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 8 Twitter® Searches App

Objectives
In this chapter you’ll:
■ Use SharedPreferences
to store key–value pairs of
data associated with an app.
■ Use an implicit Intent to
open a website in a browser.
■ Use an implicit Intent to
display an intent chooser
containing a list of apps that
can share text.
■ Display a scrolling list of
items in a RecyclerView.
■ Use a subclass of
RecyclerView.Adapter
to specify a
RecyclerView’s data.
■ Use a subclass of
RecyclerView.View-
Holder to implement the
view-holder pattern for a
RecyclerView.
■ Use a subclass of
RecyclerView.Item-
Decoration to display lines
between a RecyclerView’s
items.
■ Use an AlertDia-
log.Builder object to
create an AlertDialog that
displays a list of options.
2 Chapter 8 Twitter® Searches App

Self-Review Exercises
8.1 Fill in the blanks in each of the following statements:
a) are typically used to launch activities—they indicate an action to be per-
formed and the data on which that action is to be performed.
ANS: Intents.
b) A(n) (package android.support.v7.widget) is a flexible, customizable
view that enables you to control how an app displays a scrolling list of data.
ANS: RecyclerView.
c) Lengthy data access should never be done in the UI thread; otherwise, the app will dis-
play a(n) dialog—typically after five seconds of inactivity.
ANS: Application Not Responding (ANR).
d) An Intent is a description of an action to be performed with associated .
ANS: data.
e) Intents specify an exact Activity class to run in the same app.
ANS: Explicit.
f) Class RecyclerView formalizes the view-holder pattern by requiring you to create a sub-
class of .
ANS: RecyclerView.ViewHolder.
g) is a subclass of RecyclerView.LayoutManager that can be used to display
items in a vertical list.
ANS: LinearLayoutManager.
8.2 State whether each of the following is true or false. If false, explain why.
a) Extensive input/output should be performed on the UI thread; otherwise, this will af-
fect your app’s responsiveness.
ANS: False. Extensive input/output should not be performed on the UI thread, since that
would affect your app’s responsiveness.
b) RecyclerView was designed as a better ListView. It provides better separation of the
data’s presentation from the RecyclerView’s capabilities for reusing views, as well as
more flexible customization options for presenting the RecyclerView’s items.
ANS: True.
c) An AlertDialog.Builder’s setList method receives a String array resource containing
names of the options to display as a list in the dialog and an event handler that’s called
when the user touches one of the options in the list.
ANS: False. The AlertDialog.Builder’s setItems method does this.
d) Each RecyclerView item has a corresponding object of a subclass of class Recy-
clerView.ViewHolder that maintains references to the item’s view(s) for reuse.
ANS: True.

Exercises
8.1 Fill in the blanks in each of the following statements:
a) A layout fills the entire client area of the screen if the layout’s Width and Height proper-
ties (in the Layout Parameters section of the Properties window) are each set to
.
ANS: match_parent.
b) object stores key-value pairs.
ANS: SharedPreferences.
c) (a static method of class Collections from package java.util) sorts the
List in its first argument.
ANS: sort.

© Copyright 2016 by Pearson Education, Inc. All Rights Reserved.

 Exercises 3

d) A(n) is a GUI that shows a list of apps that can handle a specified Intent.
ANS: intent chooser.
e) A subclass of can be used to display a line between RecyclerView items.
ANS: RecyclerView.ItemDecoration.
8.2 State whether each of the following is true or false. If false, explain why.
a) An Algorithm specifies an action to be performed and the data to be acted upon—An-
droid uses Algorithms to launch the appropriate activities.
ANS: False. An Intent does this.
b) You implement interface View.OnClickListener of package android.view to specify
the code that should execute when the user touches a Button.
ANS: True.
c) The first argument passed to Intent’s constructor is the data to be operated on.
ANS: False. The first argument to Intent’s constructor is a constant describing the action
to perform.
d) An explicit Intent allows the system to launch the most appropriate Activity based on
the type of data.
ANS: False. An implicit Intent allows the system to launch the most appropriate Activity
based on the type of data. An explicit Intent launches a specified Activity.

Project Exercises
8.3 (Favorite Websites App) Using the techniques you learned in this chapter, create a Favorite
Websites app that allows a user to create a list of favorite websites.
ANS: This app is identical to the Twitter Searches app except that you’ll store the URLs for
the user’s favorite websites and pass the stored URL when the user touches a tag, rath-
er than creating a URL.
8.4 (Twitter Searches App Enhancement) Use an AsyncTask to modify the Twitter Searches app
so that it loads and saves the SharedPreferences in a separate thread of execution.
ANS: Use the AsyncTask techniques from Chapter 7 to perform all loads and saves outside
the GUI thread of execution.
8.5 (Enhanced Twitter Searches App) Make the following enhancements to the Twitter Searches
app—some of these require the Twitter web-service APIs:
ANS: Many of the enhancements discussed below are supported via the Twitter Fabric
APIs (see Exercise 8.8).
a) Allow the user to add filters to searches (e.g., include only tweets with videos, images or
links). Investigate the Twitter search operators in more detail to determine the filter op-
tions.
ANS: Study the Twitter search operators at https://dev.twitter.com/rest/public/
search, then incorporate CheckBoxes into the GUI for various filters. When the user
checks or unchecks a particular CheckBox, the app should add the corresponding filter
to or remove it from the query string currently being edited. Some filters would re-
quire more complex GUIs so focus on the simplest search operators.
b) Create an option for following the top five Twitter trends—popular topics being dis-
cussed on Twitter.
c) Add the ability to retweet tweets that you find in your searches.
d) Add a feature that suggests people to follow based on the user’s favorite Twitter searches.
e) Add translation capabilities to read Tweets in other languages.
f) Share on Facebook.
g) View all replies related to a tweet.
h) Enable the user to reply to a tweet in the search results.

© Copyright 2016 by Pearson Education, Inc. All Rights Reserved.

