is essential to a right comprehension of what follows that I say something about myself, and better that I should say it now than interrupt the even flow of my narrative later on.
My name is Geoffrey Bacon, and I have reason to believe that I was born at a place in Essex called (appropriately enough) Dedham.

My family is one of the oldest in the county, and (of course) highly respectable; but as the question is often put to me by friends, and will naturally suggest itself to my readers, I may as well observe, once for all, that I am _not_ a descendent of the Lord Keeper Bacon, albeit, if he had had any children, I have no doubt I should have been.
My poor mother died in giving me birth; my father followed her when I was ten years old, leaving me with his blessing (nothing else), to the care of his aunt, Miss Ophelia Bacon, by whom I was brought up and educated.

She was very good to me, but though I was far from being intentionally ungrateful, I fear that I did not repay her goodness as it deserved.

The dear old lady had made up her mind that I should be a doctor, and though I would rather have been a farmer or a country gentleman (the latter for choice), I made no objection; and so long as I remained at school she had no reason to complain of my conduct.