With this money at his disposal, Bog might have thrown away the greasy

cap and old coat and trowsers, spotted with paste, in which he pursued

his occupation. But when Bog was at his business, he was not above his

business. And he felt none the less attached to his old clothes because

they were two inches too short in the legs and arms, and pinched him a

little in all directions.

But Bog had a better suit, made of neat gray cloth, which he wore upon

occasions. These occasions happened daily between three and four P.M.

During that interval, it always fell out that Bog had no work to do

which he could not postpone as well as not. And whether it rained or

shone, the occasions brought him, like an inexorable fate, through the

street where Miss Pillbody's school was situated. He would first stride

smartly up the opposite sidewalk, whistling, and cast ardent glances at

the lower windows of Miss Pillbody's school, shaded by green curtains

with gold borders.

After going two blocks in that direction, he would cross the street,

whistling yet, and march boldly up the other sidewalk, past Miss

Pillbody's school, as on an enemy. But if there had been anybody to

watch him closely--as there was not on that thronged street--that body

would have seen that Bog's cheeks began to blush, and his eyes to be

cast down, and his whistle to be fainter, as he hurried by the neat

three-story brick building with the polished doorplate and

handsome curtains.

Then he would loiter for a while in front of McFeeter's grocery, two

corners remote, and gaze from that safe distance with intrepidity upon

the abode of enchantment; after which he would screw his courage up to

the point of marching past the house back and forth again, and would

then resume his position at McFeeter's, and wait until four P.M., or

about that time, when the envied door of Miss Pillbody's establishment

would open, and an angel would dazzle upon his sight, with a music book

in her hand instead of a harp, and a jaunty little chip bonnet on her

head instead of a golden crown. If the harp and crown had suddenly taken

their proper places, and a pair of spangled wings had blossomed right

out of her shoulders, and the radiant creature, thus equipped, had

spread her pinions and soared up to heaven, the boy Bog would hardly

have been surprised. As this angel came down the happy front steps to

the blessed pavement (Bog's mind supplying these adjectives), Bog would

color up, and sneak off at his best walking pace in the opposite

direction. He felt that, if Pet ever saw him, and should ask him what he

was doing in that neighborhood, he should melt away in perspiring

confusion on the spot.

He called at Mr. Minford's twice a week, to indulge in the hollow form

of asking if he could do anything for him. There he confronted Pet, with

that trembling figure and those averted eyes which an inexperienced

thief may show before the man that he has robbed. But Pet knew not of

the adoring spy.

One afternoon, the boy Bog had made his second detour, and was

approaching the corner of the favored block, when a novel idea struck

him. The very night before, Bog had posted bills of the play, "Faint

Heart Ne'er Won Fair Lady." The gigantic lettering arose in his mind's

eye, like the cross in Constantine's. He had never seen the drama, and

he did not know to what extent Ruy Gomez pushed his audacity, and won

the Countess by it. But the name of the drama held the moral of it; and

the moral, as applied to Bog's case, was: "Stop at this corner, and take

a good view of the, house." To do this, in Bog's opinion, was the height

of boldness. But he thought of the huge parti-colored lettering, and

he did it.

He stopped at the corner, and leaned recklessly against a hydrant. He

looked at the house with a deliberation that amazed himself. At the same

time, as a matter of instinctive caution, he kept his left leg well out

toward the side street, so that he might retreat, should the door

suddenly open and disclose the seraphic vision. He consulted his large

bull's-eye silver watch (a capital timekeeper), and found that it was

half past three o'clock, and he never knew her to be out before four.

This reflection emboldened him. "Faint Heart Ne'er Won Fair Lady," he

thought again, and brought back his left leg to an easy position,

crossing it with his right one against the hydrant. Then he feasted,

with strange composure, upon the house.