4 Chapter 8 Twitter® Searches App

8.6 (Flickr Searches App) Investigate Flickr’s photo-search web-service API (https://
www.flickr.com/services/api/flickr.photos.search.html), then reimplement this chapter’s
Twitter Searches app as a Flickr Searches app.
ANS: This app is similar to the Twitter Searches app with features from Chapter 7’s Weath-
erViewer app. In this case, you’ll use a URL format specified by Flickr for its REST
web services APIs. You’ll need to obtain your own Flickr API key to implement this app
and use Flickr’s REST web services. You can apply for an API key at https://
www.flickr.com/services/api/misc.api_keys.html. When the photo search returns
results, you can have the app display a list of photos, then when the user selects one,
have the app use that image’s URL to display it in the device’s web browser.
8.7 (Enhanced Flickr Searches App) Enhance the Flickr Searches app from Exercise 8.6 to allow
the user to add filters to searches (e.g., include only images containing a specific color, shape, object,
etc.).
ANS: This exercise depends on the solution to Exercise 8.6. Study the various filters you
can use at http://www.flickr.com/services/api/flickr.photos.search.html. In-
corporate CheckBoxes into the GUI for various filters. When the user checks or un-
checks a particular CheckBox, the app should add the corresponding filter to or
remove it from the URL currently being edited. Some filters would require more
complex GUIs so focus on the simplest filters.
8.8 (Twitter App) Investigate the Twitter Fabric APIs at https://fabric.io, then use the APIs
in an app that includes some of the following features:
a) Post a tweet from within the app to Twitter and Facebook simultaneously.
b) Group tweets from favorite twitterers into lists (e.g., friends, colleagues, celebrities).
c) Hide specific twitterers from the feed without “unfollowing” them.
d) Manage multiple accounts from the same app.
e) Color code tweets in the feed from favorite twitterers or tweets that contain specific key-
words.
f) Geo tag tweets so readers can see the user’s location when the tweet was posted.
g) Reply to tweets from within the app.
h) Retweet from within the app.
i) Use the APIs from a URL shortening service to enable the user to shorten URLs to in-
clude in tweets.
j) Save drafts of tweets to post later.
k) Display updates when a favorite posts a new tweet.
ANS: Twitter’s Fabric APIs provide a wide range of capabilities for building apps that in-
clude Twitter functionality. This is a complex exercise due to the amount of research
required to use the APIs, however, the Android Studio extension that Twitter pro-
vides does the work required to add Fabric support to a project.
8.9 (Enhanced Flag Quiz App) Enhance the Flag Quiz app from Chapter 4 so that after the user
answers the question correctly, the app provides a link to the Wikipedia for that country, so the user
can learn more about the country as they play the game. When the user touches the link, use an
Intent to launch the device’s browser to request and display the web page. In this version of the app,
you may want to allow the user to decide when to move to the next flag.
ANS: Use the same technique you used in the Twitter Searches app to pass a URL to the
device’s browser app. If you don’t want to store with the app all of the appropriate
URLs for the various countries, you’ll need to research how to perform a Wikipedia
searches for countries.

© Copyright 2016 by Pearson Education, Inc. All Rights Reserved.

 Exercises 5

Advanced Project Exercises

8.10 (Blackjack App) Create a Blackjack card game app. Two cards each are dealt to the dealer
and the player. (We provide card images with the book’s examples.) The player’s cards are dealt face
up. Only the dealer’s first card is dealt face up. Each card has a value. A card numbered 2 through
10 is worth its face value. Jacks, queens and kings each count as 10. Aces can count as 1 or 11—
whichever value is more beneficial to the player. If the sum of the player’s two initial cards is 21 (that
is, the player was dealt a card valued at 10 and an ace, which counts as 11 in this situation), the play-
er has “blackjack” and the dealer’s face-down card is revealed. If the dealer does not have blackjack,
the player immediately wins the game; otherwise, the hand is a “push” (that is, a tie) and no one
wins the hand. If the player does not have blackjack, the player can begin taking additional cards
one at a time. These cards are dealt face up, and the player decides when to stop taking cards. If the
player “busts” (that is, the sum of the player’s cards exceeds 21), the game is over, and the player
loses. When the player stands (stops taking cards), the dealer’s hidden card is revealed. If the dealer’s
total is 16 or less, the dealer must take another card; otherwise, the dealer must stay. The dealer must
continue to take cards until the sum of the dealer’s cards is greater than or equal to 17. If the dealer
exceeds 21, the player wins. Otherwise, the hand with the higher point total wins. If the dealer and
the player have the same point total, the game is a “push,” and no one wins. The GUI for this app
can be built using ImageViews, TextViews and Buttons.
ANS: The problem statement for this exercise clearly explains the algorithmic aspects of the
game and which GUI components to use.
8.11 (Enhanced Blackjack App) Enhance the Blackjack app in Exercise 8.10 as follows:
a) Provide a betting mechanism that allows the player to start with $1000 and adds or sub-
tracts from that value based on whether the user wins or loses a hand. If the player wins
with a non-blackjack hand, the bet amount is added to the total. If the player wins with
blackjack, 1.5 times the bet amount is added to the total. If the player loses the hand,
the bet amount is subtracted from the total. The game ends when the user runs out of
money.
ANS: For this part, you’ll need to keep track of the player’s balance and add appropriate
logic to modify the player’s balance as the user plays the game.
b) Locate images of casino chips and use them to represent the bet amount on the screen.
c) Investigate Blackjack rules online and provide capabilities for “doubling down,” “sur-
rendering” and other aspects of the game.
d) Some casinos use variations of the standard Blackjack rules. Provide options that allow
the user to choose the rules under which the game should be played.
e) Some casinos use different numbers of decks of cards. Allow the user to choose how
many decks should be used.
f) Allow the user to save the game’s state to continue at a later time.
ANS: For this part, you can use the app’s SharedPreferences to save the game’s state infor-
mation.
8.12 (Other Card Game Apps) Investigate the rules for any card game of your choice online and
implement the game as an app.
ANS: Use techniques similar to Exercise 8.10 to display the cards and enable the user to
interact with the game.
8.13 (Solitaire Card Game App) Search the web for the rules to various solitaire card games.
Choose the version of the game you like then implement it. (We provide card images with the
book’s examples.)
ANS: Use techniques similar to Exercise 8.10 to display the cards and enable the user to
interact with the game.

© Copyright 2016 by Pearson Education, Inc. All Rights Reserved.

Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
 And now as to those other questions that you have asked me—so
far was I from having forgotten my ideal of him, so far was he from
having ceased to be a moving force in my life, I have not any doubt
whatever that the thought of my relationship with him, and my
desire to appear to advantage in his eyes, had a great deal to do
with fostering my ambition as a scholar. Certainly, the nephew of
Florimond Marquis de la Bourbonnaye must not let any boy of
ordinary lineage stand above him in his classes; and then, besides,
how much more highly would Uncle Florimond consider me, if, when
we met, he found not an untutored ignoramus, but, in his own
words, “a gentleman well-instructed and accomplished!”
During the two years that I have skipped over in such summary-
fashion, my friendship with little Rosalind Earle had continued as
active and as cordial as it had been at the beginning. She had grown
quite tall, and even prettier than ever, with her oval face and olive
skin, her soft brown hair and large dark eyes, and was really almost
a young lady. She had kept pace with me in my studies also, I
having acted as her teacher. Every Sunday at her home I would go
over with her all my lessons for the past week, imparting to her as
intelligently as I was able what I myself had learned. This would
supply her with subject-matter for her study during the week to
come; so that on the following Sunday she would be ready for a new
send-off. This was capital drill for me, because, in order to instruct
another, I had to see that my own knowledge was exact and
thorough. And then, besides, I enjoyed these Sunday afternoon
conferences with Rosalind so heartily, that they lightened the labor
of learning, and made what to a boy is usually dull grind and
drudgery, to me an abundant source of pleasure. Rosalind retained
her situation at Mr. Flisch's, but her salary had been materially
increased. She was only thirteen years old, yet she earned the
dazzling sum of six dollars every week. This was because she had
acquired the art of retouching negatives, and had thus trebled her
value to her employer.
But I had made another friend during those two years, whose
influence upon my life at that time was perhaps even greater than
Rosalind's. Among my classmates at the school in Fifty-first Street
there was a boy named Arthur Ripley, older than I, taller, stronger, a
very handsome fellow, with blue eyes and curling hair, very bright,
and seemingly very good-natured, whom I had admired privately
from the moment I had first seen him. He, however, had taken no
notice of me; and so we had never got especially well acquainted,
until one day I chanced to hear him speak a few words of French;
and his accent was so good that I couldn't help wondering how he
had come by it.
“Say, then, Ripley,” I demanded, in the Gallic tongue, but with
Saxon bluntness, “how does it happen that you speak French so
well? Your pronunciation is truly extraordinary.”
“And why not?” he retorted. “I have spoken it since my childhood.
My grandmother—the mother of my father—was a French lady.”
“Hold,” cried I. “Really? And so was mine.”
Thereupon we fell into conversation. We got on famously together.
From that hour we were intimates. I was admitted into Ripley's “set,”
which included all the nicest boys of the school; and Ripley invited
me to his home, which, with its beautiful pictures and books and
furnishings, and general air of comfort and refinement, struck me as
the loveliest place I had ever set my foot in, and where his mother
and father made me feel instantly and entirely at my ease. They
talked French to me; and little by little drew from me the whole story
of my life; and when I had done, “Ah! my poor little one,” said his
mother, with a tenderness that went straight to my heart, “how thy
lot has been hard! Come, let me kiss thee.” And, “Hold, my little
man,” said his father. “You are a good and brave boy, and I am glad
that my son has found such a comrade. Moreover, do you know, you
come of one of the most illustrious families not only of France, but
even of Europe? The la Bourbonnaye are of the most ancient
nobility, and in each generation they have distinguished themselves.
At Paris there is an important street named for them. A Marquis de
la Bourbonnaye won great celebrity as an admiral under Louis xv.;
another, his son, I believe, was equally renowned as a royalist
general during the revolution.”
 “Yes, sir,” I put in, delighted at his familiarity with the history of
our house; “they were the father and the grandfather of my
grandmother.”
“But I had supposed that the family was extinct. You teach me
that it survives still in the person of your Uncle Florimond. I am
content of it.”
Arthur Ripley and I became as intimate as only boys, I think, can
become. We were partners in tops, marbles, décalcomanies, and
postage stamps. We spent the recess hour together every day. We
walked home together every afternoon. We set out pleasure hunting
almost every Saturday—now to watch or to take part in a base-ball
match, now to skate in Central Park, now to row on the Harlem
River, now to fish in the same muddy stream, where, to the best of
my recollection, we never so much as got a single bite. He was
“Rip,” to me, and to him I was “Greg.” We belonged, as has been
said, to the same set at school; at college we joined the same
debating society, and pledged ourselves to the same Greek-letter
fraternity.
He was the bravest, strongest fellow I ever knew; a splendid
athlete; excelling in all sports that required skill or courage. He was
frankness, honesty, generosity personified; a young prince whom I
admired and loved, who compelled love and admiration from
everybody who knew him. In the whole school there was not a boy
whom Ripley couldn't whip; he could have led us all in scholarship as
well, only he was careless and rather lazy, and didn't go in for high
standing, or that sort of thing. He wrote the best compositions,
however, and made the best declamations. I tell you, to hear him
recite Spartacus's address to the gladiators—“Ye call me chief, and
ye do well to call him chief who for twelve long years has met upon
the bloody sands of the arena every shape of man and beast that
the broad empire of Rome could furnish”—I tell you, it was thrilling.
Ripley's father was a lawyer; and he meant to be a lawyer, too. So
far as he was responsible for it, Ripley's influence over me was
altogether good. What bad came of my association with him, I alone
was to blame for.
 Some bad did come, and now I must tell you about it.
He and the other boys of our circle were gentlemen's sons, who
lived with their parents in handsome houses, wore fine clothes, had
plenty of pocket-money, and generally cut a very dashing figure;
whereas I—I was the dependent of a petty Third-Avenue Jewish
shopkeeper; I had scarcely any pocket-money whatever; and as for
my clothes—my jackets were usually threadbare, and my trousers
ornamented at an obtrusive point with two conspicuous patches,
that Henrietta had neatly inserted there—trousers, moreover, which
had been originally designed for the person of Mr. Marx, but which
the skillful Henrietta had cut down and adjusted to my less copious
proportions.
And now the bad, if perhaps not unnatural, result of all this was to
pique my vanity, and to arouse in me a certain false and quite wrong
and improper shame of my condition. I was ashamed because I
could not spend money as my companions did; I was ashamed of
my shabby clothing; I was ashamed of my connection with Mr.
Finkelstein; I was even a little ashamed of my intimacy with Rosalind
Earle, for she too occupied a very humble station in the world.
And, as the obverse of this false shame, I became inflated with a
pride that was equally false and wrong. I was as good a gentleman
as anybody, if not better. I was the dependent of a Third-Avenue
shopkeeper, true enough. But I was also the nephew of the Marquis
de la Bourbonnaye. And I am afraid that I got into the habit of
bragging a good deal about my relationship with that aristocratic
person. Anyhow, my state of mind was not by any means a
wholesome or a happy one; and by and by it bore practical
consequences that were not wholesome or happy either.
 CHAPTER V—PRIDE AND A FALL.

