Being Insulted

He insulted me, I still wonder why. I was so angry and upset, but there was nothing I could do but leave and never come back. I was just supposed to go to work and wait for my pay, and then I would sleep.

Now I'm sitting on the floor of my apartment with a big bag on my lap, trying to figure out how to put it away. I've been working here for a year—still, I think, a very good year indeed. But I've been making an awful lot of money, and I don't think I'm getting much by that. I may be getting more by my own lab. I have a view of the sky that shows all the stars, but I don't know how to find out their position from the sun. I can't lay low, and I feel a tremendous pressure to be an honest person.

I don't know what I should do with my life. I should either work my whole life as a chemist or I should go to college. I've given it no thought, but I've made a lot of money. I've written a few books, and I'm sure I'll get a few more. What do I do?

He insulted me, I still wonder why. I was so angry and upset, but there was nothing I could do but leave and never come back.

I mean, it's like I was like, "Fuck it, I'm done, I'll leave." It's not that I didn't want to do it, it's just that I was so bored. I was in an old car and I used to ride it around with the kids and I became so tired and bored of my life.

I'd get up in the morning and I'd be watching the news, and I'd be like, "No, no, no, no, no, no." And then I'd watch myself on TV and I'd say, "Fuck it, I'm done." Then I'd get out the car and I'd drive home.

I was living with my mom and my mom was the one who had made sure that I was going to keep going. She was always saying, "You can just do this, you can just do that." She said, "You'll just get tired, you'll just get bored, you'll just get sad, you'll just get angry, you'll just get sleepy." And she was right. It was like I was in a cocoon.

I was getting very, very sick. I was sweating profusely. I had no trouble sleeping, and then I'd have nightmares about my mom and my dad and his wife, and I'd get very sick. And then, of course, there's the kids, who were too young to remember.

He insulted me, I still wonder why. I was so angry and upset, but there was nothing I could do but leave and never come back. I enrolled in college a year later. The university was in Omaha, Nebraska, about a third of the way between Omaha and Chicago.

It was a great year. It was a year when I got my degree in international relations.

The first thing I did was go to Yale. I started a student newspaper, the Yale Review, which I ran a few years later. I think I was in my early twenties when I began writing, and that was the first time I printed my own work.

There was no point in having a couple of newspapers, but I did have a magazine. It was called Politics and Public Opinion, and it was published in the fall of 1964, and it was quite popular. I thought that was the most interesting thing I ever did. I had everything on my mind. I was a person who, in my wildest dreams, wanted to be an academic, and I thought that it was a great thing to be an academic.

But they had a policy, and that was that they would not print anything that was published in the Yale Review, so I had to rely on my friends to publish mine.

One of my friends, a distinguished professor of English literature who was a historian, came to me in the autumn of 1964 and said, "I've come here to tell you that I was a professor of English literature at Yale University, when, I believe, I was in my early twenties."

He insulted me, I still wonder why. I was so angry and upset, but there was nothing I could do but leave and never come back. I learned later that he had been a banker in New York and had gone to work for him.

One night in the early morning of Tuesday, March 17th, I was out on the sidewalk outside the old house, making my rounds of the streets of the city. I caught a glimpse of a shadow creeping up the steps of the old house. It was a man, with a black eye and a black mustache, who was walking slowly along the sidewalk, his head lowered to the ground, and his face was lit with a twinkling light. He had a stiff, pointed nose, and his eyes were narrow with anger. He had an old, heavy coat and was carrying a heavy leather bag which was not yet filled.

"You have come out to meet me," he said. His eyes were fixed upon me and I saw that he was somewhat without expression. He seemed to be looking at me with a sort of intelligence that was almost contemptible. He was speaking slowly and with a deep, circular voice. He held up his hand to his mouth in a gesture of mild disdain.

"You are a smart fellow, sir," he said. "You must go and find me some employment."

He insulted me, I still wonder why. I was so angry and upset, but there was nothing I could do but leave and never come back.

He was a thief and murderer and my own friend.

And he was also a decidedly loathsome fellow. To him I was a fellow a thousand times worse than myself. I never wanted to speak to him again.

But I knew he was a better man than I. He was a man of no means and he had a great deal of money, and he was a very big man too. I was convinced that he had no soul.

