There were other lessons taught me by Bono, too.

He taught me where he hid when he did not wish to serve; most effective being the cellar, where, did Mr. Sharpe send a boy after him, he could claim he was inspecting the vintages or rearranging tubers; or, in times of greater need, the kitchen of Mr. Gitney’s nephew, some two streets away, where Bono’s mother labored as a servant in the kitchen.

Once, when concocting a varnish with Mr. Gitney, Mr. Sharpe chanced to spill some of their new mixture on his cravat, which left a yellow stain. He entrusted it to the laundry-maid, who, being unable to remove the mark, entrusted it to Bono.

“This, Prince O.,” said Bono, with some appreciation, “is a tearing fine cravat.” He held it before his throat, wrapped once around his hand. “It makes a man look like a conqueror.”

I asked, “Can you render the spot invisible?”

“Know what I’d do with this? Sheep’s bones, burnt, beat all up into a powder, some vinegar maybe. You sift your powder onto the spot, press the cravat down with something heavy. Leave it lie for the night. In the morning, the powder, it all takes up the spot. You understand?”

“It leaches the oils of the spot.”

“You catch on quick, when it’s about leaching.” He laid the cravat on Mr. Sharpe’s bed and folded it carefully, running his thumbs over the creases. “You watch how this is done.”

I followed him down to the parlor, where we kindled a fire for the ease of the academicians, who were retiring from the experimental chamber.

As Bono loaded the wood onto the andirons, Mr. Sharpe inquired, “Bono, I wonder whether you have removed that stain from my neck-kerchief. The girl did not think it within her power.”

“Nancy.”

Mr. Sharpe nodded. “She did not think it within her power. The blot was beyond her.”

“That’s some blot, sir.” Bono shook his head. “That is some terrible blot.”

“You doubt whether even your art can remove it.”

“See, sir, that ain’t your normal type of blot. It’s some kind of novel, philosophical blot.”

“It resists your efforts.”

“Oh, it’s fast.” Bono again shook his head. “What you want I should do with the cravat?”

“You are certain there is no other recourse?”

“Can’t be fixed, sir. But you could still wear it, Mr. Sharpe, sir, so long as you tuck it into your waistcoat, and so long as you don’t turn too quick, with surprise or delight or some such.”

Mr. Sharpe swore and turned away.

“Sir —,” said Bono, “sir, if you don’t have interest in it, would you object if I should wear it? I reckon I could wear it handsomely, if I keep my body held just right.”

Mr. Sharpe waved his hand in reply.

That night, we burned and pulverized sheep’s bones, doused the powder in a rendering of vinegar, and heaped the blot with the concoction. Two days later, Bono walked forth on errands with the cravat unspotted.

It looked, indeed, fit for a conqueror.