Sitting with your feet drawn up in front of you, on a small and rickety one-legged table, is a most trying exercise, especially if you are not used to it. George and I both felt our position keenly. We did not like to call out. for help, and bring the family down. We were proud young men, and we feared lest, to the unsympathetic eye of the comparative stranger, the spectacle we should present might not prove imposing.
So we sat on in silence for about half-an-hour, the dog keeping a reproachful eye upon us from the nearest chair, and displaying elephantine delight whenever we made any movement suggestive of climbing down. At the end of the half-hour we discussed the advisability of "chancing it," but decided not to. "We should never," George said, "confound foolhardiness with courage."
"Courage," he continued,—George had quite a gift for maxims,—"Courage is the wisdom of manhood; foolhardiness, the folly of youth."
He said that to get down from the table while that dog remained in the room, would clearly prove us to be possessed of the latter quality; so we restrained ourselves, and sat on.
We sat on for over an hour, by which time, having both grown careless of life and indifferent to the voice of Wisdom, we did "chance it;" and, throwing the tablecloth over our would-be murderer, charged for the door and got out.
The next morning we complained to our landlady of her carelessness in leaving wild beasts about the place, and we gave her a brief, if not exactly truthful, history of the business.
Instead of the tender womanly sympathy we had
