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 Chrononhotonthologos?”

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?

I know what the rest of ’em call him,—­said the young fellow.—­They call him Little Boston.  There’s no harm in that, is there?

It is an honorable term,—­I replied.—­But why Little Boston, in a place where most are Bostonians?

Because nobody else is quite so Boston all over as he is,—­said the young fellow.

“L.  B. Ob. 1692.”—­Little Boston let him be, when we talk about him.  The ring he wears labels him well enough.  There is stuff in the little man, or he would n’t stick so manfully by this crooked, crotchety old town.  Give him a chance.—­You will drop the Sculpin, won’t you?—­I said to the young fellow.

Drop him?—­he answered,—­I ha’n’t took him up yet.

No, no,—­the term,—­I said,—­the term.  Don’t call him so any more, if you please.  Call him Little Boston, if you like.

All right,—­said the young fellow.—­I would n’t be hard on the poor little—­

The word he used was objectionable in point of significance and of grammar.  It was a frequent termination of certain adjectives among the Romans,—­as of those designating a person following the sea, or given to rural pursuits.  It is classed by custom among the profane words; why, it is hard to say,—­but it is largely used in the street by those who speak of their fellows in pity or in wrath.