“The present hour deserves a black eye, and two of them!”
He surveyed me squarely. “I believe you’re a pessimist!”
“That is the first trashy thing I’ve heard you say.”
“Thank you! At least admit you’re scarcely an optimist.”
“Optimist! Pessimist! Why, you’re talking just like a newspaper!”
He laughed. “Oh, don’t compare a gentleman to a newspaper.”
“Then keep your vocabulary clean of bargain-counter words. A while ago the journalists had a furious run upon the adjective ‘un-American.’ Anybody or anything that displeased them was ‘un-American.’ They ran it into the ground, and in its place they have lately set up ‘pessimist,’ which certainly has a threatening appearance. They don’t know its meaning, and in their mouths it merely signifies that what a man says snakes them feel personally uncomfortable. The word has become a dusty rag of slang. The arrested burglar very likely calls the policeman a pessimist; and, speaking reverently and with no intention to shock you, the scribes and Pharisees would undoubtedly have called Christ a pessimist when He called them hypocrites, had they been acquainted with the word.”
Once more my remarks drew from the boy an unexpected rejoinder. We had turned into Worship Street, and, as we passed the churchyard, he stopped and laid his hand upon the railing of the pate.
“You don’t shock me,” he said; and then: “But you would shock my aunts.” He paused, gazing into the churchyard, before he continued more slowly: “And so should I—if they knew it—shock them.”
“If they knew what?” I asked.