A TRAMP ABROAD By Mark Twain

She was still ruminating over that last child’s title,

but presently she said:

“I have always been sorry you were away at the time–I

would have had you name my child.”

“YOUR child! Are you married?”

“I have been married thirteen years.”

“Christened, you mean.”

`”No, married. The youth by your side is my son.”

“It seems incredible–even impossible. I do not mean

any harm by it, but would you mind telling me if you

are any over eighteen?–that is to say, will you tell

me how old you are?”

“I was just nineteen the day of the storm we were

talking about. That was my birthday.”

That did not help matters, much, as I did not know

the date of the storm. I tried to think of some

non-committal thing to say, to keep up my end of the talk,

and render my poverty in the matter of reminiscences

as little noticeable as possible, but I seemed to be

about out of non-committal things. I was about to say,

“You haven’t changed a bit since then”–but that was risky.

I thought of saying, “You have improved ever so much

since then”–but that wouldn’t answer, of course.

I was about to try a shy at the weather, for a saving change,

when the girl slipped in ahead of me and said:

“How I have enjoyed this talk over those happy old times–

haven’t you?”

“I never have spent such a half-hour in all my life before!”

said I, with emotion; and I could have added, with a

near approach to truth, “and I would rather be scalped

than spend another one like it.” I was holily grateful

to be through with the ordeal, and was about to make

my good-bys and get out, when the girl said:

“But there is one thing that is ever so puzzling to me.”

“Why, what is that?”

“That dead child’s name. What did you say it was?”

Here was another balmy place to be in: I had forgotten the

child’s name; I hadn’t imagined it would be needed again.

However, I had to pretend to know, anyway, so I said:

“Joseph William.”

The youth at my side corrected me, and said:

“No, Thomas Henry.”

I thanked him–in words–and said, with trepidation:

“O yes–I was thinking of another child that I named–I

have named a great many, and I get them confused–this

one was named Henry Thompson–”

“Thomas Henry,” calmly interposed the boy.

I thanked him again–strictly in words–and stammered

out:

“Thomas Henry–yes, Thomas Henry was the poor child’s name.

I named him for Thomas–er–Thomas Carlyle, the great author,

you know–and Henry–er–er–Henry the Eight. The parents

were very grateful to have a child named Thomas Henry.”

“That makes it more singular than ever,” murmured my

beautiful friend.

“Does it? Why?”

“Because when the parents speak of that child now,

they always call it Susan Amelia.”

That spiked my gun. I could not say anything. I was entirely

out of verbal obliquities; to go further would be to lie,

and that I would not do; so I simply sat still and suffered

–sat mutely and resignedly there, and sizzled–for I

was being slowly fried to death in my own blushes.

Presently the enemy laughed a happy laugh and said:

“I HAVE enjoyed this talk over old times, but you have not.

I saw very soon that you were only pretending to know me,

and so as I had wasted a compliment on you in the beginning,

I made up my mind to punish you. And I have succeeded

pretty well. I was glad to see that you knew George and Tom

and Darley, for I had never heard of them before and therefore

could not be sure that you had; and I was glad to learn

the names of those imaginary children, too. One can get

quite a fund of information out of you if one goes at

it cleverly. Mary and the storm, and the sweeping away

of the forward boats, were facts–all the rest was fiction.

Mary was my sister; her full name was Mary ——. NOW

do you remember me?”

“Yes,” I said, “I do remember you now; and you are as

hard-headed as you were thirteen years ago in that ship,