A
rthur Ripley, as I have said, meant to be a lawyer. He was full
of enthusiasm for his future profession, and never tired of
talking about it. In his room at home he had three or four big
law-books, bound in yellow calf-skin, which he used to read for his
pleasure, just as we other boys would read our story-books; and he
seemed to know their contents by heart. At least, we gave him the
credit for knowing them by heart. He passed among us for little less
than a Solomon of legal wisdom. His opinion upon a legal question
had, to our thinking, the authority of a judgment from the bench;
and if one of our number had got into a legal difficulty of any sort, I
am sure he would have gone to Ripley for aid and counsel as readily
and as confidently as to the most eminent jurist at the bar.
This being premised, you will easily understand the impression
made upon me by the following conversation which I had with Ripley
one day in the early summer of 1875.
We had just passed our examinations for promotion from the
Introductory to the Freshman class at college, and our consequent
vacation had just begun. I was minding the shop, while Messrs.
Flisch and Finkelstein smoked their cigars and played their pinochle
in the back room, and Ripley was keeping me company. We had
been talking about my grandmother; and presently Ripley queried:
“Look here, Greg, she was a woman of some property, wasn't she? I
mean to say she lived in good style, had plenty of money, was
comfortable and well-to-do, hey?”
“Why, yes,” I answered, “she was pretty well-off—why, about as
well as anybody in Norwich Town, I suppose. Why do you ask?”
“Because—what I should like to know is, why didn't she leave
anything to you?”
 “Why, how could she? I was only her grandchild. My Uncle Peter
was her son. Don't you see?”
“But that doesn't make any difference. Your father being dead,
you were, equally with your uncle, her legal heir and next-of-kin.
And as long as she was so fond of you, it seems kind of funny she
didn't provide for you in any way.”
“What do you mean by her legal heir and next-of-kin?”
“Don't you know that? Why, a legal heir and next-of-kin is a
person entitled to take under the statutes of descent and
distribution. For instance, if your grandmother had died intestate,
you would have come in for half of all the property she left, your
Uncle Peter taking the other half. See the point?”
“Can't say I do. You're too high-up for me, with your legal slang.
What does intestate mean?”
“Why, intestate—why, that means without having made a will.
When a person dies without leaving a will, he is said to have died
intestate.”
“Well, I guess my grandmother died intestate, then. I don't believe
she left any will.”
“She didn't? Why, if she didn't leave a will—Oh! but she must
have. Look here, Greg, this is serious. Are you sure she didn't?”
“O, no! of course I'm not sure. I never thought of the matter
before, and so I can't be sure. But I don't believe she did.”
“But, Greg, if she didn't—if she didn't leave a will, disinheriting
you, and bequeathing everything to Peter—man alive, what are you
doing here in old Finkelstein's jewelry shop? Why, Greg, you're rich.
You're absolute owner of half of her estate.”
“O, no! I'm perfectly sure she never did that. If she made any will
at all, she didn't disinherit me, and give everything to Uncle Peter.
She cared a great deal more for me than she did for Uncle Peter. I'm
sure she never made a will favoring him above me. I always
supposed that she had died, as you call it, intestate; and so, he
being her son, the property had descended to him in the regular
course of events.”
“But don't I tell you that it wouldn't have descended to him? It
would have descended to both of you in equal shares. Here's the
whole business in a nut-shell: either she did leave a will, cutting you
off with a shilling; or else you're entitled to fifty cents in every dollar
that she owned.”
“But I have never received a penny. If what you say is true, how
do you account for that?”
“There's just the point. If your idea about the will is correct, your
Uncle Peter must be a pretty rogue indeed. He's been playing a
sharp game, Greg, and cheating you out of your rights. And we can
make it hot enough for him, I tell you. We can compel him to divide
up; and inside of a month you'll be rolling in wealth.”
“Oh! come, Rip,” I protested, “fen fooling a fellow about a thing
like this.”
“But I'm not fooling. I never was more in earnest in all my life. It's
as plain as the nose on your face. There are no two ways about it.
Ask anybody.”
“But—but then—but then I'm rich—rich!”
“That's what you are, unless, by a properly executed will, your
grandmother disinherited you.”
“But I tell you I know she never did that. It stands to reason that
she didn't.”
“Well, sir, then it only remains for you to claim your rights at the
hands of your amiable uncle, and to open a bank account.”
“O my goodness! O, Rip! Oh! it's impossible. It's too—too glorious
to be true,” I cried, as a realizing sense of my position rushed upon
me. My heart was pounding like a hammer against my ribs; my
breath was coming short and swift; my brain was in a whirl. I felt
dazzled and bewildered; and yet I felt a wondrous, thrilling joy, a
great glow of exultation, that sent me dancing around the shop like
a maniac, wringing my hands in self-congratulation.
 I was rich! Only think, I was rich! I could take my proper station
now, and cut my proper figure in the world. Good-by, patched
trousers, good-by, shop, good-by all such low, humiliating things.
Welcome opulence, position, purple and fine linen. Hurrah! I would
engage a passage upon the very first, the very fastest steamer, and
sail away to that brilliant, courtly country where my Uncle Florimond,
resplendent in the trappings of nobility, awaited me with open arms,
there to live in the state and fashion that would become the nephew
of a marquis. I would burn my plebeian ships behind me. I would do
this, that, and the other wonderful thing. I saw it all in a single
radiant glance.
But what you see more plainly than anything else, I did not see at
all.
I did not see that I was accepting my good fortune in an
altogether wrong and selfish spirit. I did not see that my first
thought in my prosperity ought to have been for those who had
stood by me in my adversity. I did not see that my first impulse
ought to have been now to make up in some wise to my friend and
benefactor, Mr. Finkelstein, for his great goodness and kindness to
me. I did not see that I was an arrant little snob, an ungrateful little
coxcomb. A mixture of false shame and evil pride had puffed me up
like so much inflammable gas, which—Ripley having unwittingly
applied the spark to it—had now burst into flame.
“O, Rip!” I cried again, “it's too glorious to be true.”
“Well, now,” cut in Ripley, “let's be practical. What you want to do
is step into your kingdom. Well, to-day's Saturday, isn't it? Well, now,
I propose that day after to-morrow, Monday, you and I go to
Norwich. There we can make a search in the Probate Office, and find
out for certain just how the facts stand. Then we can come back
here and put the case in the hands of my father, who's a lawyer, and
who will have a guardian appointed for you, and do everything else
that's necessary. See? Now, the question is, Will you go to Norwich
with me Monday night?”
“Won't I, though!” was my response.
 And then Rip and I just sat there in the shop, and talked, and
talked, and talked, planning out my life for the future, and
wondering exactly how rich I was going to be. We surmised that my
grandmother could not possibly have left less than a hundred
thousand dollars, in which event I should come in for a cool fifty
thousand. We employed the strongest language at our command to
stigmatize my Uncle Peter's rascality in having for so long a time
kept me out of my just rights; and we gloated in imagination over
his chagrin and his discomfiture when we should compel him to
render an account of his stewardship and to disgorge my portion of
our inheritance. I declared it as my intention to go to my Uncle
Florimond in Paris as soon as the affair was finally settled; and
Ripley agreed that that would be the appropriate thing for me to do
—“Though, of course,” he added, “I shall feel awfully cut up at our
separation. Still, it's undoubtedly the thing for you to do. It's what I
would do if I were in your place. And, O, Scottie! Greg, won't old
Finkelstein and your other Hebrew friends open their eyes?”
“Won't they, though!” I returned, reveling in fancy over their
astonishment and their increased respect for me, after I should have
explained to them my sudden and tremendous rise in the world. But
in this particular I was destined to disappointment; for when, as
soon as Ripley had gone home, I joined Mr. Finkelstein in the parlor,
and conveyed to him the joyful information, he, having heard me
through without any sign of especial wonder, remarked:—
“Vail, Kraikory, I suppose you vant me to conkraitulate you, hey?
Vail, it's a graind ting to be rich, Kraikory, and no mistake about it.
And I shust tell you dis, Kraikory: dere ain't nobody in de United
