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Literary Lapses
·
Stephen Leacock
117
"My
dear
Robinson,"
the
other
man
rejoined
briskly,
"if
you
imagine
I've
had
no
experience
of
hardship
of
that
sort,
you
never
made
a
bigger
mistake
in
your
life.
Why,
when
I
first
walked
into
this
town
I
hadn't
a
cent,
sir,
not
a
cent,
and
as
for
lodging,
all
the
place
I
had
for
months
and
months
was
an
old
piano
box
up
a
lane,
behind
a
factory.
Talk
about
hardship,
I
guess
I
had
it
pretty
rough!
You
take
a
fellow
that's
used
to
a
good
warm
tar
barrel
and
put
him
into
a
piano
box
for
a
night
or
two,
and
you'll
see
mighty
soon--"
"My
dear
fellow,"
Robinson
broke
in
with
some
irritation,
"you
merely
show
that
you
don't
know
what
a
tar
barrel's
like.
Why,
on
winter
nights,
when
you'd
be
shut
in
there
in
your
piano
box
just
as
snug
as
you
please,
I
used
to
lie
awake
shivering,
with
the
draught
fairly
running
in
at
the
bunghole
at
the
back."
"Draught!"
sneered
the
other
man,
with
a
provoking
laugh,
"draught!
Don't
talk
to
me
about
draughts.
This
box
I
speak
of
had
a
whole
darned
plank
off
it,
right
on
the
north
side
too.
I
used
to
sit
there
studying
in
the
evenings,
and
the
snow
would
blow
in
a
foot
deep.
And
yet,
sir,"
he
continued
more
quietly,
"though
I
know
you'll
not
believe
it,
I
don't
mind
admitting
that
some
of
the
happiest
days
of
my
life
were
spent
in
that
same
old
box.
Ah,
those
were
good
old
times!
Bright,
innocent
days,
I
can
tell
you.
I'd
wake
up
there
in
the
mornings
and
fairly
shout
with
high
spirits.
Of
course,
you
may
not
be
able
to
stand
that
kind
of
life--"
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