"But I had
a younger brother who beat the drum for a whole week in an
enlisting-office tent in Chicago. Poor boy! he died of brain fever in
1869--always a genius--great brain.--And this talk reminds me that I am
getting no pension from the United States Government on that poor,
neglected, sacrificed boy. Curse my thoughtlessness! Yes, and--but no: I
belong to the old school of patriots--I will not curse my country."
As Castleton uttered the last sentence, he approached the door of exit
to the hall. He had as usual been pacing the floor; and with the closing
word he shot into the hall and was gone. And as the sound of his
footsteps rang through the corridors of the hotel, Arthur remarked, from
his corner:
"It's a pity he didn't sit down on his boomerang infernal-machine, and
then set it a-going: he might a been on the moon by this time, where the
fool belongs, with the other lunatics. If he ever comes into my new
ice-cream parlor--(twelve by sixteen, gas-lights, three tables, and six
chairs; two spoons furnished with one saucer if desired, and a napkin
for your lady free; ten cents a saucer, and ginger-bread thrown in)--why
out he goes, too quick. Oh, he's a daisy, he is! If you ever want to
remind me of him, anybody, ask me to lend you a dime; and when I shake
my head and my teeth rattle, I'll remember the lunkhead, sure enough.
Pages:
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209