I wrapped up the book and took it away with
me. I considered that I had a moral right to it; but if anybody
questions it, it is at his service.
Buffalo was full of Frenchmen, but they did not receive me with a
torchlight procession. They even shrugged their shoulders when good
old Pater Bretton took up my cause and tried to get me forwarded
at least to New York. The one patriot I found to applaud my high
resolve was a French pawnbroker, who, with many compliments and
shoulder pattings, took my trunk and all its contents, after I had
paid my board out of it, in exchange for a ticket to New York. He
took my watch, too, but that didn't keep time. I remember seeing
my brush go with a grim smile. Having no clothes to brush, I had
no need of it any longer. That pawnbroker was an artist. The year
after, when I was in Buffalo again, it occurred to me to go in
and see if I could get back any of my belongings. I was just a bit
ashamed of myself, and represented that I was a brother of the
young hothead who had gone to the war. I thought I discovered a
pair of trousers that had been mine hanging up in his store, but
the Frenchman was quicker than I.
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