The master of his house has been heard to predict that the boy would either live to be hanged or to become a great man.

Some of his less diplomatic school- fellows had predicted both things, and when at the end of a year he refused point blank to return to school, and solemnly assured his father that if he was sent back he should run away on the earliest opportunity, it was generally allowed that for a youth of his age he had some decided ideas of his own.
The chief fault about him, say some, is that he has too many ideas of his own, and tries to run them all together.

But we are digressing, and keeping him from his dinner.
"My dear boy, where have you been ?" says the mother; "we have been looking for you everywhere." "Oh, out!" replies Percy, hastily taking stock of the bill of fare.
"Well, run and dress yourself, or dinner will be cold." "I'm too fagged," says Percy, coolly taking a seat.

"Some soup, please." "I can't have you sit down in that state, Percy," says Mr Rimbolt; "it is not polite to your mother and Raby." "If the poor boy is tired," says Mrs Rimbolt, "we must excuse him this once." So Mr Rimbolt, as has happened more than once before, gives in, and Percy does as he pleases.
He does full justice to his dinner, and takes no part in the conversation, which is chiefly carried on by Mr Rimbolt, sometimes with his wife, sometimes with Raby.

At length, however, the first cravings of appetite being subdued, he shows a readiness to put in his oar.
"How goes the invisible paint, Percy ?" asks his father, with a twinkle in his eye.
"Used up," replies the boy solemnly.