If You’re Wrong， Admit It
？戴尔·卡耐基 / Dale Carnegie
Within a minute’s walk of my house there was a wild stretch of virgin timber， where the blackberry thickets foamed white in the springtime， where the squirrels nested and reared their young， and the horseweeds grew as tall as a horse’s head. This unspoiled woodland was called Forest Park—and it was a forest， probably not much different in appearance from what it was when Columbus discovered America. I frequently walked in this park with Rex， my little Boston bulldog. He was a friendly， harmless little hound； and since we rarely met anyone in the park， I took Rex along without a leash or a muzzle.
One day we encountered a mounted policeman in the park， the policeman itching to show his authority.
“What do you mean by letting that dog run loose in the park without a muzzle and a leash？” he reprimanded me. “Don’t you know it’s against the law？”
“Yes， I know it is，” I replied softy， “but I didn’t think he would do any harm out here.”
“You didn’t think！ You didn’t think！ The law doesn’t give a tinker’s damn about what you think. That dog might kill a squirrel or bite a child. Now， I’m going to let you off this time； but if I catch this dog out here again without a muzzle and a leash， you’ll have to tell it to the judge.”
I meekly promised to obey.
And I did obey—for a few times. But Rex didn’t like the muzzle， and neither did I； so we decided to take a chance. Everything was lovely for a while， and then we struck a snag. Rex and I raced over the brow of a hill one afternoon and there， suddenly—to my dismay I saw the majesty of the law， astride a bay horse. Rex was out in front， heading straight for the officer.
I was in for it. I knew it. So I didn’t wait until the policeman started talking. I beat him to it. I said：“Officer， you’ve caught me red-handed. I’m guilty. I have no alibis， no excuses. You warned me last week that if I brought the dog out here again without a muzzle you would fine me.”