“Further evidence of your mean nature: a gentleman resents an insult that steals away his character much more quickly than he resents an act that steals mere property. In that little book which I have just laid down Shakespeare speaks trenchantly on that matter: 'Who steals my purse steals trash . . . but he that filches from me my good name robs me . . . and makes me poor indeed.'” The tramp gave over his work of folding, and awkwardly and cumbersomely got upon his feet. “You take off that coat and hand it over. It's mine--I found it. I can stand a crazy man's gab, but when any one tries to do me out of what's my own I'll fight.” “May I ask what you're going to do with these garments of a gentleman which have fallen into your hands by accident?” “I'm going to cash 'em in at the nearest second-hand shop, that's just what I'm going to do.” “Just as you sold the Sunday suit you stole from a poor man! My friend, I was insulted that day on account of you. You owe me something!” Just then the alarm-clock purred a brief signal. Up to that time the air of the man with the brown eyes had been that of banter, of impish desire to harry and confuse by stilted language the ignorant stranger who had come blundering upon him. He stared at the clock, looked down upon the frock-coat, and then surveyed the other articles of clothing. He scowled as if he had suddenly begun to reflect. Seriousness smoldered in the brown eyes. That tinkling touch of metal against metal seemed to change his mood in astonishing fashion. “Ah, it may be morning again, O my soul!” he cried with such tense feeling in his voice that the tramp surveyed him with gaping mouth and bulging eyes, as one stares at a person suddenly become mad. “I will talk to you though you will not understand! Once upon a time the world was ruled by men who were ruled by omens. Man was then not so wise in his own conceit. His own soul was nearer the soul of things. He was not a mere gob of bumptiousness covered with the shell of cocksureness. He was willing to be informed. He sought the omens of true nature--he allowed Fate to guide him. He was not a pig running against the goad of circumstances, unheeding the upflung arms of Fortune, waving him toward the right path. He was simpler--he was truer. He felt that he was a part of nature instead of being boss of nature. Well, I have got nearer to true nature since I have been in the open. I am in contact with the soul of things. I am no longer insulated. I am not reformed, I am simply ready once again to grab Opportunity. So you think I am crazy, do you?” “They had a gink in a padded cell in the jail where I was last winter and he didn't take on much worse'n you,” stated the tramp.