This is the story of a bad boy. Well, not such a very bad, but a pretty bad boy; and I ought to know, for I am,Louis Vuitton Speedy, or rather I was,Louis Vuitton Alma, that boy myself.

   Lest the title should mislead the reader, I hasten to assure him here that I have no dark confessions to make. I call my story the story of a bad boy,Louis Vuitton Neverfull, partly to distinguish myself from those faultless young gentlemen who generally figure in narratives of this kind,Louis Vuitton Keepall, and partly because I really was not a cherub. I may truthfully say I was an amiable, impulsive lad,Louis Vuitton Delightful, blessed with fine digestive powers,Louis Vuitton Cirrus, and no hypocrite. I didn't want to be an angel and with the angels stand; I didn't think the missionary tracts presented to me by the Rev. Wibird Hawkins were half so nice as Robinson Crusoe; and I didn't send my little pocket-money to the natives of the Feejee Islands,Louis Vuitton Galliera, but spent it royally in peppermint-drops and taffy candy. In short, I was a real human boy,Louis Vuitton Estrela, such as you may meet anywhere in New England, and no more like the impossible boy in a storybook than a sound orange is like one that has been sucked dry. But let us begin at the beginning.

   Whenever a new scholar came to our school,Louis Vuitton Tivoli, I used to confront him at recess with the following words: "My name's Tom Bailey; what's your name?" If the name struck me favorably, I shook hands with the new pupil cordially; but if it didn't, I would turn on my heel,Louis Vuitton Artsy, for I was particular on this point. Such names as Higgins,Louis Vuitton Palermo, Wiggins, and Spriggins were deadly affronts to my ear; while Langdon,Louis Vuitton Siracusa, Wallace, Blake,Louis Vuitton Wallets, and the like,Louis Vuitton L, were passwords to my confidence and esteem.