me now. Let me know what any of them are doing. I heard six months ago
from a fellow who was touring out here that JACK BUMPUS was married.
If it is really our old JACK, congratulate him, and give him my love.
I don't know his present address. But, whatever you do, write. A
letter from you is like water in the desert."

[Illustration]

When I read that letter I became full of the noblest resolutions. Not
another day should pass, I vowed, before I answered it. So I prepared
a great many sheets of thin note-paper, carefully selected a clean nib
and sat down at my writing-table to begin. As I did so my eyes fell
upon _Martin Chuzzlewit_, which was lying within easy reach. The book
seemed positively to command me to read it for the tenth time. I took
it up, and in another moment _Mrs. Gamp_ had taken possession of
me. My writing-chair was uncomfortable. I transferred myself into an
arm-chair. Is it necessary to add that I did not write to TOM? His
letter is getting frayed and soiled from being constantly in my
pocket. Day after day it accompanies me on my daily round, unanswered
and seemingly unanswerable. For I feel it to be a duty to write, and
my mind abhors a duty. The letter weighs upon my conscience like lead.
A few strokes of the pen would remove the burden, but I simply cannot
screw myself up to the task. That is one of the things I ought to do.

Again, ought I not to call on the WHITTLESEAS? Mr. and Mrs. WHITTLESEA
have simply overflowed with kindness towards me. I never enjoyed
anything more than the week I spent at their house in Kent a short
time ago. They are now in town, and, what is more, they know that I am
in town too. Of course I ought to call. It's my plain duty, and that
is, as far as I can tell, the only reason which absolutely prevents