AC dBooks

"
He could--it was in the little dimity-white room in his mother's house
with its sweet-smelling "scraas" under the sloping thatch.
"Well, you don't remember what you were doing when we held our first
conversation?"
He did--he was standing on his hands with his feet against the wall and
his inverted head close to the carpet.
"But you've forgotten what happened next?"
He hadn't--I had invited William Rufus and himself into bed, and they
had sat up on either side of me.
Poor William Rufus! I heard at last what had become of him. He had died
of distemper soon after I was sent to school. His master had buried him
in the back-garden, and, thinking I should be as sorry as he was for the
loss of our comrade, he had set up a stone with an inscription in our
joint names--all of his own inditing. It ran--he spelled it out to me--
"HERE LICE WILYAM ROOFUS WRECKTED
BY IZ OLE FRENS MARTIN CONRAD
AND MARY O'NEILL."
Two big blinding beads came into my eyes at that story, but they were
soon dashed away by Martin who saw them coming and broke into the
vernacular.


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