But I was not as thoroughly convinced as I should have been. I had been in love with him for a long time, though it had been but a short time. He was known to me as a very troublesome man, and he had given me such good advice. He had told me that the world was in danger and if I remained in it I should be safe from it. He had told me that he could not help me in my difficult moral life, that he had searched the world for a man whom he could trust to help him. He told me that he had learned that I had been a great admirer of the great poet, and that he had been his friend for many years. He had advised me that I could expect comfort from him, that I should be much more fortunate with him than I had been with myself.

And then, of course, there was the matter of my own affairs.

He insulted me, I still wonder why. I was so angry and upset, but there was nothing I could do but leave and never come back. But I loved him. I loved him deeply, and I loved him even more because he gave me hope. He gave me hope that I could be free. He taught me to work hard, to be patient, and he taught me to love my country. He taught me that even though he was an idiot and no fool, he understood me and that I could be free.

I was lucky to live to see his final days. I was lucky to be the first person to see him after his death. I would have liked to have seen him come home to us before he died. I knew that he was in danger, and that he had never been free. I did not wish to see him suffer. I did not wish to see him die. I only wish that I had seen him in his last moments, to see him with his eyes open and his hands in his pockets, to see his hair hanging on his neck, his face turning all red and the wrinkles on his cheeks seeming to grow out of his face.

He insulted me, I still wonder why. I was so angry and upset, but there was nothing I could do but leave and never come back. I think I might have done better.

The morning after the election, I was sitting in the early morning afternoons at the hotel, watching the news and going over my notes. It was obvious to me that there was a war in the world, and that the outcome had been decided. But I had no idea what to make of it.

I was a graduate student in philosophy when I left for Cambridge in October of that year. The paper I had been writing for the philosophy department had been rejected by the department and I was to be lectured by another professor, and the professor was a fellow of the American Academy of Political and Social Sciences.

I had been engaged in a bitter and bitter dispute with the American philosopher, Joseph V. Debs, who was a resident in Cambridge. I had fought him bitterly and at times literally. I had even killed him in the course of my work. At the end of my life I had written a book on Debs and had published it in its entirety, a volume which, in my opinion, would have been as well published in Germany.

He insulted me, I still wonder why. I was so angry and upset, but there was nothing I could do but leave and never come back.

I could hear that the men in the street were gathered about the old river bank, staring at me through the pines as I passed. He was a man, tall, handsome, with a deep scar on the left side of his face and a scar on his back that he had never told me about. He was a man, too, who had a wife and two children, and one of them was dead when I got there.

The car was parked in front of the house, and I went to the driver's door.

He opened it softly, and I could see that he was mad at once. He was sitting on a stool, looking at the ground with his arms crossed. His eyes were closed, and he was smiling, but his eyes were as wide as a man's, and he seemed to be in his element.

"The old house," he said, "is a mess, and it's a good one, and I can't stand it any longer."

He insulted me, I still wonder why. I was so angry and upset, but there was nothing I could do but leave and never come back.

I don't know who did what to me, but I was locked up and kept there for years.

I've had no one to talk to for years. I was afraid to go to the hospital.

It was only when I came to see you some years later, in my early twenties, that I could give you my first memory of anyone who had ever treated me.

I was an outcast from the society I had joined.

I was the misfit of the society I joined.

I was a vagabond, just out of the dangerous streets, and I was lucky to have found a job in a youth shelter.

It was in my apartment that I began to learn that I had a condition called "achilles" which caused me to limp more than usual.

It was not uncommon to find me here, alone, at the age of twelve.

I never knew who put me on the street.

I would wander through this dark alley, now filled with mice and rats, and I would think to myself, "How could this be? How could they know that I lay in their midst?"

But when I had gradually made my way to my mother's bedside, she could not help asking me, "Did you ever see me while you were on the street?"

"No," I answered. "I couldn't."

He insulted me, I still wonder why. I was so angry and upset, but there was nothing I could do but leave and never come back.

July 23, 1885.

I did not have a home for two months, but the night I left the city I had a dinner at the hotel. The room was in a commodious room, furnished with a sofa and a bed.

I felt very comfortable there. I went down to the river with Louis and took a boat to the island of Sainte-Anne, where we found the yacht Malché, lying at anchor.

"I think she will go to sea again," said Louis. "I shall have her ready before I leave. I hope she will not be afraid of my eyes."

"I hope she will not," said I, "in spite of my colour."

"What do you mean?" "Don't you see that I am a white man?"

"I do not see that you are a white man."

"I am a white man, and I am happy."

"Then I shall be happy. I have taken a white man's wife. I have taken the white man's daughter. I have taken the white man's son."

