"I said when there was no occasion, boy; that's what I said,"
exclaimed Mr. Cleveland, reaching for his stick."
"Yes, sir," said Tom, as he went grinning out of the room.
Mr. Cleveland was, in the main, a very kind master, though somewhat
hasty and impatient. Tom and he were for ever sparring, yet neither
could have done without the other; and there was something comical
about Tom's disposition which well suited his master's eccentric and
changeable moods. Tom evidently served as a kind of safety valve for
his master's nervous system, and many an explosion of superfluous
excitability he had to bear.
On the night in question, Mr. Cleveland was particularly out of
sorts. The truth is, he was naturally a generous, warm-hearted man,
but in consequence of early disappointment, had lived a solitary
life, and was really suffering for the want of objects of affection.
His feelings, unsatisfied, unemployed, yet morbidly sensitive, were
becoming soured, and his untenanted heart often ached for want of
sympathy.
He rose and took several diagonal turns across the room. At length
he opened a window, and looked out upon the stormy night. "What
confounded weather!" he muttered to himself, "it makes a man feel
like blowing his brains out! There are no two ways about it, I'm
tired of life.
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