Neither Bog nor a much wiser metaphysician could explain it; but the

house, and all around it, seemed to be glorified by the loved one

within. The newly painted door was bright with love; the polished

doorplate and bell handle glistened with love. The name Pillbody looked,

somehow, musical and winning, because the owner of that name was the

teacher and dear companion of Pet. The carved stone roses over the door

seemed to be truly the emblems of love. It was a silly notion; but, in

Bog's eyes, love imparted a not unpleasant expression to the grim lions'

faces that looked down from the roof. But the green window curtains with

gold borders were the most significant symbols of love, in his eyes. Bog

felt that curtains of any other color would be wholly out of place in

that house. The patch of a garden, scarcely bigger than a bathroom, in

front of the house; the single fir tree that grew up in the middle of

it; the black iron railing; the door steps, and the pavement--all took

their share of beatitude from the joy within. Bog could hear love rustle

in the boughs of the young maple, that stood in its long green case like

a fancy boot top, at the edge of the sidewalk.

CHAPTER IV.

LEGERDEMAIN.

As Bog was resting against the hydrant, absorbed in this delicious

revery, and totally indifferent to the consequences, he was startled by

a slight tap on the shoulder. He turned quickly, and saw--the man he

hated--the man who pretended (Bog would never admit that it was more

than a pretence) to save Pet from the falling boards.

"Well," said Bog, looking on this man as his mortal enemy, "What do you

want of me?" He spoke in the gruff, defiant manner peculiar to children

of the city.

The man's livid face and lead-colored eyes and white teeth all combined

in a reassuring smile. "Nothing," said he, "my good fellow, but to do

an errand."

"I say, now, who'd you take me for, hey?" answered Bog, shaking his head

at the man, and feeling a tremendous desire to knock his shining

hat off.

The man looked up and down Bog's cheap gray suit, and at his neatly

polished shoes and his clean slouching cap, and then said:

"No offence meant, my lad. But I thought you wouldn't object to earning

a quarter. You're only to deliver a letter at that house; that's all."

He pointed to Miss Pillbody's.

"Hey--what house?" asked Bog, turning pale, with a strange and jarring

combination of rage, jealousy, envy, and insulted dignity.

"The one with the bright doorplate, green curtains and gold borders. I

thought you were looking at it as I came up."

"N-no, I wasn't. And what if I was, hey?"

"It strikes me you're rather touchy, my young friend," said the man,

with his conciliatory smile. "Here's the letter, now, and a quarter.

It's only a few steps. No answer required."

As Bog caught sight of the letter, done up in the long, rakish envelope

which had just begun to come into fashion, and faintly perfumed, a lucky

thought occurred to him.

The man saw that he wavered. "Only a step," said he. "And here is the

quarter." He offered it to Bog between a thumb and finger.

"Why don't you deliver the letter yourself?" asked Bog.

"Oh! oh! for family reasons," answered the man, hesitating. "Miss

Pillbody there is my aunt, and the lady to whom this letter is addressed

is my cousin. The old woman and I have had a sort of falling out about

the young one, you see. These little difficulties will occur in the

best-regulated families. Come, take the letter. I'm in a hurry."

Bog allowed the letter to be thrust into his hand. He looked at it, and

saw, as he expected, that it was addressed to "Miss Minford, Present."

The direction was in a beautiful commercial hand, which was at once

more hateful in his eyes than the most crabbed of writing.

"All right," said he. "I'll deliver it. Poh! never mind the quarter. I

won't take it." Bog moved toward the house as he spoke.

"You're a queer fellow, but a good one. Well, you'll accept my thanks,

at any rate."

He waited at the hydrant until Bog had delivered the letter.

Bog walked straight to the house, and up the steps, although his face

was pale, and his knees trembled.

He rang the bell with a decisive pull, and, as he did so, glanced at the

strange man, who nodded approvingly at him.

He suddenly turned his back on the strange man. With a quick movement of

the fingers of his right hand, he thrust the letter up his coat sleeve:

The next instant he whipped a handkerchief out of an inside breast

pocket, and, with it, a stray copy of a new "Dentifrice" circular, which

he had been distributing the night before. This circular was folded to

about the size and shape of the letter. With the handkerchief he wiped

his face, upon which there were real drops of sweat. The circular he

slipped into his right hand, and then turned toward the strange man

again, to show that he still held the letter. This bit of legerdemain

took about three seconds.

