Читать книгу The Four-Masted Cat-Boat, and Other Truthful Tales онлайн

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As I climbed up to the seat by the driver, a man got out of the stage and walked up to the house.

“Good heavens! who’s that?” I asked of the driver.

“Thet,” said he, “is the Methody preacher makin’ his quarterly visit to th’ old ladies.”

The card read, “To meet Mr. Cavendish.” I had not been in Boston long, and I must confess to a poor head for names, so I had no idea who Mr. Cavendish was or what he had done, but as he was to be at Mrs. Emerson’s, I knew he had done something.

There were only five guests there, besides Mr. Cavendish, when I arrived, and after we were introduced it so happened that Cavendish and I found ourselves talking together.

He looked tired, so I said as a starter: “Don’t you find your work exhausting?” I thought I’d play “twenty questions” with him, and determine what he had done.

“Sometimes it is, very. The expenditure of force fairly makes my throat ache.”

It was easy. He was probably a Wagnerian singer.

“I suppose you have to be very careful about your throat.”