“Strange, eh?  My mother loved my brother much more than she did me, although he never said a kind word to either of us and always raved up and down threatening us if we dared so much as touch the money that sometimes lay on the table three days.

“We got along pretty well.  I studied to be a minister and prayed.  I was a regular ass about saying prayers.  You should have heard me.  When my father died I prayed all night, just as I did sometimes when my brother was in town drinking and going about buying the things for us.  In the evening after supper I knelt by the table where the money lay and prayed for hours.  When no one was looking I stole a dollar or two and put it in my pocket.  That makes me laugh now but then it was terrible.  It was on my mind all the time.  I got six dollars a week from my job on the paper and always took it straight home to mother.  The few dollars I stole from my brother’s pile I spent on myself, you know, for trifles, candy and cigarettes and such things.

“When my father died at the asylum over at Dayton, I went over there.  I borrowed some money from the man for whom I worked and went on the train at night.  It was raining.  In the asylum they treated me as though I were a king.

“The men who had jobs in the asylum had found out I was a newspaper reporter.  That made them afraid.  There had been some negligence, some carelessness, you see, when father was ill.  They thought perhaps I would write it up in the paper and make a fuss.  I never intended to do anything of the kind.

“Anyway, in I went to the room where my father lay dead and blessed the dead body.  I wonder what put that notion into my head.  Wouldn’t my brother, the painter, have laughed, though.  There I stood over the dead body and spread out my hands.  The superintendent of the asylum and some of his helpers came in and stood about looking sheepish.  It was very amusing.  I spread out my hands and said, ‘Let peace brood over this carcass.’  That’s what I said.”

Jumping to his feet and breaking off the tale, Doctor Parcival began to walk up and down in the office of the Winesburg Eagle where George Willard sat listening.  He was awkward and, as the office was small, continually knocked against things.  “What a fool I am to be talking,” he said.  “That is not my object in coming here and forcing my acquaintanceship upon you.  I have something else in mind.  You are a reporter just as I was once and you have attracted my attention.  You may end by becoming just such another fool.  I want to warn you and keep on warning you.  That’s why I seek you out.”

Doctor Parcival began talking of George Willard’s attitude toward men.  It seemed to the boy that the man had but one object in view, to make everyone seem despicable.  “I want to fill you with hatred and contempt so that you will be a superior being,” he declared.  “Look at my brother.  There was a fellow, eh?  He despised everyone, you see.  You have no idea with what contempt he looked upon mother and me.  And was he not our superior?  You know he was.  You have not seen him and yet I have made you feel that.  I have given you a sense of it.  He is dead.  Once when he was drunk he lay down on the tracks and the car in which he lived with the other painters ran over him.”