In three seconds more, Bog heard footsteps approaching in the entry.

What if his angel should come to the door? The thought sent a horrible,

sickly sensation all over him, and the solid rock seemed to tremble

beneath his feet.

The door opened, and something quite the opposite of an angel presented

itself. It was Bridget; and her red hair was dishevelled, her face

flushed to the parboiled tint, and her dress uncommonly damp and frowsy.

A mop which she held in her hand explained everything.

"A circular, if you please," said Bog, in a quivering voice, poking the

folded paper at her.

"A succular, is it? Miss Peelbody told me not to take any succulars for

her. So 'way wid ye." Bridget put her hand on the door, and was about to

swing it to.

"It isn't for Miss Pillbody at all," said Bog, fearful lest the strange

man should see it refused, "but for your own pretty self."

Bridget smiled, for she was conscious that the compliment was deserved.

She relaxed her hand on the door. "Fat is it?" said she.

"Hush!" said Bog, in a whisper; "a circular about the rights of

servants, issued by the 'Servants' Mootual Protecting Society.'" (Bog

thought of the name on the spur of the moment.) "Please take it--quick."

Bridget snatched the circular out of his hand, and was about to look at

it, bottom side up, for she had not yet attained to the mystery of

reading, when the musical voice of Miss Pillbody was heard at the back

of the entry. "Bridget--what is wanted, Bridget?"

"Nothing ma'am, but one of these succular men. Bad luck to him! Here,

now, take it."

She made a feint of handing back the circular to Bog, but concealed it,

with the other hand, in her capacious bosom.

"Heaven bless ye!" said she, in a low voice, and then slammed the door

in his face.

Bog came down the door steps quickly, and saw the strange man make a bow

and a gesture of gratitude at him, and then disappear suddenly round the

corner. Bog's first impulse was to follow him at a distance; but his

curiosity to inspect the slender, perfumed letter, overcame it.

When Bog reached the awning in front of McFeeter's store--a sort of

haven or putting-in place for him--he pulled out the letter, and was

about to read it. Then it occurred to him that the situation was too

much exposed. The strange man might come back, and see him with the open

letter in his hand. Bog would have enjoyed a personal collision with him

on any pretext; but to be caught in the act of reading the letter, would

spoil the strategical advantage that Bog now had over him.

Bog moved on down a side street, and took his stand behind a huge

wooden column surmounted by a gilded mortar and pestle. Here he was

about to rip open the envelope, but a glance across the street

discovered a policeman looking at him. Bog felt guilty and awkward. He

coughed, and thrust the letter into his pocket, and moved on again. The

exciting events of the morning had made Bog intensely nervous. He did

not stop this time until he had gained his home.

His aunt was sitting in the front room, reading a book through a huge

pair of silver-rimmed spectacles. There was a thick fold of flannel

about her neck, and she smelt strongly of embrocation. As Bog rushed

into the room, she groaned audibly, and laid down the book, as if it

were a wicked enjoyment.

"I'm so bad to-day, Bog," said she. "Them shootin' pains'll be the death

of me."

Bog responded not a word, but dashed across the apartment, and, entering

his little sleeping room, closed the door, and bolted it.

"Unfeelin' creetur!" said his aunt. She stopped groaning, and took up

her book and read again.

Bog seated himself on his hair trunk, and drew out the letter. There was

a slight discussion within him on the abstract question of his right to

open it. After turning it over twice, the question was decided in the

affirmative. He slit the envelope with his thumb, and brought to light a

billet faultlessly written, as follows:

"Frederick Lynville begs to present his compliments to Miss Minford, and

to assure her, from the depths of his heart, that his feelings toward

her are only those of the purest admiration for the matchless charms of

her mind and person. He takes this method of explaining himself, because

he has observed with great sorrow that Miss Minford has shown a desire

to avoid him on several recent occasions, when they have accidentally

met in the street. It was Mr. Lynville's blessed privilege, under

Providence, to save Miss Minford's life; but he would not be selfish and

base enough on that account to obtrude himself on Miss Minford's notice.

