on a log and made cogitations on life and old age and the zodiac and the
ways of women and all the disorder that goes with a lifetime. I passed
myself congratulations that I had probably saved my old friend Mack from
his attack of Indian summer. I knew when he got well of it and shed his
infatuation and his patent leather shoes, he would feel grateful. “To
keep old Mack disinvolved,” thinks I, “from relapses like this, is worth
more than a thousand dollars.” And most of all I was glad that I’d made
a study of women, and wasn’t to be deceived any by their means of
conceit and evolution. It must have been half-past five when I got back
home. I stepped in; and there sat old Mack on the back of his neck in
his old clothes with his blue socks on the window and the History of
Civilisation propped up on his knees. “This don’t look like getting
ready for a wedding at six,” I says, to seem innocent. “Oh,” says Mack,
reaching for his tobacco, “that was postponed back to five o’clock. They
sent me over a note saying the hour had been changed. It’s all over now.
What made
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陈嘉豪
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