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Practice and improve writing style. Write like Mark Twain

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Now to the sound of gay music the Yeomen of the Guard entered,—“the tallest and mightiest men in England, they being carefully selected in this regard”—but we will let the chronicler tell about it:—

 

The Dining Hall, with its lobby and organ-gallery, occupies the entire storey, which is 187 feet long, 51 feet wide, and 47 feet high; it is lit by nine large windows, filled with stained glass on the south side; and is, next to Westminster Hall, the noblest room in the metropolis.  Here the boys, now about 800 in number, dine; and here are held the ’Suppings in Public,’ to which visitors are admitted by tickets issued by the Treasurer and by the Governors of Christ’s Hospital.  The tables are laid with cheese in wooden bowls, beer in wooden piggins, poured from leathern jacks, and bread brought in large baskets.  The official company enter; the Lord Mayor, or President, takes his seat in a state chair made of oak from St. Catherine’s Church, by the Tower; a hymn is sung, accompanied by the organ; a ‘Grecian,’ or head boy, reads the prayers from the pulpit, silence being enforced by three drops of a wooden hammer.  After prayer the supper commences, and the visitors walk between the tables.  At its close the ’trade-boys’ take up the baskets, bowls, jacks, piggins, and candlesticks, and pass in procession, the bowing to the Governors being curiously formal.  This spectacle was witnessed by Queen Victoria and Prince Albert in 1845.

 

So saying, Hugh left the room.  Miles stood musing a while, then began to walk the floor, muttering—

 

A mob does not melt away from the presence of a plague-patient with more haste than the band of pallid and terrified courtiers melted away from the presence of the shabby little claimant of the Crown.  In a moment he stood all alone, without friend or supporter, a target upon which was concentrated a bitter fire of scornful and angry looks.  The Lord Protector called out fiercely—

 

“Leave thy foolery,” said the man, “and quiet thyself.  My disguise is none so good that thou canst pretend thou knowest not thy father through it.”

 

I was paddling off, all in a sweat to tell on him; but when he says this, it seemed to kind of take the tuck all out of me. I went along slow then, and I warn’t right down certain whether I was glad I started or whether I warn’t. When I was fifty yards off, Jim says:

 

“He has got use for it. How you talk, you better say; you don’t know nothing about it. He’s got to have a rope ladder; they all do.”

 

“Seein’ how I’m dressed, I reckon maybe I better arrive down from St. Louis or Cincinnati, or some other big place. Go for the steamboat, Huckleberry; we’ll come down to the village on her.”

 

“If you please, let me explain. Nobody can read my hand but my brother there—so he copies for me. It’s his hand you’ve got there, not mine.”

 

“I was trying to do for the best in sellin’ ’em out so quick. If the profits has turned out to be none, lackin’ considable, and none to carry, is it my fault any more’n it’s yourn?”

 

A good part of the whispering had been occasioned by an event which was more or less rare—the entrance of visitors: lawyer Thatcher, accompanied by a very feeble and aged man; a fine, portly, middle-aged gentleman with iron-gray hair; and a dignified lady who was doubtless the latter’s wife. The lady was leading a child. Tom had been restless and full of chafings and repinings; conscience-smitten, too—he could not meet Amy Lawrence’s eye, he could not brook her loving gaze. But when he saw this small newcomer his soul was all ablaze with bliss in a moment. The next moment he was “showing off” with all his might—cuffing boys, pulling hair, making faces—in a word, using every art that seemed likely to fascinate a girl and win her applause. His exaltation had but one alloy—the memory of his humiliation in this angel’s garden—and that record in sand was fast washing out, under the waves of happiness that were sweeping over it now.

 

“Well, I don’t know, Huck, my boy. I don’t know about that. Ain’t you and the widow good friends?”

 

There was only one thing wanting to make Mr. Walters’ ecstasy complete, and that was a chance to deliver a Bible-prize and exhibit a prodigy. Several pupils had a few yellow tickets, but none had enough—he had been around among the star pupils inquiring. He would have given worlds, now, to have that German lad back again with a sound mind.

 

“Dad fetch it! This comes of playing hookey and doing everything a feller’s told not to do. I might a been good, like Sid, if I’d a tried—but no, I wouldn’t, of course. But if ever I get off this time, I lay I’ll just waller in Sunday-schools!” And Tom began to snuffle a little.

 

“Hold on, now, what ’er you belting me for?—Sid broke it!”

 

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