appear at ease and indifferent, I flung my arms about, spat out, and threw
my head well back--all without avail, for I continually felt the pursuing
eyes on my neck, and a cold shiver ran down my back. At length I escaped
down a side street, from which I took the road to Pyle Street to get my
pencil.

I had no difficulty in recovering it; the man brought me the waistcoat
himself, and as he did so, begged me to search through all the pockets. I
found also a couple of pawn-tickets which I pocketed as I thanked the
obliging little man for his civility. I was more and more taken with him,
and grew all of a sudden extremely anxious to make a favourable impression
on this person. I took a turn towards the door and then back again to the
counter as if I had forgotten something. It struck me that I owed him an
explanation, that I ought to elucidate matters a little. I began to hum in
order to attract his attention. Then, taking the pencil in my hand, I held
it up and said:

"It would never have entered my head to come such a long way for any and
every bit of pencil, but with this one it was quite a different matter;
there Was another reason, a special reason. Insignificant as it looked,
this stump of pencil had simply made me what I was in the world, so to
say, placed me in life." I said no more. The man had come right over to
the counter.

"Indeed!" said he, and he looked inquiringly at me.

"It was with this pencil," I continued, in cold blood, "that I wrote my
dissertation on 'Philosophical Cognition,' in three volumes." Had he never
heard mention of it?