For two months my sole occupation was avoiding acquaintances; for during that time I did not earn a penny, or buy an article of any kind, or pay my board.  I became a very adept at “slinking.”  I slunk from back street to back street, I slunk away from approaching faces that looked familiar, I slunk to my meals, ate them humbly and with a mute apology for every mouthful I robbed my generous landlady of, and at midnight, after wanderings that were but slinkings away from cheerfulness and light, I slunk to my bed.  I felt meaner, and lowlier and more despicable than the worms.  During all this time I had but one piece of money—­a silver ten cent piece—­and I held to it and would not spend it on any account, lest the consciousness coming strong upon me that I was entirely penniless, might suggest suicide.  I had pawned every thing but the clothes I had on; so I clung to my dime desperately, till it was smooth with handling.

However, I am forgetting.  I did have one other occupation beside that of “slinking.”  It was the entertaining of a collector (and being entertained by him,) who had in his hands the Virginia banker’s bill for forty-six dollars which I had loaned my schoolmate, the “Prodigal.”  This man used to call regularly once a week and dun me, and sometimes oftener.  He did it from sheer force of habit, for he knew he could get nothing.  He would get out his bill, calculate the interest for me, at five per cent a month, and show me clearly that there was no attempt at fraud in it and no mistakes; and then plead, and argue and dun with all his might for any sum—­any little trifle—­even a dollar—­even half a dollar, on account.  Then his duty was accomplished and his conscience free.  He immediately dropped the subject there always; got out a couple of cigars and divided, put his feet in the window, and then we would have a long, luxurious talk about everything and everybody, and he would furnish me a world of curious dunning adventures out of the ample store in his memory.  By and by he would clap his hat on his head, shake hands and say briskly: 

“Well, business is business—­can’t stay with you always!”—­and was off in a second.

The idea of pining for a dun!  And yet I used to long for him to come, and would get as uneasy as any mother if the day went by without his visit, when I was expecting him.  But he never collected that bill, at last nor any part of it.  I lived to pay it to the banker myself.

Misery loves company.  Now and then at night, in out-of-the way, dimly lighted places, I found myself happening on another child of misfortune.  He looked so seedy and forlorn, so homeless and friendless and forsaken, that I yearned toward him as a brother.  I wanted to claim kinship with him and go about and enjoy our wretchedness together.  The drawing toward each other must have been mutual; at any rate we got to falling together oftener, though still seemingly by accident; and although we did not speak or evince any recognition, I think the dull anxiety passed out of both of us when we saw each other, and then for several hours we would idle along contentedly, wide apart, and glancing furtively in at home lights and fireside gatherings, out of the night shadows, and very much enjoying our dumb companionship.