n't understand an indiwidooal who
has a mind inside of his hat, and a whole soul packed away under his
jacket. You'll never rise, a flutterin' and a ringin' like a
bald-headed eagle--men like you have got no wings, and can only go
about nibblin' the grass, while we fly up and peck cherries from the
trees. I'm always thinkin' on what I'm going to be, and a preparin'
myself for what natur' intended, though I don't know exactly what it
is yet. But I don't believe that sich a man as Montezuma Moggs was
brought into the world only to put patches on shoes and to heel-tap
people's boots. No, Quiggens--no--it can't be, Quiggens. But you don't
understand, and I'll have to talk to my genus. It's the only friend I
have."

"Why don't you ask your genus to lend you a fip then, or see whether
it's got any cigars to give away," replied Quiggs contemptuously, as
he walked up the street, while Moggs, in offended majesty, stalked
sulkily off in another direction.

"I would go somewheres, if I only knew where to go to," soliloquized
Moggs, as he strolled slowly along the deserted streets; "but when
there's nowheres to go to, then I suppose a person must go
home--specially of cold nights like this, when the thermometer is down
as far as Nero, and acts cruel on the countenance. It's always colder,
too, when there's nobody about but yourself--you get your own share
and every body else's besides; and it's lucky if you're not friz. Why
don't they have gloves for people's noses? I ought to have a
carriage--yes, and horses--ay, and a colored gemman to drive 'em, to
say nothing of a big house warmed all over, with curtains to the
windows. And why haven't I? Isn't Montezuma Moggs as good as
anybody--isn't he as big--as full of genus? It's cold now, a footin'
it round. But I'll wait--perhaps there's a good time comin',
boys--there must be a good time, for there isn't any sort of times in
the place where they keep time, which can be worse times than these
times. But here's home--here's where you must go when you don't know
what to do with yourself. Whenever a man tells you he has nowheres to
go to, or says he's goin' nowheres, that man's a crawlin' home,
because he can't help it. Well, well--there's nothin' else to be did,
and so somebody must turn out and let me in home."

It appeared, however, that Montezuma Moggs erred in part in this
calculation. It is true enough that he knocked and knocked for
admission at the door of his domicile; but the