States of America vould be glaidder if ainy goot luck haippened to
you, as I vould be. I'm awful fond of you, Kraikory, and dere ain't
nodings what I vant more as to see you haippy and prosperous. De
only trouble is, Kraikory, dot I ain't so sure as dis vould be such
awful goot luck, aifter all. For, to tell you de honest troot, Kraikory, I
don't like de vay you take it. No, I aictually don't. You're too stuck-up
and prout about it, Kraikory; and I hate to see you stuck-up and
prout. It ain't nice to be prout, Kraikory; it ain't what you call manly;
and I simply hate to see you do ainydings what ain't nice and manly
—I'm so fond of you, don't you understand? Den, ainyhow, Kraik-ory,
de Bible says dot prite goes before destruction, and a howty spirit
before a fall; and dot's a solemn faict, Kraikory; dey do, shust as
sure as you're alife. De Bible's shust exaictly right, Kraikory; you can
bet ten tousand tollars on it. Why, I myself, I seen hundreds of
fellers get stuck-up and prout already; and den de first ting dey
knew, dey bust all to pieces like a goot-for-nodings boiler. Yes, siree,
if I was as prout as you are, Kraikory, I'd feel afraid.
“No, Kraikory, I don't like de vay you take it, and I really tink if you
get dis money what you're talking about, I really tink it'll spoil you,
Kraikory; and dot's why I cain't conkraitulate you de vay you vant
me to. You ain't been like yourself for a pretty long while now
already, Kraikory. I ain't said nodings about it; but I seen it all de
same; and Solly seen it, and Heddie, she seen it, and Mr. Flisch seen
it, and Henrietta seen it, and we all seen it, and we all felt simply
fearful about it. And now I tink it shust needs dis money to spoil you
altogedder. I hate to say ainydings to hurt your feelings, Kraikory,
but dot's my honest opinion; and me and you, we'd oughter be goot
enough friends to talk right out to each udder like fader and son. De
faict is, Kraikory, I've loafed you shust exaictly de same as if we was
fader and son; and dot's de reason it makes me feel so awful to see
you get stuck-up and prout. But you was a goot boy down deep,
Kraikory, and I guess you'll turn out all right in de end, if dis here
money don't spoil you. You got a little foolishness about you, which
is necheral to your age. When I was your age I was a big fool, too.
“Vail, and so, shust as soon as de maitter's settled, you're going to
Europe, are you, to live mit your Uncle Florimond in Pairis? Vail, dot's
all right, Kraikory, if you like to do it. I ain't got no pusiness to make
ainy obshections, dot's sure. All I got to say, Kraikory, is dis: Your
Unde Florimond, he may be an awful fine feller, and I guess likely he
is; but I don't know as he's aifer done much of ainydings for you;
and if I was in your place, I'd feel sorter sorry to stop my education,
and leaf de old friends what I was certain of, and go to a new friend
what I hadn't naifer tried; dot's all. Vail, if you vant to go, I suppose
you'll go; and Solly and me and Henrietta and dot little kirl ofer by
Mr. Flisch, vail, we'll have to get along mitout you de best vay we
can. I guess dot little Rosie, I guess she'll feel pretty baid about it,
Kraikory; but I don't suppose dot'l make much difference to you, to
shush by de vay you talk. Poor little ting! She's awful fond of you,
Kraikory, and I guess she'll feel pretty lonesome aifter you've gone
avay. Oh! vail, I suppose she von't die of it. Dere are plenty udder
young fellers in dis vorld, and I don't suppose she'll cry herself to
dead for you. All de same, I guess she'll feel pretty baid first off; but
dot's your business, and not mine.
“Vail, let me see. To-day's Saturday; and you're going to Nawvich
Monday night. Vail, dot's all right. I ain't got nodings to say against
dot. I shust give you vun little piece of advice, dough, Kraikory, and
dot is dis: If I was in your place, I vouldn't feel too awful sure of dis
here money, until I'd aictually got hold of it, for fear I might be
disappointed. Dere's a proverp which goes, 'Dere's a great mainy
slips between de cup and de lips,' Kraikory; and dot's a solemn faict,
which I advice you to remember.”
This sermon of Mr. Finkelstein's made me feel very sore indeed;
but I felt sorer still next day, when Rosalind—whom I was calling
upon, and to whom I had just communicated the momentous news
—when Rosalind, with flushed cheeks and flashing eyes, assailed me
thus:—
 “O, Gregory Brace! Oh! shame on you. Oh! I don't know you. I
can't believe it's you. I can't believe it's the same boy at all. Such
selfishness! Such ingratitude! Such a proud hard heart! It's been as
much as anyone could do to put up with you for ever and ever so
long, you've been so vain and so conceited and everything; but this
just caps the climax. Oh! think of poor Mr. Finkelstein. He's been so
good and generous to you, and so fond of you; and he's sent you to
school and college, and given you every advantage he possibly
could; and you owe him so much, and you're under such great
obligations to him, for he took you right out of the streets, and gave
you a home, and made a son of you, instead of a servant—yes, he
did—and now the very first thing that you propose to do, as soon as
you're able to, is to leave him, to abandon him—oh! you ungrateful
thing—and go to your horrid old French uncle, who, I don't believe
cares the snap of his finger for you. He is horrid, too; and I hope
he'll just treat you horribly, just to punish you. And I hope that
Arthur Ripley is mistaken, and that you won't get a single penny
from your Uncle Peter, but just a good whipping to take you down;
and I hope you'll have to come back to Mr. Finkelstein, and humbly
beg his pardon; yes, I do, with all my heart and soul. I'd just like to
see you have to come down from your high horse and eat humble
pie for a while; yes, I would. The idea! Desert Mr. Finkelstein! You,
who might have been begging in the streets, except for him! I
should think you'd be ashamed to look me in the face. Oh! you
mean to give him a good round sum of money, do you, to pay him
for what he's done for you? Why, how very liberal and noble you are,
to be sure! As though money could pay for what Mr. Finkelstein has
done for you! As though money were what he wants from you, and
not love and affection! O, Gregory! you've changed so that I don't
know you, and I don't like you at all any more, and I don't care to be
friends with you any more, and you needn't come to see me any
more. There!”
Yes, I felt very sore and very angry. What Rosalind said only
served to exasperate and embitter me, and to make me grit my
teeth, and pursue all the more doggedly my own selfish purpose.
Well, on Monday night, according to our agreement, Ripley and I
set out for Norwich, passengers aboard the very same steamboat,
the City of Lawrence, that I had come to New York by, three years
before; and bright and early Tuesday morning we reached our
destination.
I only wish I could spare a page to tell you something of the
emotions that I felt as we came in sight of the dingy old town. It
had not changed the least bit in the world; it was like the face of an
old familiar friend; it called up before me my own self of former
years; it brought a thousand memories surging upon me, and filled
my heart with a strong, unutterable melancholy, that was yet
somehow indescribably sweet and tender.
But Ripley and I had no time for the indulgence of sentiment.
“Now, then, where's the Court House? Where's the Probate Office?”
he demanded as soon as we had set foot upon the dry land. “We
must pitch right in, without losing a moment.”
So I led him to the Probate Court; and there he “pitched right in”
with a vengeance, examining the indices to lots of big written books
of records, while I stood by to hand them to him, and to put them
back in their places when he had finished with them—until, after an
hour or so, he announced, “Well, Greg, you're right. She left no will.”
 Then he continued: “Now we must find out the date upon which
Peter took out his Letters of Administration, and also whether he had
himself constituted your guardian, as he most likely did; and then
we'll have all the facts we need to establish your claims, and put you
in possession.”
Thereupon he attacked another set of big written volumes, and
with these he was busy as long as two hours more. In the end, “By
Jingo, Greg,” he cried, “here's a state of things! He didn't take out
any Letters of Administration at all.”
“Well,” I queried, not understanding the meaning of this
circumstance, “what of that? What does that signify?”
“Why, that signifies an even darker and more systematic piece of
fraud than I had suspected. In order to cheat you out of your share,
he failed to comply with the law. He didn't go through the proper
formalities to get control of her property, but simply took possession
of it without authority. And now we've got him completely at our
mercy. We could prosecute him criminally, if we liked. We could send
him to State Prison. Oh! won't we make him hop? I say, Greg, do
you want to have some fun?”
“How? What way?”
“Well, sir, if you want to have some fun, I'll tell you what let's do.
