In the days of his opulence he
saw himself going to Budd's. Fortunately for his illusions the price was
now prohibitive. I had been to Budd's myself.
"Have you ever been there?" I asked of the dreamer.
"I've been in his store, in the front part, where the candy is--and if
you go 'round when he's freezing ice cream, he'll give you a whole
ten-cent dish just for turning the freezer; but Pop won't let me stay
out of school to do it, and Budd don't freeze Saturdays. But some day--"
he paused. Then, with seemingly another idea:--
"He's got an awful funny sign up over the counter."
He would not tell me what the sign was, though, He shuffled and talked
of other things. I entered Budd's on the morrow, purposely to read it,
and I knew that my namesake had quailed before it. The sign was in
white, frosted letters, on a blue ground, and it ran:--
TO TRUST IS TO BUST
TO BUST IS HELL
NO TRUST, NO BUST, NO HELL.
Its syllogistic hardness was repellant, but I dare say it preserved a
gorgeous butterfly from utter extinction.
Home again at early twilight, we ate of a cold supper set out for us by
Mrs.
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