——­My friend,—­said I to the young fellow whom, as I have said, the boarders call “John,”—­My friend,—­I said, one morning, after breakfast,—­can you give me any information respecting the deformed person who sits at the other end of the table?

What! the Sculpin?—­said the young fellow.

The diminutive person, with angular curvature of the spine,—­I said,—­and double talipes varus,—­I beg your pardon,—­with two club-feet.

Is that long word what you call it when a fellah walks so?—­said the young man, making his fists revolve round an imaginary axis, as you may have seen youth of tender age and limited pugilistic knowledge, when they show how they would punish an adversary, themselves protected by this rotating guard,—­the middle knuckle, meantime, thumb-supported, fiercely prominent, death-threatening.

It is,—­said I.—­But would you have the kindness to tell me if you know anything about this deformed person?

About the Sculpin?—­said the young fellow.

My good friend,—­said I,—­I am sure, by your countenance, you would not hurt the feelings of one who has been hardly enough treated by Nature to be spared by his fellows.  Even in speaking of him to others, I could wish that you might not employ a term which implies contempt for what should inspire only pity.

A fellah’s no business to be so——­crooked,—­said the young man called John.

Yes, yes,—­I said, thoughtfully,—­the strong hate the weak.  It’s all right.  The arrangement has reference to the race, and not to the individual.  Infirmity must be kicked out, or the stock run down.  Wholesale moral arrangements are so different from retail!—­I understand the instinct, my friend,—­it is cosmic,—­it is planetary,—­it is a conservative principle in creation.

The young fellow’s face gradually lost its expression as I was speaking, until it became as blank of vivid significance as the countenance of a gingerbread rabbit with two currants in the place of eyes.  He had not taken my meaning.

Presently the intelligence came back with a snap that made him wink, as he answered,—­Jest so.  All right.  A 1.  Put her through.  That’s the way to talk.  Did you speak to me, Sir?—­Here the young man struck up that well-known song which I think they used to sing at Masonic festivals, beginning, “Aldiborontiphoscophornio, Where left you Chrononholonthologos?”

I beg your pardon.—­I said;—­all I meant was, that men, as temporary occupants of a permanent abode called human life, which is improved or injured by occupancy, according to the style of tenant, have a natural dislike to those who, if they live the life of the race as well as of the individual, will leave lasting injurious effects upon the abode spoken of, which is to be occupied by countless future generations.  This is the final cause of the underlying brute instinct which we have in common with the herds.

——­The gingerbread-rabbit expression was coming on so fast, that I thought I must try again.—­It’s a pity that families are kept up, where there are such hereditary infirmities.  Still, let us treat this poor man fairly, and not call him names.  Do you know what his name is?