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Literary Lapses
·
Stephen Leacock
65
"A
fortnight
before,
I
remembered
having
heard
the
street
boys
crying
the
news
of
an
appalling
suicide,
and
I
know
now
that
it
must
have
been
he.
After
the
first
shock
of
my
grief
had
passed,
I
sought
to
keep
him
in
my
memory
by
drawing
the
portrait
which
hangs
beside
you.
I
have
some
skill
in
the
art,
and
I
feel
assured
that
I
have
caught
the
expression
of
his
face.
The
picture
is,
of
course,
an
ideal
one,
for,
as
you
know,
I
never
saw
Fifty-Six."
The
bell
on
the
door
of
the
outer
shop
tinkled
at
the
entrance
of
a
customer.
Ah-Yen
rose
with
that
air
of
quiet
resignation
that
habitually
marked
his
demeanour,
and
remained
for
some
time
in
the
shop.
When
he
returned
he
seemed
in
no
mood
to
continue
speaking
of
his
lost
friend.
I
left
him
soon
after
and
walked
sorrowfully
home
to
my
lodgings.
On
my
way
I
mused
much
upon
my
little
Eastern
friend
and
the
sympathetic
grasp
of
his
imagination.
But
a
burden
lay
heavy
on
my
heart--something
I
would
fain
have
told
him
but
which
I
could
not
bear
to
mention.
I
could
not
find
it
in
my
heart
to
shatter
the
airy
castle
of
his
fancy.
For
my
life
has
been
secluded
and
lonely
and
I
have
known
no
love
like
that
of
my
ideal
friend.
Yet
I
have
a
haunting
recollection
of
a
certain
huge
bundle
of
washing
that
I
sent
to
him
about
a
year
ago.
I
had
been
absent
from
town
for
three
weeks
and
my
laundry
was
much
larger
than
usual
in
consequence.
And
if
I
mistake
not
there
was
in
the
bundle
a
tattered
shirt
that
had
been
grievously
stained
by
the
breaking
of
a
bottle
of
red
ink
in
my
portmanteau,
and
burnt
in
one
place
where
an
ash
fell
from
my
cigar
as
I
made
up
the
bundle.
Of
all
this
I
cannot
feel
absolutely
certain,
yet
I
know
at
least
that
until
a
year
ago,
when
I
transferred
my
custom
to
a
more
modern
establishment,
my
laundry
number
with
Ah-Yen
was
Fifty-Six.
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