Mr. Lynville would die sooner than be guilty of that discourtesy. He is

not presumptuous enough to ask an answer to this letter. His only object

in writing it, is to inform Miss Minford that he will not venture again

upon the impropriety of speaking to her first when they next meet. Miss

Minford will therefore be free to drop his acquaintance, or continue it,

as she thinks best. Whatever fate she may decide for him, her happiness

will still be his constant prayer."

* * * * *

Bog was ill versed in the art of complimentary letter writing. But the

villany here seemed to be clumsily concealed. That the letter was full

of danger to the object of his boyish idolatry, he had no doubt.

But why did Pet avoid this Frederick Lynville? Did she really dislike

him? Or----. The thought of his own shyness toward the beautiful girl

came into his mind like a flash. To avoid might be--to love.

The poor boy dropped the letter, and covered his face with his hands,

and wept.

Love is not always selfish; and goodness is sometimes its own reward. In

that bitter hour of his first real misery, Bog did not regret his

kindness to the Minfords, or take credit to himself for having nobly

concealed from their knowledge those little weekly gifts of money which

he sent to them through the mail, when they were in poorer

circumstances. He was not for a moment base enough to think that Pet

would look with kinder eyes on him, if she but knew of his secret

benefactions--which, up to this time, neither she nor her father had

suspected, and which they would never learn from his lips.

BOOK SIXTH.

MYSTERIES OF THE NIGHT.

CHAPTER I.

THE UNKNOWN HAND.

Marcus Wilkeson made no effort to discover the writer of the anonymous

letter, because he knew that such an effort would be in vain. He called

on Mr. Minford once in two or three days now. The inventor always took

occasion to refer to the letter, and assured Marcus that it was not

worth remembering, or talking about. "Why, then, did he talk about it?"

Marcus asked himself. His eyes were not blind to watchful and suspicious

glances which the old man directed to him, at times, under cover of

those shaggy, overhanging eyebrows. Nor could he help noticing a strange

reserve in the bearing of Pet toward him. It was not mere modesty, or

timid gratitude, but DOUBT, as he read the signs. Marcus was convinced

that the father had put his child on guard against something, though he

might not have mentioned the existence of the anonymous letter. This

thought distressed him acutely.

But his troubles, as well as his joys, he kept to himself. The miser

puts his broken bank notes and his good gold under the same lock

and key.

One evening, early in April, Overtop and Maltboy observed a peculiar

expression of sadness on the face of their friend. He had eaten nothing

at dinner, but had drunk more than his usual allowance of sherry. He had

kept his eyes fixed on the table as in a revery, and had scarcely spoken

a word. Miss Wilkeson, in her solemn state opposite the boiled chickens,

was hardly less social.

After dinner, Marcus took to his pipe with a strange sullenness, and

smoked furiously. His two friends, closely regarding him, saw that he

was unhappy, but wisely forbore to make him more unhappy still by

obtruding their condolence on him. The day had been rainy and cold. They

knew that Marcus's spirits were barometrically sensitive to the weather,

like those of most persons who look at it through a window.

They had noticed, as they came home, that he was reading that sweetest

of elegies, the "In Memoriam" of Tennyson. And the two friends thought

that the melancholy weather and the melancholy poem together fully

accounted for the gloom on his brow.

Marcus sat for some minutes meditating. Then he heaved a sigh, which was

distinctly audible to his two friends. Then he left the room without

saying a word, and went up stairs.

Presently he was heard to come down; but, instead of returning to the

little parlor, he went into the street, and closed the door with a sharp

slam. At the same moment, the cold rain of the April night beat noisily

against the window.

"Sly old fellow!" said Maltboy.

"Up to something, depend on it," said Overtop.

Marcus walked rapidly toward the inventor's house. "My fate is decided

to-night," he muttered.

His long strides soon brought him to the house. The old building wore a

gloomy look. He did not speculate on the reason of this. It was probably

because there was no light visible in any of the front windows, and very

little light in the street lamps. The gas burned low and blue, and

flickered in the wind.