Let's go call on your Uncle Peter, and confront him with this little
piece of villainy, and politely ask him to explain it: and then see him
squirm. It'll sort of square accounts with him for the number of
times he's given you a flogging.”
“O, no! I—I guess we'd better not,” I demurred, faltering at the
prospect of a personal encounter with my redoubtable relative.
“But, man alive, you have nothing to fear. We've got the whip-
hand of him. Just think, we can threaten him with criminal
prosecution. Oh! come on. It'll be the jolliest kind of a lark.”
Well, I allowed myself to be persuaded; and we set forth for Uncle
Peter's office, Ripley all agog for excitement, and I trying not to
appear afraid. But Uncle Peter wasn't in. An oldish man, who
seemed to be in charge, informed us that the Jedge had got a touch
of the rheumatiz, and was stayin' hum.
“Never mind,” said Ripley to me; “we'll visit him at his home, we'll
beard him in his den. Come along!”
I tried to beg off, but Rip insisted; and I weakly gave in.
If I had been stirred by strong emotions at the sight of Norwich
City, conceive how much more deeply I was stirred when we
reached Norwich Town—when I saw our old house peeping out from
among the great elm-trees that embosomed it—when I actually
stood upon its doorstep, with my hand upon the old brass knocker!
A strange servant girl opened the door, and to my request to see
Judge Brace, replied, “The Jedge is sick in his room.”
“That doesn't matter,” I explained. “You know, I am his nephew.
Tell him his nephew Gregory wants to see him.” And I marched
boldly through the hall—where the same tall eight-day clock, with its
silver face that showed the phases of the moon, was ticking just as
it had used to tick as long ago as I could remember—and into the
parlor, Ripley following. I say I marched in boldly, yet I was really
frightened half to death, as the moment of a face-to-face meeting
with my terrible uncle became so imminent. There in the parlor
stood the piano upon which my grandmother had labored so
patiently to teach me to play. There hung the oil portrait of her, in
her robe of cream-colored silk, taken when she was a beautiful
young girl, and there, opposite it, above the fireplace, the
companion-picture of my Uncle Florimond, in his lieutenant's
uniform, with his sword and his crimson sash. Ripley started back a
little when he saw this painting, and cried, “For mercy's sake, Greg,
who is it? I never saw anything like it. The same eyes, nose, mouth,
chin, everything. It's you all over”—thus confirming what my
grandmother used to tell me: “Gregory, thou art his living image.”
The room was haunted by a myriad dear associations. I forgot the
errand that had brought me there; I forgot my fear of meeting Uncle
Peter; I forgot all of the recent past, and was carried back to the
happiest days of my childhood; and my heart just swelled, and
thrilled, and ached. But next instant it gave a great spasmodic leap,
and stood still for a second, and then began to gallop ahead like
mad, while a perspiration broke out over my forehead; for the maid-
servant entered, and said “Please walk upstairs to the Jedge's room.”
I really thought I should faint. It was as much as I could do to get
my breath. My knees knocked together. My hands shook like those of
an aged palsy-stricken man. However, there was no such thing as
backing out at this late date; so I screwed my courage to the
sticking place, and led Ripley upstairs to Uncle Peter's room.
Uncle Peter was seated in an arm-chair, with his legs, wrapped in
a comforter, stretched out on another chair in front of him. He never
so much as said how-d'-ye-do? or anything; but at once, scowling at
us, asked in his gruffest voice, “Well, what do you want?”
I was so afraid and so abashed that I could hardly speak; but I did
contrive to point at Ripley, and gasp, “He—he'll tell you.”
“Well,” snapped Uncle Peter, turning to my spokesman, “go on.
State your business.”
“Well, sir,” began Rip—and O, me! as I listened to him, didn't my
wonder at his wisdom, and my admiration of his eloquence, mount
up a peg?—“well, sir, our business is very simple, and can be stated
in a very few words. The amount of it is simply this. My friend
Gregory Brace, being the only child of Edward Brace, deceased, who
was a son of your mother, Aurore Brace, deceased, is, equally with
yourself, the heir and next-of-kin of the said decedent, and would, in
the event of her having died intestate, divide share and share alike
with you whatever property she left. Now, sir, we have caused a
search to be made in the records of the Probate Court of this
County, and we find that the said decedent did in fact die intestate.
It, therefore, became your duty to petition for Letters of
Administration upon her estate; to cite Gregory Brace to show cause
why such Letters should not be issued; to cause a guardian ad litem
to be appointed to act for him in the proceedings; to cause a
permanent guardian to be appointed for him after the issuance of
said Letters; and then to apply the rents, profits, and income of one
undivided half of the estate of said decedent to his support,
maintenance and education, allowing what excess there might be to
accrue to his benefit. Well, sir, examination proves that you have
performed none of these duties; that you have illegally and without
warrant or authority possessed yourself of the whole of said estate,
thereby committing a fraud upon the said Gregory Brace, and
violating the statutes in such case made and provided. And now, sir,
we have come here to give you notice that it is our intention to put
this matter at once into the hands of an attorney, with directions
that he proceed against you, both criminally and civilly.” Uncle Peter
heard Ripley through without interrupting, though an ugly smile
flickered about his lips. When Rip had done, he lay back in his chair,
and gave a loud harsh laugh. Then he drew a long, mock-respectful
face, and in a very dry, sarcastic manner spoke as follows:—
“Why, my young friend, you talk like a book. And what profound
and varied knowledge of the law you do possess, to be sure! Why, I
must congratulate my nephew upon having found such an able and
sagacious advocate. And really, I cannot see the necessity of your
calling in the services of an attorney, for a person of your
distinguished calibre ought certainly to be equal to conducting this
dual prosecution, both civil and criminal, single-handed. My sakes
alive!” he cried, with a sudden change of tone and bearing. “Do you
know what I've a great mind to do with you and your client, my fine
young fellow? I've a great mind to cane you both within an inch of
your precious lives, and send you skulking away, with your tails
between your legs, like two whipped puppies. But, bless me, no!
You're neither of you worth the trouble. So I'll spare my rod, and
spoil your fancy, by giving you a small measure of information. Now,
then, pray tell me, Mr. Advocate, what is your valuation of the
property which the 'said decedent' left?”
Ripley, nothing daunted, answered, “At least a hundred thousand
dollars.”
“At least a hundred thousand dollars,” repeated Uncle Peter; “well,
that's a pretty sum. Well, now, what would you say, my learned
friend, if I should tell you that she didn't leave a penny?”
“I should say it was very extraordinary, and that I couldn't believe
it. She was the widow of a wealthy man. She lived in good style. It
stands to reason that she couldn't have died penniless.”
“And so it does; it stands to reason, as you say; and yet penniless
she was when she died, and penniless she had been for ten years
before; and if she lived in good style, it was because I paid the bills;
and if this young cub, my nephew, wore good clothes and ate good
dinners, it was my charity he had to thank. Little by little, stick by
stick, my mother disposed of all the property her husband left her,
selling the bulk of it to me, and sending the proceeds to France, to
help to reconstruct the fortunes of her family there, who were ruined
by the revolution. She was a pauper when she died; and that's why I
took out no Letters of Administration—because there was nothing to
administrate upon. There, now I've told you more than I was under
any obligation to; and now, both of you, get out!”
“Come, Greg,” said Rip, “let's go.”
We went. Out of doors, I began, “Well, Rip”—
“Well, Greg,” Rip interrupted, “we've been on a fool's errand, a
wild-goose chase, and the less said about it the better.”
“And I—I'm not rich, after all?”
“That's what's the matter, Greg. If she didn't leave any property—
you see, we took it for granted that she did—why, there's nothing for
you to inherit. It's too bad, old fellow; but then, you're no worse off
than you were in the beginning. Anyhow, there's no use crying over
spilt milk. Come on; let's take the afternoon train to New York.”
So my fine castle in the air had fallen to pieces like a house of
cards. I tell you, it was a mighty crest-fallen young gentleman, in a
very humble frame of mind, who sat next to Arthur Ripley that
afternoon in the train that was speeding to New York.
 CHAPTER VI—MY UNCLE
FLORIMOND.

