There was a short silence. Then the stranger answered, in a serious tone, and with no effort to see his questioner:
“This is Boston, the city of respectability–and other delights.”
“Yes?”
“It is also the home of a man who doesn’t seem to have matured with the passing years.”
“Well, who is that man?”
“A fellow that might have been a famous tenor if he had a voice–and some idea of music.”
The other man laughed, removed his hand, and his friend turned about. Then followed a greeting as between old intimates, long separated. And such was the mutual pleasure that a neighboring spectator, many years embittered by dyspepsia, so far forgot himself as to allow a smile of sympathy to occupy his face.
The countenance of the attenuated person was unusual; not from any peculiarity of feature, 12but from its invincible cheerfulness. This cheerfulness was constitutional, and contagious. His face seemed nearly ten years younger than it was; for the unquenchable good-humor having settled there in infancy had thwarted the hand of time. No signs of discouragement, of weariness or worry had gained a footing. There were no visible traces of unwelcome experience. While distinctly a thoughtful face, good-humor and a tranquil spirit were the two things most clearly written. His eyes were gray–frank, honest, mirthful, with little wrinkles at the corners when he smiled.
After many questions had been asked and answered, the more pretentious gentleman laid a hand affectionately on the other’s arm, and said:
“But what has happened to you, Pats? How thin you are! You look like a ghost–a mahogany ghost.”