Ringing the bell, Marcus was admitted by one of the numerous children

belonging to somebody in the house (Marcus could never determine to

whom), and walked up to the inventor's room. His heart beat with strange

emotion as he rapped at the door. For a moment he was sorry that he

had come.

"Come in," said the inventor, in a voice more sepulchral than usual.

Marcus entered the apartment. The inventor received him with a feeble

shake of the hand, bearing no resemblance to the hearty one which he

used to bestow in the early days of their acquaintance. Marcus noticed

that Mr. Minford's hand was hot. He also observed that his eyes were

preternaturally lustrous, and that the circles under them were deep and

dark. His cheeks were deathly pale, saving a little red spot in the

centres. He looked like a man in a state of fearful mental exaltation

and nervous excitement.

Marcus was not in the habit of worrying people upon the subject of their

ill health; but the inventor looked so palpably bad, that Marcus could

not forbear to say, in a tone of anxiety, "You are unwell, sir."

"Oh, no! Quite well, I assure you," said the inventor, with a weary

smile. "Though I should be sick, perhaps, but for the glorious hope that

bears me up. I have not eaten, or slept, for forty-eight hours."

"But, my dear sir, this is trifling with your health."

"I acknowledge it. But we must make sacrifices, if we would master the

UNKNOWN. Newton lived on bread and water when he wrote his immortal

Principia. He condemned himself to the coarse fare of a prison, in order

that his intellect might soar untrammelled to the stars. I have improved

on Newton--I eat nothing. As for sleep, I grudge a single hour of it

which comes between me and the completion of my great work."

"But how long can you stand this dreadful strain upon your powers?"

"Till daylight to-morrow, with safety. By that time I shall have

overcome the last obstacle. Of this I am confident. Then, ho! for

unbounded wealth and undying fame. The toil has been severe, but the

reward will be glorious."

"I congratulate you," said Marcus, "on the near approach of your final

triumph. And, in order that I may not delay you a single moment, I will

bid you 'good-night.'" Marcus rose, but he hoped that the inventor would

ask him to stay.

The inventor did so. "Pray don't hurry, Mr. Wilkeson; I would like to

have a brief conversation with you. A few minutes only." He drew a chair

to the side of Marcus, and seated himself.

"Mr. Wilkeson," he said, in a deliberate voice, as if he were repeating

carefully-considered words, "it is unnecessary for me to say that I have

the highest opinion of you. Providence seems to have sent you to me at a

time when I was in the greatest need. You saved me from starving. The

world will be as much indebted to you for my grand invention, as it was

to the generous patronage of Queen Isabella for the discovery

of America."

"Pooh!" interrupted Marcus, blushing.

"The praise is none too high," continued the inventor. "It is true, I

have repaid your advances of money tenfold, by giving you an interest in

my future but certain fortune. But that does not diminish my gratitude."

Marcus knew that this flattering exordium meant something serious. It

was a favorite theory of his, that danger, or any kind of anticipated,

disagreeable thing, was best met halfway. So he said, with a feeble

attempt at a smile:

"I infer from this ominous opening that you have received another lying

anonymous letter about me. If I am right, Mr. Minford, be good enough to

let me see it at once, according to your promise."

"You have guessed correctly, Mr. Wilkeson. I have received a second

anonymous letter, which I intended showing to you after a further brief

explanation. But I can readily appreciate your anxiety to read it

without delay. Here it is." He drew forth a letter, and handed it

to Marcus.

Marcus immediately recognized the envelope and the address as similar

to those of the first letter, which he still had in his possession.

He pulled the letter nervously from its yellow sheath, and read as

follows:

MR. MINFORD:

DEAR SIR,--Pardon me for intruding on you a second time. But,

as a friend of virtue, I must warn you of continued danger to

your daughter from the acquaintance of Mr. Wilkeson, your

pretended benefactor. If you are any longer in doubt as to

the vile intentions of this man, conceal yourself from

observation within sight of Miss Pillbody's school, any fair

afternoon, about half past two o'clock, and watch his

actions. If his suspicious conduct, at that time and place,

does not give a sufficient significance to my warnings, then

take the trouble to go to ----, Westchester Co., where he was

born, and search into his infamous history. Take heed--I warn

you again--lest, in your devotion to science, you forget that

you are a father.

