Having conceived the thought, I rose calmly, shut the book carefully, but with decision, thrust my hands firmly into my pockets, knitted my brows, and went out in search of my bosom friend John Brown—also a commonplace name, I believe—at least, so it is said.
Jack, as I used to call him, had a mother, but no father—his father died when Jack was an infant. I’ve often fancied that there was a delicate bond of union between us here. He had a mother, but no father. I had a father, but no mother. Strange coincidence! I think the fact helped to draw us together. I may be wrong, but I think so. Jack was on a visit to us at the time, so I had only to cross the passage to reach his room.
“Come in,” he cried, as I knocked.
“Jack, come to my room. It’s more comfortable than yours. I want your advice.”
He rose, in some surprise, and followed me.
If John Brown’s name was commonplace his person was certainly not so. He looked like a young lord. He was a noble fellow, by nature if not by birth. A clear, sunny face, masculine chin and nose, sweet, firm mouth, the eye of an eagle, and the soft, curly, golden hair of a child. Tall, broad-shouldered, elegant, bold as a lion, gentle and kind as a lamb—such was my best, my dearest friend, Jack.
“Jack,” said I, “I’m going to run away!”
My friend fell into a chair, put both legs straight out, and looked at me in speechless amazement for a second; then he burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.
“Jack,” I repeated, “I’m going to run away.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” said he.