Chicago (Ill.) -- History -- To 1875 -- Fiction; Fires -- Fiction; Great Fire, Chicago, Ill., 1871 -- Fiction; Historical fiction
Dennis was now hungry, tired, and disappointed. Indeed the calls of
appetite became so clamorous that he sought a cheap restaurant. After
demolishing a huge plate of such viands as could be had at little cost,
he sat brooding over a cup of coffee for an hour or more. The world
wore a different aspect from that which it had presented in the morning,
and he was lost in a sort of dull, painful wonder.
But the abundant meal and slight element of coffee that colored the
lukewarm water quite heartened him again. He resolved to go back to
his hotel and find a more quiet and comfortable place in which to lodge
until something permanent offered. He made what he considered sufficient
inquiry as to the right direction, and resolved to save even the carfare
of five cents by walking the distance.
But whether he had not understood the directions rightly, or whether,
brooding over the events of the day, his mind had been too preoccupied
to heed them, he found to his great disgust, after walking two or three
miles, that he had gone away from his destination instead of toward
it. Angry with himself, out of humor with all the world, he began to
give way to the latent obstinacy of his nature. Though everything went
"contrairy," there was one thing under his control--himself--and he
would make that do the bidding of his will.
Turning on his heel, he resolved with dogged resolution to walk back
the whole distance. He would teach himself a lesson. It was fine
business, just when he needed his wits so sorely, to commence blundering
in this style. No wonder he had failed during the day; he deserved to
fail in other respects, since in this one he had not shown the good
sense of a child.
When people are "out of sorts," and things are going wrong, the
disposition to blame somebody or something is almost universal. But
we think that it will be found a safe general rule, that the nobler
the nature, the less worthy of blame, the greater the tendency to blame
self rather than anything else. Poor Dennis had no great cause for
bitter reproaches, and yet he plodded on with an intense feeling of
self-disgust.
To think that after New-England schools and three years in college he
should write such a hand and have no definite knowledge of book-keeping!
"What have I learned, I'd like to know?" he muttered. Then to go and
lose his way like a country bumpkin! and he gnawed his lips with
vexation.
The street-cars glided often and invitingly by, but he would not even
look at them.
At last, foot-sore and fairly aching with cold and fatigue, he reached
the little hotel, which appeared more miserable, obscure, and profane
than ever. But a tempting fiend seemed to have got into the gin and
whiskey bottles behind the red-nosed bartender. To his morbid fancy
and eyes, half-blinded with wind and cold, they appeared to wink,
beckon, and suggest: "Drink and be merry; drink and forget your
troubles. We can make you feel as rich and glorious as a prince, in
ten minutes."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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