ONE WHO WOULD SHIELD THE INNOCENT.

While reading this letter, Marcus was conscious that the eyes of the

inventor were fixed piercingly upon him. That consciousness caused his

head to bow, and his cheeks to crimson with shame. It is the curse of

this morbid sensibility, that righteous indignation at a foul slander

upon one's good name springs up only after the victim has shown all the

accepted evidences of guilt.

There was one reason why a man much less sensitive than Marcus should

have been thrown off his balance by this letter. It was a fact that

every afternoon, at half past two o'clock, rain or shine, with

bachelor-like punctuality, he passed up and down in front of Miss

Pillbody's school, and looked sentimentally at the closed blinds,

thinking unutterable things. He was also addicted to standing at the

hydrant on the corner, and gazing hard at the house, wishing that he

could see through its brick walls. Then he would cross the street, and

pace up and down on that side, taking views of the house at every

variety of angle. This was precisely what the boy Bog did daily about an

hour and a half later. Now, although Marcus felt, in his heart, that

these pedestrian exercises--absurd to everybody but a lover--were

perfectly harmless in their purpose and effect, he was aware that, to a

man like Mr. Minford, looking at them suspiciously, they would appear to

be connected with some stealthy and base design.

As to the imputations upon his former history, Marcus could freely

challenge the closest scrutiny; which is more than most men can do into

that long record of juvenile frailties and escapades which ushers in the

sober book of manhood. But here again the devil of sensitiveness

asserted his supremacy. Marcus had had a twin brother (who died years

before), a duplicate of himself in all respects but two. Marcus was

quiet, studious, honest, and frank; while Aurelius was quiet, studious,

less honest, and infinitely crafty. Marcus had, on several occasions in

his boyhood, been accused of petty offences which Aurelius had

committed, but which that cunning youth had unblushingly denied. These,

so far as Marcus supposed, were nothing more serious than robbing

orchards or melon patches. Still it was possible that some graver

wrong--more worthy of the title "infamous"--committed by his wild,

shrewd brother, might be brought to light by some deep explorer among

the traditions of his native village, and charged upon himself. This

possibility, and the difficulty of refuting a serious accusation under

such circumstances, brought a second flush of guilt to the face of

Marcus Wilkeson as he read the letter.

These harassing thoughts, which fill so much space, written out, are but

a small part of those which were suggested with electric suddenness.

Marcus's first impulse was to say: "I love your daughter, Mr. Minford,

with my whole heart and soul. It is my first and my only love, singular

though this confession may sound from the lips of a man of thirty-six

years. The proudest and happiest day of my life would be that on which I

could marry her, with her dear love and your fatherly consent. This

love, which is as pure as the angelic creature upon whom it is lavished,

fully explains my visits here, and whatever else is mysterious in my

conduct. But, before declaring myself to your daughter, or asking her

hand of you, I have desired to see whether it were possible to inspire

her with love for a man so much older than herself. For, much as I love

her, I would not seek to marry her without a return of love--not mere

respect, esteem, or gratitude. That is the problem I have been waiting

to solve."

A confession to this effect was on the tip of his tongue. To have made

it, would have been like tearing open his breast and showing his heart.

But he would have made it, whatever the pain, if, on looking nervously

up from the letter, which he had now finished, he had not met the cold,

searching eyes of the inventor. He instantly shut his lips upon the

outcoming confession, and said, with as much indifference as he could

awkwardly assume:

"I hope, sir, you have taken the trouble to investigate these ridiculous

charges." But Marcus inwardly hoped he had not.

"I have sir," responded the inventor, gravely. "Had the accusations been

vague, like those in the first letter from this unknown person, I should

have dismissed them from my mind with a laugh. But they were so

specific, and the truth or falsity of them was so easily ascertained,

that I thought it my duty, in justice to my daughter, yourself, and to

me, to look into them. It was a painful task, but I have done it."

