“Dad,” sais I, and it stopped him in a minute. It was the last syllable of his name, and when we was boys, I always called him Dad, and as he was older than me, I sometimes called him Daddy on that account. It touched him, I see it did. Sais I, “Dad, give me your daddle, fun is fun, and we may carry our fun too far,” and we shook hands. “Daddy,” sais I, “since I became an author, and honorary corresponding member of the Slangwhanger Society, your occupation and mine ain’t much unlike, is it?”
“How?” said he.
“Why, Dad,” sais I, “you cut up the dead, and I cut up the livin.”
“Well,” sais he, “I give less pain, at any rate, and besides, I do more good, for I make the patient leave a legacy to posterity, by furnishing instruction in his own body.”
“You don’t need to wait for dissection for the bequest,” said I, “for many a fellow after amputation has said to you, ‘a-leg-I-see.’ But why is sawing off a leg an unprofitable thing? Do you give it up? Because it’s always bootless.”
“Well,” said he, “why is an author the laziest man in the world? Do you give that up? Because he is most of his time in sheets.”
“Well, that is better than being two sheets in the wind,” I replied. “But why is he the greatest coward in creation in hot weather? Because he is afraid somebody will quilt him.”
“Oh, oh,” said he, “that is an awful bad one. Oh, oh, that is like lead, it sinks to the bottom, boots, spurs, and all. Oh, come, that will do, you may take my hat. What a droll fellow you be. You are the old sixpence, and nothin’ will ever change you. I never see a feller have such spirits in my life; do you know what pain is?”
“Oh,” sais I, “Dad,” and I put on a very sad look, “Daddy,” sais I, “my heart is most broke, though I don’t say anythin’ about it. There is no one I can confide in, and I can’t sleep at all. I was thinkin’ of consultin’ you, for I know I can trust you, and I am sure your kind and affectionate heart will feel for me, and that your sound, excellent judgment will advise me what is best to be done under the peculiar circumstances.”
“Sam,” said he, “my good fellow, you do me no more than justice,” and he took my hand very kindly, and sat down beside me. “Sam, I am very sorry for you. Confide in me; I will be as secret as the grave. Have you consulted dear old Minister?”