His fit, nevertheless, finally subsided
      as before, and he began to act and speak in a rational way. He
      declined bearing the cartel, however, and in fact, dissuaded me
      from sending it at all; but was candid enough to admit that the
      “Daddy-Long-Legs” had been disgracefully in the wrong—more
      especially in what related to the epithets “gentleman and
      scholar.”

      Towards the end of this interview with Mr. Crab, who really
      appeared to take a paternal interest in my welfare, he suggested
      to me that I might turn an honest penny, and, at the same time,
      advance my reputation, by occasionally playing Thomas Hawk for
      the “Lollipop.”

      I begged Mr. Crab to inform me who was Mr. Thomas Hawk, and how
      it was expected that I should play him. Here Mr. Crab again “made great eyes,” (as we say in Germany,)
      but at length, recovering himself from a profound attack of
      astonishment, he assured me that he employed the words “Thomas
      Hawk” to avoid the colloquialism, Tommy, which was low—but that
      the true idea was Tommy Hawk—or tomahawk—and that by “playing
      tomahawk” he referred to scalping, brow-beating and otherwise
      using-up the herd of poor-devil authors. I assured my patron that, if this was all, I was perfectly
      resigned to the task of playing Thomas Hawk. Hereupon Mr. Crab
      desired me to use-up the editor of the “Gad-Fly” forthwith, in
      the fiercest style within the scope of my ability, and as a
      specimen of my powers. This I did, upon the spot, in a review of
      the original “Oil-of-Bob,” occupying thirty-six pages of the
      “Lollipop.” I found playing Thomas Hawk, indeed, a far less
      onerous occupation than poetizing; for I went upon _system_
      altogether, and thus it was easy to do the thing thoroughly and
      well. My practice was this. I bought auction copies (cheap) of
      “Lord Brougham’s Speeches,” “Cobbett’s Complete Works,” the “New
      Slang-Syllabus,” the “Whole Art of Snubbing,” “Prentice’s
      Billingsgate” (folio edition,) and “Lewis G. Clarke on Tongue.”
      These works I cut up thoroughly with a currycomb, and then,
      throwing the shreds into a sieve, sifted out carefully all that
      might be thought decent, (a mere trifle); reserving the hard
      phrases, which I threw into a large tin pepper-castor with
      longitudinal holes, so that an entire sentence could get through
      without material injury. The mixture was then ready for use. When
      called upon to play Thomas Hawk, I anointed a sheet of fools-cap
      with the white of a gander’s egg; then, shredding the thing to be
      reviewed as I had previously shredded the books,—only with more
      care, so as to get every word separate—I threw the latter shreds
      in with the former, screwed on the lid of the castor, gave it a
      shake, and so dusted out the mixture upon the egged foolscap;
      where it stuck. The effect was beautiful to behold. It was
      captivating. Indeed, the reviews I brought to pass by this simple
      expedient have never been approached, and were the wonder of the
      world. At first, through bashfulness—the result of inexperience—I
      was a little put out by a certain inconsistency—a certain air of
      the _bizarre_, (as we say in France,) worn by the composition as
      a whole. All the phrases did not _fit_, (as we say in the
      Anglo-Saxon). Many were quite awry. Some, even, were
      up-side-down; and there were none of them which were not, in some
      measure, injured in regard to effect, by this latter species of
      accident, when it occurred—with the exception of Mr. Lewis
      Clarke’s paragraphs, which were so vigorous, and altogether
      stout, that they seemed not particularly disconcerted by any
      extreme of position, but looked equally happy and satisfactory,
      whether on their heads, or on their heels. What became of the editor of the “Gad-Fly,” after the publication
      of my criticism on his “Oil-of-Bob,” it is somewhat difficult to
      determine. The most reasonable conclusion is, that he wept
      himself to death. At all events he disappeared instantaneously
      from the face of the earth, and no man has seen even the ghost of
      him since. This matter having been properly accomplished, and the Furies
      appeased, I grew at once into high favor with Mr. Crab. He took
      me into his confidence, gave me a permanent situation as Thomas
      Hawk of the “Lollipop,” and, as for the present, he could afford
      me no salary, allowed me to profit, at discretion, by his advice. “My dear Thingum,” said he to me one day after dinner, “I respect
      your abilities and love you as a son. You shall be my heir. When
      I die I will bequeath you the ‘Lollipop.’ In the meantime I will
      make a man of you—I _will_—provided always that you follow my
      counsel. The first thing to do is to get rid of the old bore.”

      “Boar?” said I inquiringly—“pig, eh?—_aper?_ (as we say in
      Latin)—who?—where?”

      “Your father,” said he. “Precisely,” I replied,—“pig.”

      “You have your fortune to make, Thingum,” resumed Mr. Crab, “and
      that governor of yours is a millstone about your neck. We must
      cut him at once.” [Here I took out my knife.] “We must cut him,”
      continued Mr. Crab, “decidedly and forever. He won’t do—he
      _won’t_. Upon second thoughts, you had better kick him, or cane
      him, or something of that kind.”

      “What do you say,” I suggested modestly, “to my kicking him in
      the first instance, caning him afterwards, and winding up by
      tweaking his nose?”

      Mr. Crab looked at me musingly for some moments, and then
      answered:

      “I think, Mr. Bob, that what you propose would answer
      sufficiently well—indeed remarkably well—that is to say, as far
      as it went—but barbers are exceedingly hard to cut, and I think,
      upon the whole, that, having performed upon Thomas Bob the
      operations you suggest, it would be advisable to blacken, with
      your fists, both his eyes, very carefully and thoroughly, to
      prevent his ever seeing you again in fashionable promenades. After doing this, I really do not perceive that you can do any
      more. However—it might be just as well to roll him once or twice
      in the gutter, and then put him in charge of the police. Any time
      the next morning you can call at the watch-house and swear an
      assault.”

      I was much affected by the kindness of feeling towards me
      personally, which was evinced in this excellent advice of Mr.
      Crab, and I did not fail to profit by it forthwith. The result
      was, that I got rid of the old bore, and began to feel a little
      independent and gentleman-like.