Never before had I been in a position where
my own boots had seemed so all-pervading. The next moment I lost my
boots, and stopped the carpet with my head just as it was rushing
past me. At the same instant something hit me violently in the
small of the back. Reason, when recovered, suggested that my
assailant must be the rocking-chair.
Investigation proved the surmise correct. Fortunately I was still
alone, and in consequence was able, a few minutes later, to meet my
hostess with calm and dignity. I said nothing about the
rocking-chair. As a matter of fact, I was hoping to have the
pleasure, before I went, of seeing some other guest arrive and
sample it: I had purposely replaced it in the most prominent and
convenient position. But though I felt capable of schooling myself
to silence, I found myself unable to agree with my hostess when she
called for my admiration of the thing. My recent experiences had
too deeply embittered me.
"Willie made it himself," explained the fond mother. "Don't you
think it was very clever of him?"
"Oh yes, it was clever," I replied, "I am willing to admit that."
"He made it out of some old beer barrels," she continued; she seemed
proud of it.
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