"I am happy, too. I hope the white man will be happy."

"Then I shall be happy, too. I have taken the white man's son."

I had hardly finished my dinner when I was thrown into a fit of rage.

He insulted me, I still wonder why. I was so angry and upset, but there was nothing I could do but leave and never come back.

He showed me a picture. It was of a girl. She was about seventeen and had a young mother, a friend, and a sister. She had a beautiful face and was of a bright, fiery, sparkling color. She was very pretty, but she was pale and a little thin; I had never seen a girl so pale. I was an old granny.

"I was sent to him as a porter to help him out with his new wife, and he treated me like a common servant. He called me as his servant. When I told him that I was coming back to America, he laughed at me and said he would take care of me.

"The first time I went to see my husband he was a pretty young man, a beautiful man, but a good man. I spent a good deal of time with him, and we had lots of good times. But one day he showed me a picture of a woman, and I saw that she had a beautiful face and the face of a beautiful woman.

"I was very angry with the man and with him as a fellow fellow-servant, but when I saw this picture I knew that I must have had a bad imagination. I was very much ashamed of myself and I had a very dark figure. I am now gone and I do not see that I have escaped.

He insulted me, I still wonder why. I was so angry and upset, but there was nothing I could do but leave and never come back.

A few months passed.

The government was still silent, and silence came to me with a vengeance.

I had no idea what the Queen had been doing, but I knew she was making friends with some of the old-timers. The old-timers had been with me in my old home, and had been my friends in the old days. Apart from myself, the old-timers were the only people who ever paid my respects.

They had served me faithfully, and they had given me an opportunity to live in peace and quiet. I had formed a happy friendship with them, and they had given me a home in the Old West. I had had a few visitors, and had sometimes had a taste of their hospitality. But, as they told me, the old-timers were everything to me. They were the only people I had ever known who had made me feel at home in the Old West.

Some months passed.

The Queen was still silent, but she was no longer silent, either.

"I have heard of your trip," said she, "and I think I will have you come to see me soon.

"Good-bye, Miss Healey."

"I am glad to see you, Miss Healey."

"Well, I understand. You will be happy to know that I am a friend of your mother.

He insulted me, I still wonder why. I was so angry and upset, but there was nothing I could do but leave and never come back.

I never heard of him again.

I didn't know where he came from, but I knew he did not know me well. He had a wife and three children out of wedlock. He worked for the government and the army in his own way. He wasn't a liar—he kept his mouth shut, and he never denied anything. He was loved, but I think he was just as cruel as he had been.

He had a wife and children out of wedlock, too. His wife had died, but his children were still alive. He had not married, but his children had grown up and were inside him, and he was able to see them from time to time. He always had a conscience about the affair, but he never forgot it, or even tried to conceal it.

I had a life of my own, but I know that I am not the only one who has had to suffer from it.

I walked down the street in the dark, and stopped at the door of a house on the corner.

He insulted me, I still wonder why. I was so angry and upset, but there was nothing I could do but leave and never come back. There was no way to touch him again."

The voice was a voice that had no country. It was the voice of a man who had long ago fed on the trappings of the world, and who had long ago supplied his own. The voice was rough and pummeling and spoke directly to me in my ear.

"He was a man of no use to us, but we had him for a captive. The light has been cut out in his life, and he was lying about on the ground, as I saw him. It was a long time after I left him that I discovered his body, lying in a pool of blood. He was dead, but I knew his life, and had read about him in the newspapers. It would be a very easy matter to kill him, if it were not for his memory."

My heart was racing as I looked at the body at the foot of the bed. It was a dark figure, and there was a gaping hole in his neck. An old man had been watching him from the shadows, and he seemed to be wondering whether the man might be a friend of his. He wore a black cap and a black scarf, and his eyes were sunk wide with anguish.

He insulted me, I still wonder why. I was so angry and upset, but there was nothing I could do but leave and never come back. I was a good man even though, in my own mind, I was sure I should be dead.

I remember that day. I was at the corner of the street where I lived with my wife and my two children and the road was crowded with cars running down it and the roads were crowded with men and women in their evening clothes.

There was a young man in a down jacket and a green vest, a pretty young girl in a short green dress, a young man in a short blue coat of ruffled fur.

"Oh, you know the old man," said he. "He's been with me some years. He's a rich man, and he's a pretty little fellow. I think he was a very handsome man, though. He's liked me, or at least he had the idea that I was handsome. He's a plumber's son and he works out all his own problems. He's been for a long time, and I don't think he's lost his patience with me."

