"Liar!" he answered. "I wouldn't be seen dead with an umbrella."
"Oh, what a dog! wouldn't be seen dead with an umbrella! Don't let the crowd see us together. Follow where I lead. Drown your false teeth, Buckie, change clothes, take a bath—and God won't know you."
Outside the village, I let him walk beside me,
"But," he gasped, "you're an Indian!"
"Aye, Buckie. The troop jester is dead. Wasn't he killed nine years ago by the fall of a horse in Montana?"
"But—Blackguard!"
"He's dead, too."
A comedian's fun is the echo of pain, the motley worn by sorrow. But when sorrow and pain have fled away, you miss them, for we only know the light because it casts a shadow.
"How you've changed!" sighed Buckie.
Once upon a time there was an inventive fish, who discovered water.