Yet there were people in Weeping Willow who could not understand why it was that, holding so many responsible positions and receiving so steady an income, the man sometimes should show signs of broodiness and irritation verging upon outright melancholy. But such was the case. At times his peevishness was most marked.
On a broiling July day he sat in his small cubby-hole of an inner sanctum manipulating the key of his telegraph instrument. It was one of his gloomy days. As he sat with the perspiration coursing down his nose and his black calico sleeve protectors growing damp and soggy upon his wrists, the local Baptist minister, whom he disliked excessively, poked his head through the ticket window and in his best pulpit voice said:
“Brother, what tidings of the noon train?”
Without lifting his head the dripping misanthrope made answer:
“Not a gol darn tiding!” he said.
§ 235 The Proper Point of View
There was an Englishman who made a tour of this continent. The tourist was a fit type of a certain group of Englishmen who think that nothing is worth while unless it is to be found on British soil, or at least under the protecting shadow of the Union Jack.
When he got back to New York after his swing across the land, an American asked him what he thought of our country.
“Oh, on the whole, rather tiresome,” said the visitor.
“Didn’t you see anything out of the ordinary?” asked the American.