“Meaning, of course,” said Tommy serenely, “that it takes more than a butterfly to write a play about a butterfly.”
“You get me,” said his friend. And then after a pause he went on with sincerity in his manner: “You know I think you could write the play, Tommy. But unless you get to work on some of your ideas pretty soon, and buckle down to them in earnest, other people will continue to write your plays—and you will continue to josh them and yourself, and your friends will continue to think that you could write better plays if you would only do it. People aren't going to take you seriously, Tommy, till you begin to take yourself a little seriously. Why, you poor, futile, silly, misguided, dear old mutt, you! You don't even have sense enough—you don't have the moral continuity, if you follow me—to stay sore at a man that does you dirt! Now, do you?”
“Oh, I don't know about that,” said Tommy a little more seriously.
“Well now, do you?” persisted his friend. “I don't say it's good Christian doctrine not to forgive people. It isn't. But I've seen people put things across on you, Tommy, and seen you laugh it off and let 'em be friends with you again inside of six weeks. I couldn't do it, and nine-tenths of the fellows we know couldn't do it; and in the way you do it it shouldn't be done. You should at least remember, even if you do forgive; remember well enough not to get bit by the same dog again. With you, old kid, it's all a part of your being a butterfly and a bubble. It's no particular virtue in you. I wouldn't talk to you like a Dutch uncle if I didn't think you had it in you to make good. But you've got to be prodded.”
“There's one fellow that did me dirt,” said Tommy musingly, “that I've never taken to my bosom again.”
“What did you do to him?” asked his friend. “Beat him to death with a butterfly's wing, Tommy, or blow him out of existence with a soap bubble?”
“I've never done anything to him,” said Tommy soberly. “And I don't think I ever would do anything to him. I just remember, that's all. If he ever gets his come-uppance, as they say in the rural districts, it won't be through any act of mine. Let life take revenge for me. I never will.”
“I suppose you're right,” said Dobson. “But who was this guy? And what did he do to you?”
IV
“He was—and is—my uncle,” said Tommy, “and he did about everything to me. Listen! You think I do nothing but flitter, flutter, frivol and flivver! And you may be right, and maybe I never will do anything else. Maybe I never will be anything but a kid.