He was obliged to limp that day, for his stone-bruise was coming on finely; but he had gone half a mile out of his way to worship at this wayside shrine. Again he was dreaming. In the days of his opulence he saw himself going to Budd's. Fortunately for his illusions the price was now prohibitive. I had been to Budd's myself.
"Have you ever been there? " I asked of the dreamer.
"I've been in his store, in the front part, where the candy is—and if you go round when he's freezing ice cream, he'll give you a whole ten-cent dish just for turning the freezer; but Pop won't let me stay out of school to do it, and Budd don't freeze Saturdays. But some day—" he paused. Then, with seemingly another idea:—
"He's got an awful funny sign up over the counter."
He would not tell me what the sign was, though. He shuffled and talked of other things. I entered Budd's on the morrow, purposely to read it, and I knew that my namesake had quailed before it. The sign was in white, frosted letters, on a blue ground, and it ran:—
To Trust is to Bust
To Bust is Hell
No Trust, No Bust, No Hell.
Its syllogistic hardness was repellant, but I dare say it preserved a gorgeous butterfly from utter extinction.