Y
es, indeed, it was a very crest-fallen youth who accompanied
Arthur Ripley back to New York that bright summer afternoon,
and who toward bed-time that evening stole quietly into Mr.
Finkelstein's shop. It was hard work under the circumstances to
return to Mr. Finkelstein's. I had to swallow my pride in doing so,
and it proved to be an exceedingly unpalatable dose. I had expected
to return a young prince, in princely style, to dazzle my plebeian
friends with my magnificence, and overwhelm them with my
bounteous generosity; and now, in point of fact, I came back poorer
than I had gone away, a beggar and a dependent, one who would
be homeless and penniless if they should refuse to take him in. It
was a dreadful come-down. I think, if there had been anywhere else
for me to go, I should never have returned to Mr. Finkelstein's at all,
it mortified my vanity so cruelly to have to do it. I felt as though I
should like to seek out some obscure hiding-place in the remotest
quarter of the world, and bury myself there forever from the sight of
men. “O, Rip!” I cried, “I should just like to bag my head.”
Of course, as I opened the shop door, the bell above it must needs
tinkle; and in response to this summons Mr. Finkelstein himself
issued from the parlor.
“What, Kraikory!” he exclaimed at sight of me. “Back so soon?
Ach! I tought it was a customer. Vail, it's you yourself, and no
mistake about it.”
“Yes, sir,” I replied, “we came back on the train this afternoon.”
“Ach, so? You came back on de train dis aifternoon? Vail, vail, valk
in, set down, make yourself to home. Vail, Kraik-ory, I'm real glaid to
see you. Vail, it's all right, I suppose? You got de money, hey? Vail,
was it more or less as you expected? Was it fifty tousand, or a
hundred, or maybe only terventy-fife? Vail, set down and tell me all
about it.”
“N-no, sir,” I began, rather tremulously; “it—we—there—there was
a mistake. She—I mean to say my grandmother—she didn't leave
any money, after all. She didn't have any to leave. She was quite
poor, instead of rich, and—and my Uncle Peter, he supported her. He
owned the house and everything. He had bought it from her, and
she had sent the money to France. So—I—that is—you see”—I broke
down. I could get no further.
“Ach, dere, dere, Kraikory,” cried Mr. Finkelstein, as my emotion
betrayed itself, and he laid his hand caressingly upon my shoulder;
“dere, dere, don't you go feel baid about it, my dear little poy.” Then
he caught himself up. “Excuse me, Kraikory; I didn't mean to call
you a little poy; I forgot. But don't you go feel baid about it, all de
same. You ain't no vorse off as you was before already. Put it down
to experience, Kraikory, sharsh it to experience. It's allright. You got
a comfortable home here by me. You needn't feel so awful about it.
Come, sheer up, Kraikory. Don't tink about it no more. Come along
inside mit me, and Henrietta will get you somedings to eat. We ain't
got no faitted caif to kill in your honor, Kraikory, but we got some of
de finest liver sowsage in de United States of America; and ainyhow,
Kraikory, veal is a fearful dry meat. Ach, dere, dere, for mercy's
sake, don't you feel baid. I get off a shoke shust on purpose to make
you laif, and you don't naifer notice it. Ach, Kraikory, don't feel baid.
I simply hate to see you feel baid, Kraikory; I simply cain't staind it. I
give ten tousand tollars right out of my own pocket sooner as see
you feel baid, Kraikory; I'm so fond of you, don't you understand?”
My heart melted all at once like ice in sunshine. Tears sprang to
my eyes. “Oh! my dear, dear Mr. Finkelstein,” I sobbed, “you are so
good to me. Oh! can—can you ever—for—forgive the—the way I've
acted? I—I'm—I'm so sorry for it.”
“My kracious, Kraikory, don't talk like dot. If you talk like dot, you
make me aict so foolish I be ashamed to show my face. You make
me cry like a raikular old voman, Kraikory; you aictually vill. Ach,
dere I go. Ach, my kracious! Ach! I cain't help it. Ach, what—what
an old fool I am.... Kraikory—my boy—my son—come here, Kraikory
—come here to me. O, Kraikory! I loaf you like a fader. O, Kraikory!
you know what I tought? I tought I loast you foraifer, Kraikory. O,
Kraikory! I'm so glaid to haif you back. Ach, Kraikory, God is good.”
The tears rolled downward from his dear old eyes, and pattered like
rain-drops upon my cheeks. He had clasped me in his arms.
From that hour I took up my old place at Mr. Finkelstein's, in a
humbler, healthier, and, on the whole, happier frame of mind than I
had known for many a long day before. My heart had been touched,
and my conscience smitten, by his loving kindness.
I was sincerely remorseful for the ungrateful manner in which I
had behaved toward him, and for the unworthy sentiments that I
had cherished. I strove honestly, by amending my conduct, to do
what I could in the way' of atonement.
Incidentally, moreover, my little adventure had brought me face to
face with some of the naked facts of life. In a grim and vivid tableau
it had shown me what a helpless and dependent creature I was;
how for the sheer necessities of food, shelter and clothing I must
rely upon the charity of other people. I tried now to make myself of
real value to my patron, of real use in the shop and about the house,
and thus in some measure to render an equivalent for what he did
for me. Instead of going off afternoons to amuse myself with Ripley,
I would remain at home to improve such chances as I had to be of
service to Mr. Finkelstein. I would play the hand-organ for him, or
read aloud to him, or take charge of the shop, while he slept, or
enjoyed his game of pinochle with Mr. Flisch. And in my moments of
leisure I would study a dog-eared fourth-hand copy of Munson's
Complete Phonographer that I had bought; for I had long thought
that I should like to learn short-hand, and had even devoted a good
deal of time to mastering the rudiments of that art; and I fancied
that, by much diligent practice now, I might hasten forward the day
when I should be able to earn my own livelihood, and thus cease to
be a burden upon my friends. Indeed, I could already write as many
as sixty words a minute with perfect ease.
 Mr. Finkelstein did not altogether approve of my assiduous
industry, and used to warn me, “Look out, Kraikory! It don't naifer
