This is the story of a bad boy.

Well, not such a very bad, but a pretty bad boy; and I ought to know, for I am, or rather I was, that boy myself.
Lest the title should mislead the reader, I hasten to assure him here that I have no dark confessions to make.

I call my story the story of a bad boy, partly to distinguish myself from those faultless young gentlemen who generally figure in narratives of this kind, and partly because I really was not a cherub.

I may truthfully say I was an amiable, impulsive lad, blessed with fine digestive powers, and no hypocrite.

I didn't want to be an angel and with the angels stand; I didn't think the missionary tracts presented to me by the Rev.Wibird Hawkins were half so nice as Robinson Crusoe; and I didn't send my little pocket-money to the natives of the Feejee Islands, but spent it royally in peppermint-drops and taffy candy.