“But where’s Frank?” the astonished Helen at last managed to say. Johnnie had followed her upstairs, and he was well drilled in handling the deaf. So he caught hold of his mother’s dress and pulled her to the door. “Come and _see_, ma,” he cried. He led her downstairs, out into the snow and pointed. And there was pa. The snow had slipped beneath his feet, and carried him to the very edge of the roof. He had saved himself only by catching at the chimney. There he stood, with both hands clasped about it, “hugging” literally for dear life. It was a very silent and thoughtful deaf woman who raised the ladder and gave her husband a chance to discontinue his attention to the chimney. And that is about the way nine-tenths of our imaginary troubles terminate. It never did pay to hug a rumor or a delusion too strenuously. Better conserve your strength for something more substantial. CHAPTER XIV CASES OF MISTAKEN IDENTITY Traveling for the Deaf—When the Deaf Man Saved a Leg for Someone Else—The Cornetist Who Couldn’t Play a Note—When the Deaf Meet the Drunk. Some deaf persons make the mistake of concluding that the affliction chains them at home and that they should not attempt to travel. This is wrong, for they thus lose many extraordinary adventures. It is better for us to get about if possible, and to take our chances with the world. I travel about as freely as any man with perfect ears might do, and thus see much of human nature which would otherwise be lost to me. No adventures are more amusing or exciting than those which start with mistaken identity. I have come to think that in the molding or shaping of humanity comparatively few patterns are really used, judging from the number of times that I and other deaf men have been mistaken for strange persons in the mental shuffle of ordinary minds. The man with good ears can usually explain at once, but we do not always understand, and we are led into embarrassing situations. Once years ago I went to the country to spend the night with an old friend. It was dark when we reached the little town where I was to meet “an elderly man with a gray beard,” who would drive me to the farm. We deaf are careful to have all such arrangements understood beforehand. It was a black, gloomy night, and there were no lights at the little station except the lanterns carried by the agent and a few farmers. The deaf man is at his worst in darkness. It holds unimaginable terrors for him. Perhaps I should say perplexities, for the deaf are rarely afraid.