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When we were
both tired out, we would climb up on the roof and lie there and
look out over the lake and the city where the myriad lights were
shining, and talk of the old home and old times.
Sometimes the new would crowd them out in spite of all. I remember
that Fourth of July when the salute from Fort Porter woke me up at
sunrise and fired me with sudden patriotic ardor. I jumped out of
bed and grabbed my revolver. There was a pile of packing-boxes in
the yard below, and, knowing that there was no one around whom I
could hurt, I made it my target and fired away all my ammunition
at it. It made a fine racket, and I was happy. A couple of days
later, when I was down in the yard, it occurred to me to look
at the boxes to ascertain what kind of a score I had made. A very
good one. All the bullets had hit. The boxes looked like so many
sieves. Incidentally I found out that they were not empty, as I
had supposed, but filled with glass fruit-jars.
I had eventually to give that job up also, because my boss was "bad
pay." He was pretty much all bad, I guess.


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