And after a day that had been more than
usually discouraging in the office and an evening of exasperated misery
at home, I got a revolver and some cartridges, locked myself in my
room, confronted myself desperately in the mirror, put the muzzle of
the loaded pistol to my temple, and pulled the trigger.
The hammer snapped sharply on the cartridge; a great wave of horror and
revulsion swept over me in a rush of blood to my head, and I dropped
the revolver on the floor and threw myself on my bed.
By some miracle the cartridge had not exploded; but the nervous shock
of that instant when I felt the trigger yield and the muzzle rap
against my forehead with the impact of the hammer--that shock was
almost as great as a very bullet in the brain. I realized my folly, my
weakness; and I went back to my life with something of a man's
determination to crush the circumstances that had almost crushed me.
Why do I tell that? Because there are so many people in the world who
believe that poverty is not sensitive, that the ill-fed, overworked boy
of the slums is as callous as he seems dull. Because so many people
believe that the weak and desperate boy can never be anything but a
weak and vicious man.
Pages:
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168