I tried a little while ago to cure MacShaughnassy of his fatal passion for advice-giving, by repeating to him a very sad story that was told to me by a gentleman I met in an American railway car.  I was travelling from Buffalo to New York, and, during the day, it suddenly occurred to me that I might make the journey more interesting by leaving the cars at Albany and completing the distance by water.  But I did not know how the boats ran, and I had no guide-book with me.  I glanced about for some one to question.  A mild-looking, elderly gentleman sat by the next window reading a book, the cover of which was familiar to me.  I deemed him to be intelligent, and approached him.

“I beg your pardon for interrupting you,” I said, sitting down opposite to him, “but could you give me any information about the boats between Albany and New York?”

“Well,” he answered, looking up with a pleasant smile, “there are three lines of boats altogether.  There is the Heggarty line, but they only go as far as Catskill.  Then there are the Poughkeepsie boats, which go every other day.  Or there is what we call the canal boat.”

“Oh,” I said.  “Well now, which would you advise me to—­”

He jumped to his feet with a cry, and stood glaring down at me with a gleam in his eyes which was positively murderous.

“You villain!” he hissed in low tones of concentrated fury, “so that’s your game, is it?  I’ll give you something that you’ll want advice about,” and he whipped out a six-chambered revolver.

I felt hurt.  I also felt that if the interview were prolonged I might feel even more hurt.  So I left him without a word, and drifted over to the other end of the car, where I took up a position between a stout lady and the door.

I was still musing upon the incident, when, looking up, I observed my elderly friend making towards me.  I rose and laid my hand upon the door-knob.  He should not find me unprepared.  He smiled, reassuringly, however, and held out his hand.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said, “that maybe I was a little rude just now.  I should like, if you will let me, to explain.  I think, when you have heard my story, you will understand, and forgive me.”

There was that about him which made me trust him.  We found a quiet corner in the smoking-car.  I had a “whiskey sour,” and he prescribed for himself a strange thing of his own invention.  Then we lighted our cigars, and he talked.

“Thirty years ago,” said he, “I was a young man with a healthy belief in myself, and a desire to do good to others.  I did not imagine myself a genius.  I did not even consider myself exceptionally brilliant or talented.  But it did seem to me, and the more I noted the doings of my fellow-men and women, the more assured did I become of it, that I possessed plain, practical common sense to an unusual and remarkable degree.  Conscious of this, I wrote a little book, which I entitled How to be Happy, Wealthy, and Wise, and published it at my own expense.  I did not seek for profit.  I merely wished to be useful.