Whether it came from my training and repeated bankruptcy¹ at the commercial college, or by direct inheritance from old Loudon, the Edinburgh mason, there can be no doubt about the fact that I was thrifty³. Looking myself impartially⁴ over, I believe that is my only manly⁵ virtue⁶. During my first two years in Paris I not only made it a point to keep well inside of my allowance, but accumulated considerable savings⁷ in the bank. You will say, with my masquerade of living as a penniless student, it must have been easy to do so: I should have had no difficulty, however, in doing the reverse. Indeed, it is wonderful I did not; and early in the third year, or soon after I had known Pinkerton, a singular incident proved it to have been equally wise. Quarter-day came, and brought no allowance. A letter of remonstrance⁸ was despatched, and for the first time in my experience, remained unanswered. A cablegram was more effectual; for it brought me at least a promise of attention. “Will write at once,” my father telegraphed; but I waited long for his letter. I was puzzled, angry, and alarmed; but thanks to my previous thrift², I cannot say that I was ever practically embarrassed. The embarrassment⁹, the distress¹⁰, the agony, were all for my unhappy father at home in Muskegon, struggling for life and fortune against untoward¹¹ chances, returning at night from a day of ill-starred shifts and ventures, to read and perhaps to weep over that last harsh letter from his only child, to which he lacked the courage to reply.

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