The result of a serious conversation between the authors of my being ended
in the resolution that it was high time for me to begin the world, and do
something for myself. The only difficult problem left for them to solve
was, in what way I had better commence. One would have thought the world
had nothing in its whole construction but futile beginnings and most
unsatisfactory methods of doing for one's self. Scheme after scheme was
discussed and discarded; new plans were hot-beds for new doubts; and
impossibilities seemed to overwhelm every succeeding though successless
suggestion. At the critical moment when it appeared perfectly clear to me
either that I was fit for nothing or nothing was fit for me, the
authoritative "rat-tat" of the general postman closed the argument, and
for a brief space distracted the intense contemplations of my bewildered
parents.
"Good gracious!" "Well, I never!" "Who'd ha' thought it?" and various
other disjointed mutterings escaped my father, forming a sort of running
commentary upon the document under his perusal. Having duly devoured the
contents, he spread the sheet of paper carefully out, re-wiped his
spectacles, and again commenced the former all-engrossing subject.
"Tom, my boy, you are all right, and this will do for you. Here's a letter
from your uncle Ticket."