So bitter was my disappointment that I sat down upon the floor, and covered my face and wept. Then there was a great chattering in French, and the performer came and gave me a pat of sympathy on my shoulder and a ten-dollar bill.
A crowd of curious people followed me on my way to my inn—mostly boys of about my own age and younger. They felt of my garments, and ran before me, staring into my face. Grievous and heavy was my sense of distinction. It covered me with shame. There was something wrong about my bravery.
At the inn I found Sam and his bride and Ephraim Baker. Somehow they had heard of my part in the rope-walking.
“Did that crowd of boys follow you?” Sam inquired.
“Yes.”
“They can't see the biggest fool in America every day,” said Mr. Baker.
Well, I suddenly got a strong desire to move on. I was a bit wiser when I started for Graham's hotel in Buffalo, where Mr. McCarthy was to meet me. Ephraim Baker had called me a fool, but I knew better than that. I had sense enough now, at least, to understand the difference between courage and folly. It is about the last lesson of boyhood.
That narrow, bending path of hemp had been for me a bridge between the cliffs of youth and young manhood, of recklessness and prudence. The crossing is ever full of peril, and there is always some one to pull the rope and increase our difficulty.
I asked Sam and his bride to say nothing of my adventure in Summerville, and bade them goodbye at the depot, and went on my way to a new school of experience.