He was one whom you may be long in knowing, but whom the more you know the more you trust; and once trusting, you trust for ever.
Perhaps I may be supposed imaginative, or, at least, premature in discovering all these characteristics in a boy of fourteen; and possibly in thus writing of him I may unwittingly be drawing a little from after-experience; however, being the truth, let it stand.
"Come," said I, changing the conversation, "we have had enough of me; how goes the world with you?
Have you taken kindly to the tan-yard?
Answer frankly." He looked at me hard, put both his hands in his pockets, and began to whistle a tune.
"Don't shirk the question, please, John.

I want to know the real truth." "Well, then, I hate the tan-yard." Having relieved his mind by this ebullition, and by kicking a small heap of tan right down into the river, he became composed.
"But, Phineas, don't imagine I intend to hate it always; I intend to get used to it, as many a better fellow than I has got used to many a worse thing.

It's wicked to hate what wins one's bread, and is the only thing one is likely to get on in the world with, merely because it's disagreeable." "You are a wise lad of your age, John." "Now don't you be laughing at me." (But I was not, I was in solemn earnest).

"And don't think I'm worse than I am; and especially that I'm not thankful to your good father for giving me a lift in the world--the first I ever really had.

If I get one foot on the ladder, perhaps I may climb." "I should rather believe so," answered I, very confidently.