CHAPTER ONE.
HOW I CAME TO BE SENT TO STONEBRIDGE HOUSE.
"It was perfectly plain, Hudson, the boy could not be allowed to remain any longer a disgrace to the neighbourhood," said my uncle.
"But, sir," began my poor old nurse.
"That will do, Hudson," said my uncle, decisively; "the matter is settled--Frederick is going to Stonebridge House on Monday." And my uncle stood up, and taking a coat-tail under each arm, established himself upon the hearthrug, with his back to Mrs Hudson.
That was always a sign there was no more to be said; and off I was trotted out of the dreaded presence, not very sure whether to be elated or depressed by the conversation I had overheard.
And indeed I never was quite clear as to why, at the tender and guileless age of twelve, I was abruptly sent away from my native village of Brownstroke, to that select and popular "Academy for Backward and Troublesome Young Gentlemen," (so the advertisement ran), known as Stonebridge House, in the neighbourhood of Cliffshire.
Other people appeared to divine the reason, and Mrs Hudson shook her head and wiped her eyes when I consulted her on the subject.

It was queer.

"I must be a very backward boy," thought I to myself, "for try as I will, I don't see it." You must know I was an orphan.

I never could recollect my mother--nor could Mrs Hudson.

As to my father, all I could recall of him was that he had bushy eyebrows, and used to tell me some most wonderful stories about lions and tigers and other beasts of prey, and used now and then to show me my mother's likeness in a locket that hung on his watch- chain.