Pesca⁠—’ At the mention of myself I can hold no longer⁠—the thought of you, my good dears, mounts like blood to my head⁠—I start from my seat, as if a spike had grown up from the ground through the bottom of my chair⁠—I address myself to the mighty merchant, and I say (English phrase) ‘Dear sir, I have the man! The first and foremost drawing-master of the world! Recommend him by the post tonight, and send him off, bag and baggage (English phrase again⁠—ha!), send him off, bag and baggage, by the train tomorrow!’ ‘Stop, stop,’ says Papa; ‘is he a foreigner, or an Englishman?’ ‘English to the bone of his back,’ I answer. ‘Respectable?’ says Papa. ‘Sir,’ I say (for this last question of his outrages me, and I have done being familiar with him⁠—) ‘Sir! the immortal fire of genius burns in this Englishman’s bosom, and, what is more, his father had it before him!’ ‘Never mind,’ says the golden barbarian of a Papa, ‘never mind about his genius, Mr.