But he had a son, and the son had a head on his shoulders a
magnificent head that boy had. Mr. Horace Jewdwine had noticed it the
first minute he came into the shop. And the magnificence of Keith's
head had been pointed out to Isaac long before that, when Keith
couldn't have been more than ten--why, nine he was; that was the
beginning of it. Isaac could remember how Sir Joseph Harden of
Lazarus, the great scholar, who was one of Isaac's best customers,
poking round the little dingy shop in Paternoster Row (it was all
second-hand in those days), came on the young monkey perched on the
step-ladder, reading Homer. Sir Joseph had made him come down and
translate for him then and there. And Keith went at it, translating
for twenty minutes straight on end. Sir Joseph had said nothing, but
he asked him what he was going to be, and the young Turk grinned up at
him and said he was going to be a poet, "like 'Omer, that was what he
was going to be." Isaac had said that was just like his impudence, but
Sir Joseph stood there looking at him and smiling on the side of his
face that Keith couldn't see, and he told the little chap to "work
hard and mind his rough breathings." Isaac had supposed that was some
sort of a joke, for Keith, he tried hard to grin, though his face went
red hot all over. Then Sir Joseph had turned round very serious and
asked if he, Rickman, had any other sons, because, whatever he did
with the rest of them, he must make this one a scholar.
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