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At the End Of His Rope, by Florence Morse Kingsley

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At the End Of His Rope
by Florence Morse Kingsley, 1899



MR. PERCY ALGERNON SMITH, familiarly known as "Cinnamon" Smith, thrust his hands
deeper into his trousers pockets. "I am not going," he remarked with an air of
decision.
"Not going!" cried the joint proprietors of Lone Pine Camp in a chorus. "Not
going! Why?"
Mr. Smith vouchsafed no immediate reply; he had fixed an experienced eye upon
the coffee-pot, which at the moment threatened to inundate the camp-fire with
its furious contents. "Here, you, Jake," he said peremptorily; "the coffee's
boiling over!"
The campers at Lone Pine were on the point of starting out for an all-day's
fishing excursion up Sunday Brook. It may as well be explained right here that
the party consisted of four undergraduates of CЧЧ University who were
temporarily pursuing their education in the bracing air of the Adirondacks.
That these young gentlemen were thus studiously engaged during that portion of
the year commonly exempt from mental pursuits argues nothing. Great minds have
ever been remarkable for concentration of purpose; and everybody knows that the
late football, rowing, and bicycle seasons were of unusual and engrossing
interest. It is to be hoped that a future and more enlightened generation will
so arrange the dull and comparatively unimportant scholastic pursuits that they
shall not clash with live interests. In a word, to quote from their own forceful
if inelegant phraseologyЧ Messrs. "Cinnamon" Smith, "Piggy" Brewster,
"Herodotus" Jones, and "Tommy" Pettigrew had been "plucked" in their
examinations, and were now "cramming" with more or less enthusiasm and diligence
under the able direction of Prof. John Gearing.
Mr. Smith's announcement occasioned considerable badinage of a personal and even
damaging nature, all of which was received by that young man with commendable
stoicism and equanimity.
"Cin's lazy!" drawled "Piggy" Brewster, as he ensconced himself comfortably in
the stern of the boat, armed with the lightest paddle
"Cinnamon's going to write to his best girl!" shouted Herodotus Jones, shying a
mighty quid of spruce-gum at the auburn head of the young gentleman on the
shore. "Do it in poetry on birch-bark, old boy! Little wavelets a-kissin' the
beach; green leaves all whisperin' of thee; my heart a-tremblin' with rapture at
the call of the lone loon across the moonlit waters! Hey, Cin?"
"AwЧ get along with you!" growled the recipient of these graceful sallies. "I'm
going to bone all day on GreekЧ that's what I'm going to do."
A burst of derisive laughter greeted this saying. Then the boat shot out into
the sparkling waters of Beaver Lake, and speedily disappeared behind the wooded
island.
Left to himself, it appeared that Mr. Smith had not remained behind to indulge
in solitary ease, for no sooner did the last echo of oars and voices die away
than he fell to work with extraordinary energy and diligence. He swept out the