"And what have you learned?" asked Marcus, making a transparent feint to

look at ease.

"I will tell you frankly; though I wish to say, in advance, that my

discoveries, though they might justify some suspicion, do not prejudice

me in the least against you. I have no doubt that you will be able to

explain everything." But so spoke not the eyes of the inventor.

"Well, then, to make a short story of this unpleasant affair, I have

watched your promenades in front of Miss Pillbody's school three

afternoons in succession. I will spare you the details, though, so

clearly are your movements back and forth imprinted on my memory, that I

could recount them all to you, if necessary. It is sufficient to say,

that I am forced to believe that my daughter is the magnet which draws

you to that neighborhood, and keeps your eyes riveted on that house.

This is all I have to say on the first point in the letter."

CHAPTER II.

IN VAIN--IN VAIN.

This was Marcus Wilkeson's golden opportunity, and he manfully

determined to seize it. But, as he was on the point of blurting out the

stifled secret, that cold, pale face--which resembled marble in all but

the drops of sweat upon the brow--chilled him again. At the same moment,

the hopeless absurdity of love and marriage between a girl of seventeen

and a man of thirty-six, occurred to him in all its force. Stupidly

sensitive being that he was, he thought that this icy, intellectual Mr.

Minford would laugh at him.

"I confess, sir, that these wanderings seem 'singular,' as you term

them. But all the habits of old bachelors are regarded as singular, I

believe. Now, it has been my daily habit, since I retired from business,

to lay down my book at two o'clock, and take a little out-door exercise.

Miss Pillbody's school is not far from my house; the street is pretty

clean for New York, and the sidewalks are tolerably dry. Therefore I

select that neighborhood for my daily walk--my--my 'constitutional,' as

they call it. If, in so doing, I should occasionally cast my eyes--in

fits of absent-mindedness, I may say--on Miss Pillbody's school, that

is not strange, considering--considering the interest that I take in

your daughter's education. It strikes me, my dear sir, that this seeming

suspicion is easily cleared up." Marcus smiled to think how adroitly he

had extricated himself.

But there was no smile on the shroud-colored face of the inventor.

"The explanation is _plausible_" (Mr. Minford emphasized the word), "and

I will not attempt to set it aside. God alone knows all the motives of

human action. Now, to the second, and more serious implication of the

letter. I have visited your native village, and inquired into your early

history. Though you moved to the city over fifteen years ago, and have

returned to your birthplace but once since, so far as I could

ascertain--"

"Allow me," said Marcus. "My absence from my old home may seem strange,

but it is occasioned by no shame or disgrace. My father, mother, and

twin brother died and were buried there. By my father's failure, shortly

before his death, the old family mansion passed out of his hands, and

was afterward torn down to make room for a railway depot. This

extinction of my family--for I am now left without a relation in the

world, excepting a half-sister--and this destruction of our old home,

have made my native village horrible to me. When I visited the scene of

desolation, ten years ago, the village seemed to me like a huge

graveyard, in every part of which some happiness of my boyhood was

entombed; and I vowed that I would never go near it again. In the matter

of family recollections, I am exquisitely sensitive."

"I respect your feelings, sir," said the inventor, "and regret that I

should be the means of reviving these painful recollections. But I have,

a duty to perform."

"And I will no longer delay you in its performance. Now be kind enough

to let me know the worst at once. I can stand it." Marcus unconsciously

sat up more erect, as if to brace himself against a shock.

"On my arrival in the village, my first act was to seek out some of the

oldest inhabitants. I found that most of them distinctly remembered you,

and your brother--Aurelius, I think, was his name. You will pardon me

for telling you the exact result of my inquiries, but I found that these

old inhabitants, without a single exception, gave you a very bad name,

and your brother a very good one."

Marcus was about to explain, that his brother and himself were images of

each other; that the former was crafty, and full of mischief, and that

he (Marcus) had been made, on fifty occasions, the innocent scapegoat of

his brother's little offences. But he forbore. He had cheerfully

received reprimands, and even chastisements, for his brother while

living; and he would not blacken his memory when dead. He merely smiled

a sad smile, and said, "Ah?"