"So you are," said I. "And I've come to see him, and I'm afraid I'm going to find him very much disappointed."

He insulted me, I still wonder why. I was so angry and upset, but there was nothing I could do but leave and never come back. I left my job and started my own business, and soon I had two sons. I never heard another word from him.

When I first lived in Portland, I had a friend who was a very intelligent man. He had lived in the city for years, had a wife and four children, and he loved to talk. He always made me laugh, and he told me that he never had any fear of me. He was one of the most steady men I ever met, so I knew him very well.

One day when we were in the hotel room with our meals, he came running out to me, and said: "I am a man of great intelligence, and I have made a discovery that is quite new to me. The whole human race is in a state of cultural and spiritual decadence. It is in its prime, and it is in the prime of its existence. The vultures are out, the wolves are in, the bunnies are creeping up on us, and it is a terrible thing to see that it is making us what we are."

He insulted me, I still wonder why. I was so angry and upset, but there was nothing I could do but leave and never come back.

I moved to Japan in 1968 in the hope of finding a better life. There was a place on the island of Hokkaido and I found several full-time jobs in the local government. I worked for the Ministry of Defense and worked evenings and weekends in the city, and I got a job as an interpreter in the Ministry of Internal Affairs.

In the late sixties I started to develop a new sense of myself, and I knew I wanted to make a living. I had a sizable pension and I was buying houses and buying cars, and I was anxious to get out of the country. In all these efforts, however, I was unable to find a job.

In late 1968, I was invited to give a talk on "A History of Communism in America," and in it I discussed the situation in South Vietnam and the bombing of North Vietnam. I told the audience that the United States had been involved in a similar bombing campaign in Southeast Asia, and I asserted that I had seen the same results.

I later discovered that my lectures were paid for with money borrowed from my wife's bank account. And I never forgot my devotion to the cause of "communist freedom."

He insulted me, I still wonder why. I was so angry and upset, but there was nothing I could do but leave and never come back.

"I am not sure if he heard me before he ran. He just struck me.

"I have no doubt that he was afraid of me. I do not blame him; he is a young man, and he seems to have been taught to pity the timid. But he did not know me.

"It is one of the simplest of their tricks. They put more than one man in charge of a place, and they play upon the nature of the man. They send him up to the mountain, and they try him there, and they ask him how he does it.

"One day, as I was walking down the road, I saw the old man talking to a friend of his. The friend was carrying a large little ivory pipe, and he was smoking down the hillside.

"As I was walking along, the old man came up to me and said, 'You are a good man, Mr. Douglas. I can't believe you have gone out to such an extent to kill a man. I never saw anything like it.'

"I was deeply moved by his words, and I told him so with great candour.

He insulted me, I still wonder why. I was so angry and upset, but there was nothing I could do but leave and never come back.

The war didn't change anything. People were still saying that I'd made the wrong decision, especially in my own district.

But in the end it was my own fault. I was too young, too naive. And the war was the wrong choice at the wrong time.

When the war was over, I fell into a depression and lost my job, my family, and my health.

I was still young and silly, but I was finally starting to grasp the complexity of the situation.

For the first time in my life I understood what it meant to be a soldier. I began to learn the French language, I read the newspapers, I found out what I could about the French military.

A few months after my return from France, I was asked to write a history of the French Army.

It was an extraordinary work, but I had read it. I had written that history, and now I had finished it. I was a burden to my family, and I had no sooner left school than I found myself back in the trenches, the soldiers shouting their orders, the men shooting their guns with a zeal I have never seen before.

For this last battle, however, I had not been ready, and I must confess that I had not been quite myself.

He insulted me, I still wonder why. I was so angry and upset, but there was nothing I could do but leave and never come back.

I returned to the kitchen, which had become a mess amid the mess of the dishes.

"Well, there you are, Sir W. Sherlock," I said, "you and Mr. Wren have been eating a lot of it."

"Isn't that all?" he said, with an air of surprise.

"Maybe, but that's changed a little," I said, "I suppose."

"Oh, you have a see-through face now, Sir W. Sherlock?" he said.

"It's only a matter of time," I said, "and it'll be more comfortable than it was. I'll be your servant, unless you insist on paying me for my own expenses." Then I turned off the light and stepped into my car. It was old, it had no brakes and I was sure it had been taken from me by the police.

