Tom Stares at Ruin.
When I reflect upon the number of disagreeable people who I know have gone to a better world, I am moved to lead a different life.—Pudd’nhead Wilson’s Calendar.
October. This is one of the peculiarly dangerous months to speculate in stocks in. The others are July, January, September, April, November, May, March, June, December, August, and February.—Pudd’nhead Wilson’s Calendar.
Thus mournfully communing with himself Tom moped along the lane past Pudd’nhead Wilson’s house, and still on and on between fences inclosing vacant country on each hand till he neared the haunted house, then he came moping back again, with many sighs and heavy with trouble. He sorely wanted cheerful company. Rowena! His heart gave a bound at the thought, but the next thought quieted it—the detested twins would be there.
He was on the inhabited side of Wilson’s house, and now as he approached it he noticed that the sitting-room was lighted. This would do; others made him feel unwelcome sometimes, but Wilson never failed in courtesy toward him, and a kindly courtesy does at least save one’s feelings, even if it is not professing to stand for a welcome. Wilson heard footsteps at his threshold, then the clearing of a throat.
“It’s that fickle-tempered, dissipated young goose—poor devil, he find friends pretty scarce to-day, likely, after the disgrace of carrying a personal-assault case into a law-court.”
A dejected knock. “Come in!”
Tom entered, and drooped into a chair, without saying anything. Wilson said kindly—
“Why, my boy, you look desolate. Don’t take it so hard. Try and forget you have been kicked.”
“Oh, dear,” said Tom, wretchedly, “it’s not that, Pudd’nhead—it’s not that. It’s a thousand times worse than that—oh, yes, a million times worse.”