She laughed, and said she guessed she could stand it that long.
I then said:
"By gracious, you will have to give me money enough to get to the next town, for I won't dare commence peddling polish where I am acquainted."
"Indeed I'll not give you a penny, even though you have to commence at our next-door neighbor's," she answered.
The next day, when my bottles were filled ready for a start, I discovered that I had no valise.
My mother said I could have that old carpet-bag that I took to New York when I was a boy, and which had been expressed back to me with my old clothes. I told her I thought it would be about what I needed, but if she had the slightest idea she could sell it, or would ever need it to make me a visit in the far west when I got rich, that I might possibly get along without it.
She said I could rest assured that she wasn't quite so hard up as to be obliged to sell it, and if she had to wait for me to get rich before using it, she probably would never have occasion to do so.
I then visited the garret, where my mother said I would find the old bag.
As I entered the dark, gloomy place, my vision encountered innumerable relics of my past life, in the shape of toys, books, papers, skates cart-wheels, pieces of hobby-horses, and remnants of garments made by my mother and worn by me years before.