"You've got a fairly good car," he said. "I expect you'll take it for a while to get used to the road. But don't be suspicious, Sir W. Sherlock, you'll like it. It's a great ride."

"You're a good fellow," I said, "you'll be able to drive it very safely."

He insulted me, I still wonder why. I was so angry and upset, but there was nothing I could do but leave and never come back. I can't believe it."

I told him I didn't think he was wrong, that I had never seen a man so incredibly drunk in his life, and that I was sure his drinking was becoming more and more serious. "No, it's all right, I don't think he's drunk in his life," he said. "But I don't think he's ever been so drunk."

"It's not that he's a drunkard," I said. "I mean, he's got a good memory. But he's never had a drink. As soon as he hits the water, he's the same as he ever was, and he's never quite recovered. I don't think he's got a hangover either."

"You've been drinking," he said. "You have to be. I know that I won't be able to bear to see you here without you. But I'm sure that you will find something to occupy your time."

"Surely you will," I said. "It's just that I've never had any friends here. I don't think I'll ever have any friends here myself."

"You've got a lot of friends in the South, and you're too young to be very important," he said. He ignored me and the other officers in his patrol, and we left the motel in the morning.

He insulted me, I still wonder why. I was so angry and upset, but there was nothing I could do but leave and never come back. I went back to my job and went about my business, but in my anger I tore up a copy of my own book, and it seemed to me that I had made a very bad case for it.

Anyway, I am this evening going to see a fellow in Virginia who is ready to go to the war and he is very much a follower of my own views.

As I was coming to the door of his house I heard him putting his hair up, and as he was going out he said to me:

"I am glad to hear that you are going to be in your own house."

"Well, now, I should like to see what I can do for you."

"But you will be ashamed if I do not go in first."

"I can hardly wait that chance," I said, "and you will be very glad to see me."

"I hope you will agree that I should like to see you," he said, "but I have got in this house with my wife."

"That is like a dream," I said. "I have thought of it several times, but I can see no way out."

"I will stay a few months," he said, "and if you feel that you have not got your road straight turn round with me."

I now found myself in the room of a wealthy man from New York.

He insulted me, I still wonder why. I was so angry and upset, but there was nothing I could do but leave and never come back. The only way to deal with it was to get out of the Army, get myself into good homes and the right direction, which I did.

I never would have left the Army, if I had not been told that I was not to leave by Lieutenant Francis M. Miller, Donald Butler's lieutenant in command.

Miller had told me that he had become convinced that the young soldier I had been was a member of the secret organization, the Black Hand, and that, if he did not quit, he would be killed. He had told me that the prisoner on whom I was to depend for guidance was one of his best men.

I discovered that the whole of the Black Hand had been formed in the summer of 1892. I was about to leave Fort Gordon, and Miller had given me a map showing its location and a set of instructions in which I was to learn to use it.

"I have been told that the Black Hand is now under the command of Colonel Johnson, who is a man of great intelligence and ability. He has been in command of it for some time, and he has made a good deal of progress."

"But he is not an officer."

"No, we call him a private, though we all know that he is a soldier. I do not think he is a man of any real worth, but he may be useful to us in some ways."

He insulted me, I still wonder why. I was so angry and upset, but there was nothing I could do but leave and never come back.

That night, while I was walking down the street, the policemen stopped me and took me in their car. They drove up a steep hill, and I saw that they had just advanced two hundred yards when I was sitting up in the driver's seat, listening to the radio. I had found the right road, and I would drive home.

It was Saturday afternoon, and I was out on the street in the middle of the night, listening to the radio with a fine ear.

It was a Saturday night, and I was not sure why I had been so anxious to do a road trip. I had been with my wife, my son, and my two cents, and my son was a very intelligent boy, and very kind. He was a good boy in many respects. He had a temper, but he never got into trouble, and he was a very good student.

I was driving along the road when I saw the policeman's wagon pull up. He was riding it full of old men, of the oldest, the oldest, and the oldest was the oldest policeman I ever saw. He was a very old man, and he had a beard that reached down to the knees. He was a very old policeman.

"Well, I always would have liked to see you," he said, "but you won't be coming back."

He insulted me, I still wonder why. I was so angry and upset, but there was nothing I could do but leave and never come back.

The next morning I arrived at the hospital and saw Dr. Lindsay's. He had had a dream. I felt as if I were in some kind of dream and, when he told me that I was a man, I couldn't help feeling that he had been right all along. I had been born a man, a man of power, and a teacher. I had trained for such a job, and had passed it.

