MARRIED AND SETTLED DOWN—RETIRED AND HAPPY—A DIP IN THE LAKE—THE WORLD IS ROUND AND WIDE—FAREWELL. In this narrative I have given a clear, comprehensive view of a fakir’s life, as I saw it in my own experience. I have made it no better and no worse, but just as I found it. In the years that I followed the calling I had many ups and downs, yet, on the whole, was constantly advancing. Before I had been at it long I accepted temporary difficulties as a matter of course—unpleasant while they lasted, but certain not to be of great duration. Before long I grew to have the most utter and complete confidence in myself, and faced the problem of the hour without a doubt of success. If I ultimately quit the road it was because, though still a young man, I could retire “with all my honors thick upon me.” In other words, I was fixed for life, if I chose to spend my days in idleness. That I subsequently added to my wealth by other means was nothing against my success as a fakir. Indeed, I am rather inclined to believe that the boom at Harwood was the greatest fake of all. After that, as I have already explained, I kept my eyes open for good things, and when they came along I caught them. One day when time was plenty on my hands I got to thinking: “How old are you, old boy?” I asked myself. “Thirty-eight,” came the answer. “Thirty-eight. Is it possible?” Yes, there was no denying it. Time had slipped along and I scarcely noticed it going. “Well, then,” I said, “it seems high time you had a home of your own. There is something more than life at the hotels and boarding houses, in spite of its freedom. You ought to marry and settle down. You have a good income and could support a wife not only comfortably, but in luxury.” Perhaps I was jesting with myself while talking in this strain; but very soon I got in sober earnest, and began to believe I had made up my mind to become a benedict. I ran over a list of my lady friends. I knew a vast number of them casually, but was surprised to find with how few I had taken time to become more than incidentally acquainted. The list was not long, and I did not remember a single one that I would care to make my partner for life. Should it be Sally Jones, Martha White or Jane Smith? Gertie Thompson, Maggie Brown, Annie Dawson, Kate Jackson or Lizzie Moore? They all had their good qualities, or I would not have been apt to give them more than passing notice; but they had their defects, and having noticed them I argued that I had less interest in them than a man should have in a lady he expects to make his wife. I considered further. Are the objections serious enough to stand in the way? Let me see.