I had not known Heffelbower well.
When he came back, I let him talk, fearful that he might prove to be a jarring note in the sweet, dirgelike harmony of his establishment.
But, no.
He chimed truly.
I gave a long sigh of happiness.
Never have I known a man's talk to be as magnificently dull as Peter's was.
Compared with it the Dead Sea is a geyser.
Never a sparkle or a glimmer of wit marred his words.
Commonplaces as trite and as plentiful as blackberries flowed from his lips no more stirring in quality than a last week's tape running from a ticker.
Quaking a little, I tried upon him one of my best pointed jokes.
It fell back ineffectual, with the point broken.
I loved that man from then on.
Two or three evenings each week I would steal down to Heffelbower's and revel in his back room.
That was my only joy.
I began to rise early and hurry through my work, that I might spend more time in my haven.
In no other place could I throw off my habit of extracting humorous ideas from my surroundings.
Peter's talk left me no opening had I besieged it ever so hard.
Under this influence I began to improve in spirits.
It was the recreation from one's labor which every man needs.
I surprised one or two of my former friends by throwing them a smile and a cheery word as I passed them on the streets.
Several times I dumfounded my family by relaxing long enough to make a jocose remark in their presence.
I had so long been ridden by the incubus of humor that I seized my hours of holiday with a schoolboy's zest.
Mv work began to suffer.
It was not the pain and burden to me that it had been.
I often whistled at my desk, and wrote with far more fluency than before.
I accomplished my tasks impatiently, as anxious to be off to my helpful retreat as a drunkard is to get to his tavern.
My wife had some anxious hours in conjecturing where I spent my afternoons.
I thought it best not to tell her; women do not understand these things.
Poor girl!—she had one shock out of it.
One day I brought home a silver coffin handle for a paper weight and a fine, fluffy hearse plume to dust my papers with.
I loved to see them on my desk, and think of the beloved back room down at Heffelbower's.
But Louisa found them, and she shrieked with horror.
I had to console her with some lame excuse for having them, but I saw in her eyes that the prejudice was not removed.
I had to remove the articles, though, at double-quick time.
One day Peter Heffelbower laid before me a temptation that swept me off my feet.
In his sensible, uninspired way he showed me his books, and explained that his profits and his business were increasing rapidly.
He had thought of taking in a partner with some cash.
He would rather have me than any one he knew.
When I left his place that afternoon Peter had my check for the thousand dollars I had in the bank, and I was a partner in his undertaking business.
I went home with feelings of delirious joy, mingled with a certain amount of doubt.
I was dreading to tell my wife about it.
But I walked on air.
To give up the writing of humorous stuff, once more to enjoy the apples of life, instead of squeezing them to a pulp for a few drops of hard cider to make the pubic feel funny—what a boon that would be!
At the supper table Louisa handed me some letters that had come during my absence.
Several of them contained rejected manuscript.
Ever since I first began going to Heffelbower's my stuff had been coming back with alarming frequency.
Lately I had been dashing off my jokes and articles with the greatest fluency.
Previously I had labored like a bricklayer, slowly and with agony.
Presently I opened a letter from the editor of the weekly with which I had a regular contract.
The checks for that weekly article were still our main dependence.