He was a man of ten years, and he was the leader of the demonstration. His hair was white and his eyes were piercing. He wore a blue suit, a black tie, a black shirt with a white tie, and a black hat. He was handsome, and I knew him.

'I passed the test,' he said with a smile, 'but not under my own hand.'

I smiled too, because he had taken me from a spot of a park and pushed me into the road. I had no idea how I got there, but I knew that it had been the road that led to the house in which he was living.

'I had no choice,' I said, 'but to go and stand in front of it and see what I could find.'

He insulted me, I still wonder why. I was so angry and upset, but there was nothing I could do but leave and never come back. …

It was a pretty good ending.

He cast me aside.

I never forgot that year.

I thought I would be gone for good. Then I met a girl, an older woman, and we became best friends. We lived in the same town. I became her husband.

We had a great time, and we were all good. But then I saw a horse I had never seen before. I had never ridden it before. It was so beautiful, it was like a horse in the sun. It looked at me with passion. It was trying to leap the fence.

I was so upset, I cried, but I was too drunk to care. That horse served me for a long time, and I never saw it again.

It was a long time before I saw a human being again.

I was in my lab in my lab, and an old man was there with a sheet over his eyes. He was wearing a pair of clothes that looked as though they had been washed by the sun. He had a large square sandbag on his back, and he had a conical hat on his head. It seemed to me that he was sitting up, and his face was smeared with tears.

"What is this?" I asked him.

"A woman," he answered.

He insulted me, I still wonder why. I was so angry and upset, but there was nothing I could do but leave and never come back. I didn't feel like it was right to stay and be my own man. After I had fled to my farmhouse, I could not believe that such a man should be my friend. He was an old man with a settled old beard, and the skin was desiccated and wrinkled. I had never met him before, and I had not spoken to him for many years, but there was something in his manner to that of a friend.

"I had heard him say that he had heard of me at the farmhouse. He had been the kindest of men to me, and I had never seen him appear injured. I had heard that he had been in a similar predicament as myself, and this had given me the feeling that he might be my companion in my journey. With a heavy heart I had resolved to accompany him to the frontier.

"However, it was my own fate to leave my farmhouse, and my own fate to become a farmer. I had been an English farmer for many years, and I had some experience with the country. I had even been to England the last time I was alone in the country. But when I had made my way to the frontier, I knew that I was at last about to return to England.

He insulted me, I still wonder why. I was so angry and upset, but there was nothing I could do but leave and never come back.

At first I was angry that someone so calm and composed would dare speak out against my family. I was angry that he would say that he had had enough. I was angry that he had given me such a moment of gratification, but he had nothing more to say. He was afraid of offending me, and he knew I had not the heart to go forward. I do not know why I should have felt that way; it was only a matter of taste. I had never been afraid to speak my mind, but I knew that if I had been afraid, it was because of the fear of my family.

But then, I knew, I had been afraid before. I had not been afraid in the least at the time when I made my escape from the prison. I had only escaped from it because of the horror of the scene in which I was found.

Then came the shock. He had not been screaming for his life. He had not been crying for his wife. He had not been crying for his children. He had not been crying for himself.

"I am going to take you prisoner," said he, "to keep you away from the world. I am going to keep you away from your mind."

"No," said I. "But I am afraid that you will be a great trouble to me. I will be a great trouble to you."

He insulted me, I still wonder why. I was so angry and upset, but there was nothing I could do but leave and never come back. I spent one weekend with a witch in a country where women were not allowed to wear hats, and when I returned, I had never seen her smile.

Now, I have my own company. It is a very respectable business, but I am not in it for the money. I am very happy to have been an employee of the company, and I can vouch for its services.

I have been in the employ of Mr. A. W. Eckhard for seven years. I have never heard of him in any other connection. He is a good man, a good leader. I like him, but I cannot help being struck by his easy manner. He is not a man of the world, and in the very nature of things he is a foreigner.

His wife is a beautiful woman, very lovely, and she never tires of her kisses. One day I asked her if she had ever heard of me.

"I've heard of you, sir," she said. "I should be very glad to see you again. I know you will be very unfortunate if you ever come back."

"I am sorry!" cried I. "I wouldn't wish it: but you are speaking of yourself. You must have done something to please me."

She smiled and said, "I have never met a man more miserable than you."

"I know that, sir."