talk in an interesting manner, curiosity[55] got the better of politeness, and I'm afraid I've played eavesdropper," and I made a killing bow, meant especially for Belle. [55] "Well, you're a pretty one!" exclaimed father. "So they say," said I. "Don't leave, young ladies. I'd like to sell you a magnifying-glass, and some cold cream." But they all left in a hurry. They didn't even buy a pair of gloves. The girls must have told of it, for the story got out, and Fred advised me to try counter-irritation for my bashfulness. "You're not a burglar," said he, "but you're guilty of counter-fitting." "Nothing would suit me better," I retorted, "than to be tried for it, and punished by solitary confinement." And there was nothing I should have liked so much. The iron had entered my soul. I was worse than ever. I purchased a four-ounce vial of laudanum, went to my room, and wrote a letter to my mother: "Mother, I am tired of life. My nose is turn-up, my mouth is large; I pocket other people's saucers and napkins; I am always making blunders. This is my last blunder. I shall never blush again. Farewell. Let the inscription on my tombstone be—'Died of Bashfulness.' John." John And I swallowed the contents of the vial, and threw myself on my little bed. [56] [56] CHAPTER VI. HE IS DOOMED FOR WORSE ACCIDENTS. It may seem strange for you to hear of me again, after the conclusion of the last chapter of my blunders. But it was not I who made the last blunder—it was the druggist. Quite by mistake the imbecile who waited upon me put up four ounces of the aromatic syrup of rhubarb. I felt myself gradually sinking into the death-sleep after I had taken it; with the thought of Belle uppermost in my mind, I allowed myself to sink—"no more catastrophes after this last and grandest one—no more red faces—big mouth—tea-napkins—wonder—if she—will be—sorry!" and I became
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