CHAPTER One
In Which I Introduce Myself
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. 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.