The master,
one afternoon, thought fit to correct the apparent vanity of this
performance.
"If you took as much care in trying to form your letters according to
copy, you'd do better. Your signature is fair enough as it is."
"But it don't look right, Mr. Ford," said Uncle Ben, eying it
distrustfully; "somehow it ain't all there."
"Why, certainly it is. Look, D A B N E Y--not very plain, it's true, but
there are all the letters."
"That's just it, Mr. Ford; them AIN'T all the letters that ORTER be
there. I've allowed to write it D A B N E Y to save time and ink, but it
orter read DAUBIGNY," said Uncle Ben, with painful distinctness.
"But that spells d'Aubigny!"
"It are."
"Is that your name?"
"I reckon."
The master looked at Uncle Ben doubtfully. Was this only another form of
the Dobell illusion? "Was your father a Frenchman?" he asked finally.
Uncle Ben paused as if to recall the trifling circumstances of his
father's nationality. "No."
"Your grandfather?"
"I reckon not. At least ye couldn't prove it by me.
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