pay to run a ting into de ground; it aictually don't. You study so hart,
your head'll get more knowledge inside of it as it can hold, and den,
de first ting you know, all of a sudden vun day, it'll svell up and bust.
Ainy-how, Kraikory, dere's a proverp which goes, 'All vork and no
play makes Shack a dull poy'; and dot's as true as you're alife,
Kraikory; it aictually does. You better knock off dis aifternoon,
Kraikory, and go haif some fun. It's Saiturday, ain't it? And dere's a
maitinee, hey? Vail, why don't you go to de teayter?... How? You
study so hart becoase you vant to get able to earn your living? Now
look at here, Kraikory; don't you talk foolish. I got plenty money,
ain't I? And I got a right to spend my money so as to get
saitisfaiction out of it, hey? Vail, now look at here; dere ain't no vay
of spending my money what'll give me so much saitisfaiction as to
spend it to make you haippy and contented; dot's a solemn faict.
You needn't vorry about earning your living. You ain't got to earn it
for a great mainy years yet already—not till you get all done mit your
education. And ainyhow, Kraikory, you do earn it. You mind de store,
and you read out lout to me, and you keep me company; and, my
kracious, you're such a shenu-wine musician, Kraikory, you got such
a graind tailent for de haind-organ, I don't know how I'd get along
midout you. I guess I haif to raise your sailary next New Years.”
This was-only of a piece with Mr. Fin-kelstein's usual kindness. But
I felt that I had abused his kindness in the past, and I was
determined to abuse it no longer.
I say I was happier than I had been for a long while before, and
so I was. I was happier because I was more contented. My
disappointment about the inheritance, though keen enough at the
moment, did not last long. As Mr. Finkelstein had remarked, I was no
worse off than I had been in the first place; and then, I derived a
good deal of consolation from remembering what Uncle Peter had
told me—that the money had gone to reconstruct the splendor of
our house in France. My disappointment at seeing my meeting with
Uncle Florimond again become a thing of the indefinite future, was
deeper and more enduring. “Alas,” I sighed, with a heart sick for
hope deferred, “it seems as though I was never going to be able to
go to him at all.” And I gulped down a big lump that had gathered in
my throat.
Against Rosalind Earle I still nursed some foolish resentment. She
had wished that I might have to eat humble pie. Well, her wish had
come to pass; and I felt almost as though it were her fault that it
had done so. She had said she didn't like me any more, and didn't
care to have me call upon her any more. I took her at her word, and
staid away, regarding myself in the light of a much-abused and
injured person. So three or four weeks elapsed, and she and I never
met. Then... Toward six o'clock one evening I was seated in the
parlor, poring over my Complete Phonogacipher, when the door from
the shop opened with a creak, and a light footstep became audible
behind my chair. The next instant I heard Rosalind's voice, low and
gentle, call my name.
My heart began to flutter. I got up and turned around, and saw
the dear little girl standing a yard distant from me, with her hand
extended for me to take, and with her beautiful dark eyes fixed
appealingly upon my face. I didn't speak; and I pretended not to see
her hand; and I just stood still there, mute and pouting, like the
sulky coxcomb and simpleton that I was.
Rosalind allowed her hand to drop to her side, and a very pained
look came over her face; and there was a frog in her voice, as she
said, “O, Gregory! you—you are still angry with me.”
“O, no! I'm not angry with you,” I answered, but in an offish tone;
and that was true; I really wasn't angry with her the least bit any
more. All my anger had evaporated at the sight of her face and the
sound of her voice. But I didn't know how to unbend gracefully and
without loss of dignity.
“Then—then why haven't you been to see me?” she asked.
“You said you didn't want me to come to see you any more.”
“But I didn't mean it. You must have known I didn't mean it.”
 “But you said it, anyhow. I don't care to go where I'm not wanted.
When people say a thing, how am I to know they don't mean it?”
“But I said it when I was vexed. And what people say when
they're vexed—other people ought not to count it. It isn't fair. And
really and truly, Gregory, I didn't mean it; and I'm sorry I said it; and
I'm sorry I spoke to you the way I did; and—and that's why I've
come here, Gregory; I've come to ask your pardon.”
“Oh! certainly; don't mention it; no apology's necessary,” I said. I
would have given anything to have taken her in my arms, and kissed
her, and begged her pardon; but I was too stiff-necked and self-
conscious.
“And then,” she went on, “after you came back from Norwich, and
Mr. Flisch told me what Mr. Finkelstein had told him—about how
disappointed you had been, and everything—I—I felt so sorry for
you, Gregory, and so sorry that I had spoken to you that way; and I
wanted to come right over, and tell you I didn't mean it, and beg
your pardon, and ask you to make up with me; but I thought maybe
you mightn't like it, and that you might be angry with me, and—and
not—not—I don't know; but anyway, I didn't come. And then I just
hoped and hoped all the time that maybe you would come to see
me; but you never did. And then at last I just couldn't wait any
longer, I felt so guilty and sorry and everything; and—and so I
stopped in on my way home to day; and, O, Gregory! I really didn't
mean to hurt your feelings, and I hope you'll forgive me, Gregory,
and not be angry with me any more.”
By this time I had gone up, and taken her in my arms; and, “O,
Rosalind!” I cried, “don't talk like that. You—you make me feel so
ashamed. You—you humiliate me so. What you said to me that day
—it was just right. You were just right, and I was wrong. And I
deserved to have you talk to me ten times worse, I was so horrid
and stuck-up and everything. And I—I'm awfully sorry. And I've
wanted—I've wanted to go and see you all the time, and tell you I
was sorry; only—only I don't know—I suppose I was too proud. And
I just hope that you'll forgive me, and forgive the way I acted here
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