"To-morrow we will pay a visit to Bruin; but tonight do tell us
something about yourself, and your residence in the bush."
"You will know enough about the bush by-and-by. I am a bad
historian," he continued, stretching out his legs and yawning
horribly, "a worse biographer. I never can find words to relate
facts. But I will try what I can do; mind, don't laugh at my
blunders."
We promised to be serious - no easy matter while looking at and
listening to Tom Wilson, and he gave us, at detached intervals, the
following account of himself: -
"My troubles began at sea. We had a fair voyage, and all that; but
my poor dog, my beautiful Duchess! - that beauty in the beast - died.
I wanted to read the funeral service over her, but the captain
interfered - the brute! - and threatened to throw me into the sea
along with the dead bitch, as the unmannerly ruffian persisted in
calling my canine friend. I never spoke to him again during the
rest of the voyage. Nothing happened worth relating until I got to
this place, where I chanced to meet a friend who knew your brother,
and I went up with him to the woods. Most of the wise men of Gotham
we met on the road were bound to the woods; so I felt happy that I
was, at least, in the fashion.
