CHAPTER XXV.
MR. TOOSYPEGS IN DISTRESS.
“Ah, me! for aught that I could ever read, Could ever hear by tale or history The course of true love never did run smooth.” —Shakespeare.
“Admiral Havenful, it’s kind of you to ask, but I ain’t well at all; I’m very much obliged to you,” said Mr. Toosypegs, in a deeply dejected voice, as he walked into the parlor of the White Squall and took his seat without ever raising his eyes from the floor.
“Stand from under!” growled the admiral, in a tone like a bear with the bronchitis, as he gave his glazed hat a slap down on his head, and looked in a bewildered sort of way at the melancholy face of Mr. O. C. Toosypegs.
“Admiral Havenful, it’s my intention to stand from under as much as possible,” said Mr. Toosypegs, mournfully; “but, at the same time, I’m just as miserable as ever I can be, thank you. I don’t see what I was born for at all, either. I dare say they meant well about it; but at the same time, I don’t see what I was born for,” said Mr. Toosypegs, with increased mournfulness.
The admiral laid both hands on his knees, and leaning over, looked solemnly into Mr. Toosypegs’ face. Reading no expression whatever in that “Book of Beauty” but the mildest sort of despair, he drew himself up again, and grunted out an adjuration to “heave ahead.”
“Admiral Havenful, would you oblige me by not saying that again?” said Mr. Toosypegs, giving a sudden start, and keeping his hand to his stomach with a grimace of intensest disgust. “You mean real well, I know; but it recalls unpleasant recollections that I wish buried in oblivion. Ugh!” said Mr. Toosypegs, with a convulsive shudder.
The admiral looked appealingly at the great painting on the mantel; but as that offered no suggestion, he took off his hat, gave his wig a vigorous scratching, as if to extract a few ideas by the roots, and then clapping it on again, faced around, and with renewed vigor began the attack.
“Now, Mr. Toosypegs, I’m considerable out of my latitude, and if you’ll just keep her round a point or so, I’ll be able to see my way clearer, and discover in which corner the wind sets. What’s the trouble, young man?”
“The trouble, Admiral Havenful, is such that no amount of words can ever express it. No, Admiral Havenful!” exclaimed the unhappy Mr. Toosypegs, “all the words in all the dictionaries, not to mention the spelling books, that ever was printed, couldn’t begin to tell you the way I feel. It worries me so, and preys on my mind at such a rate that my appetite ain’t no circumstance to what it used to be. My Sunday swallow-tails (the one with the brass buttons, Admiral Havenful), that used to barely meet on me, goes clean around me twice now. I don’t expect to live long at this rate, but I guess it’s pleasantest lying in the graveyard than living in this vale of tears,” added Mr. Toosypegs, with a melancholy snuffle.