I am living now on borrowed time. The sun of my allotted life-day has set,
and with the mellow twilight of old age there come to my memory reflections
of a life which, if not well spent, has in it enough of good at least to
make these reflections pleasant. And yet, during all the years in which I
have responded to the name Carter Brassfield, but a single fortnight of
time, it seems to me, is worth recounting.
We were living in Milwaukee, having recently moved there from York State,
where I was born. My father, a bookkeeper of some expertness, not securing
a position in our newly adopted city as soon as he had expected, became
disheartened, and, to while away the time that hung so heavily, took to
drinking beer with some newly acquired German friends. The result was that
our funds were exhausted much sooner than they should have been, and mother
took it upon herself to turn bread-winner for the family by doing some
plain sewing.
A small allotment of this money she gave to me one day on my return from
school, and sent me to Mr. Blodget, the grocer, to purchase some supplies.
After giving my order to one of the clerks I immediately turned my
attention to renewing my acquaintance with Tabby, the store cat.
While I was thus engaged, I heard my name repeated by a stranger who was
talking with Mr. Blodget, and erelong the man sauntered over, spoke to me,
and after some preliminary remarks asked if I was Carter Brassfield. He was
dark, had a sweeping mustache, and wore eye-glasses. Upon being assured
that I was Carter Brassfield, he took from his pocket a gold ring, and,
turning it around carefully in the light, read the inscription on its inner
side.
"Is your mother's name Alice?" he asked.