If he polished me up once with his handkerchief, he did it twenty times, and each time with such vigour that I was nearly red-hot under the operation.

And no sooner was he tired of polishing me, than he took to paying his hat the same attention, till that wretched article of decoration must have trembled for its nap.

Then he would take to whistling and singing (what boy can help doing one or the other in a train ?) and as I heard all his little artless songs and gay chirping, I thought it the pleasantest music one could possibly listen to.

And, not to let his hands be less busy than his throat, he would bring out the wonderful six-bladed knife his uncle had given him, and exploring all its wonders, and opening all its blades at the same time, together with the corkscrew, the gimlet, the pincers, and the button-hook, at different angles, would terrify the lives out of his fellow-passengers by twirling the awful bristling weapon in his fingers within a foot or so of their faces.
"Mind, dear," said an old lady on the seat opposite, "you'll cut your fingers off, I'm certain." "Oh, no, I won't," exclaimed he, taking out his handkerchief, and beginning to polish the blades one after another.
The old lady trembled as she watched him, and sighed with relief when the operation was over.
Presently, having nothing particular to do, he stared at her.

"Would you like to know the time, ma'am ?" he inquired.
"If you please," replied the good old soul.
"Well, it's just seventeen minutes and nineteen seconds past three by my watch.