“As if I could ever touch a penny of yours,” I interrupted her sternly.
“Horace,” she pleaded, “you cut me to the heart. Don’t go.”
“Yes, yes. Believe me it’s best. Why prolong this painful scene? I’ll pray for your happiness, for both of your happinesses, yours and Bunny’s. Perhaps my heart’s not so badly broken after all.” (I smiled a brave, twisted smile.) “For the last time, good-bye, good-bye.”
With that I rushed blindly from the room. When I reached the street, I wiped away a few beads of perspiration.
“Oh, you everlasting, sentimental humbug!” I cried. “One of these days you’ll get nicely nailed to the cross of your folly.”
CHAPTER V
A SEASICK SENTIMENTALIST
If ever I should come to write my autobiography (as I fondly hope in the fulness of time my recognition as the American Dumas will justify me in doing) it will fall easily into chapters. For, so far, my life has consisted of distinct periods, each inspired by a dramatic conception of myself. Let me then try to forecast its probable divisions.
Chapter I.—Boyhood. Violently imaginative period.—Devouring ambition to become pirate chief.—Organised the “Band of Blood.”—Antipathy to study.—Favourite literature: Jack Harkaway.
Chapter II.—Youth. Violently athletic period.—Devouring ambition to become great first baseman.—Organised the Angoras. Continued antipathy to study.—Favourite literature: The sporting rags.
Chapter III.—Cubhood. Violently red blood period.—Devouring ambition to become champion broncho buster.—Went to Wyoming, and became the most cowboyish cowboy in seven counties.—Favourite literature: The yellow rags.