In short, I was a real human boy, such as you may meet anywhere in New England, and no more like the impossible boy in a storybook than a sound orange is like one that has been sucked dry.

But let us begin at the beginning.
Whenever a new scholar came to our school, I used to confront him at recess with the following words: "My name's Tom Bailey; what's your name ?" If the name struck me favorably, I shook hands with the new pupil cordially; but if it didn't, I would turn on my heel, for I was particular on this point.

Such names as Higgins, Wiggins, and Spriggins were deadly affronts to my ear; while Langdon, Wallace, Blake, and the like, were passwords to my confidence and esteem.
Ah me! some of those dear fellows are rather elderly boys by this time--lawyers, merchants, sea-captains, soldiers, authors, what not?
Phil Adams (a special good name that Adams) is consul at Shanghai, where I picture him to myself with his head closely shaved--he never had too much hair--and a long pigtail banging down behind.

He is married, I hear; and I hope he and she that was Miss Wang Wang are very happy together, sitting cross-legged over their diminutive cups of tea in a skyblue tower hung with bells.

It is so I think of him; to me he is henceforth a jewelled mandarin, talking nothing but broken China.