Then, with seemingly another idea:-- "He's got an awful funny sign up over the counter." He would not tell me what the sign was, though, He shuffled and talked of other things.

I entered Budd's on the morrow, purposely to read it, and I knew that my namesake had quailed before it.

The sign was in white, frosted letters, on a blue ground, and it ran:-- TO TRUST IS TO BUST TO BUST IS HELL NO TRUST, NO BUST, NO HELL.
Its syllogistic hardness was repellant, but I dare say it preserved a gorgeous butterfly from utter extinction.
Home again at early twilight, we ate of a cold supper set out for us by Mrs.Sullivan.And here I reflected that good days often end badly, for my namesake betrayed extreme dissatisfaction with the food.
"Why don't we have that pudding oftener--with lather on top of it ?" was his first outbreak.

And at last he felt obliged to declare bitterly, "We don't have a thing that's fit to eat!" "Calvin," said his father, "if I have to whip, it will hurt you worse than it does me." Whereupon the complainer was wisely silent, but later I heard him asserting, between catches of his breath, and out of his father's hearing:-- "I don't care--( _a sniff_)--when I'm rich, I'll go to Budd's for an up-to-date dinner, you bet--( _a snuffle_)--I'll probably go there every day of my life--( _two snuffles_)--yes, sir--Sundays and all!" I cheered him as best I could.
His sister had saved her day to a happy end, babbling off to bed with the distressing Irene, to whom she would show a book of pictures until sleep shut off her little eyelid.
A wise old man--I believe he was a bishop--once said he knew "that outside the real world is a world of fine fabling." I had stolen a day from that world.

Now I hurried through the gloom of the hall, past the poor striving hands, to sit with Solon Denney and tell him of a peculiar thing I had observed during the afternoon's walk..