"Many of the offences charged against you by these old gossips, were

petty and excusable. But there were others, committed by you when you

were at or near manhood, exhibiting, if true--understand, I say, _if_

true--a moral depravity for which no extenuation can be found. Some of

the charges were not sustained by adequate proofs, and those I set down

as idle rumors. But there was one of which the proof was abundant and

most positive. No less than five persons gave me circumstantial

accounts--all agreeing with each other--of your betrayal and ruin of

Lucy Anserhoff."

"Lucy Anserhoff!" echoed Marcus, in real amazement. "I have a faint

remembrance of an old lady by that name, and a pretty girl who was her

daughter. But as God is my judge, I never wronged her." Still there was

that expression of guilt, which did not escape the scrutinizing glance

of the inventor.

Marcus could have hunted up evidence to transfer the burden of the

imputed wrong to the memory of the dead Aurelius. But should he commit

this profanation of the grave--as he regarded it? The voice of brotherly

love--for he had tenderly loved his erring brother--said, "No." Would

any amount of proof satisfy the nervous, doubting man before him? He

feared not. Therefore Marcus Wilkeson did an act of awful solemnity, to

prove his innocence. And, because the doing of it thrilled his sensitive

soul, as if he had thrust himself into the terrible presence of the

Infinite, he weakly supposed that the most suspicious of men would

unhesitatingly believe him.

He stood up, turned his eyes to the ceiling, raised both hands, and

said, in a deep, trembling voice:

"May God strike me dead, if I am guilty of this offence, or any like it,

or of any thought of wrong toward your daughter."

Marc as sat down, pale, and caught his breath quickly. He was

awestricken by his own act.

"That is a solemn adjuration," said the inventor, after a short pause,

"and should not be lightly taken."

Marcus looked well at Mr. Minford. Unbelief was written in every hard

line and wrinkle of that white, deathlike face. "Do you doubt me now?"

he asked, sharply. His sensitiveness on the subject of personal honor

and veracity was painfully acute. He had never told a lie in his life.

"Oh! no," replied Mr. Minford; "I do not say that I doubt you" (in a

tone expressive of the greatest doubt). "I shall be truly glad to

receive counter proofs from you."

"You have heard my solemn appeal to God, sir. Between gentlemen of honor

that should be sufficient."

The inventor's thin lips (from which the last drops of blood had

disappeared within the last half hour) curved in a satirical smile.

Marcus interpreted it as a reiterated doubt and a sneer upon his honor.

For the moment he lost control of his temper, and was about to make a

remark that he would have regretted immediately after, when the door

yielded to a gentle pressure, and Pet entered the room.

Her face was pale. Her eyes were dull, and the lids hung droopingly,

weighed down by twenty-four hours of wakefulness by the bedside of her

sick teacher. The faint blue crescents beneath--those strange shadows

of the grave, which sometimes seem the deepest when the eyes above are

giving the brightest light--imparted a frail, delicate beauty to her

countenance. They were the last master-touches of Nature in working out

that portraiture of weaned and sleepy loveliness.

As she put her foot in the room, Mr. Minford and his guest telegraphed a

truce with their eyes, and assumed a cheerful look.

Little Pet timidly ran to her father, and kissed him, and then shook

hands with Marcus. He observed a shrinking in her touch. She averted

her eyes.

"Your clothes are damp, and your feet wet, my darling," said the father,

"Are they?" answered Pet, looking down at her saturated garments and

glistening shoes. "I had not noticed them. Oh! I am so happy that she is

well now. The doctor called at the house just before I left, and said

she was out of all danger. He ordered me home."

"Very sensible of the doctor. Another hour of this watching might have

killed my poor child."

"So I took a last look at my dear teacher--who was asleep--and kissed

her, and came right away through the rain."

"It was foolish to do that without an umbrella and overshoes, my child.

But, as you were always forgetful of yourself, your father will not be

forgetful of you, at any rate." The inventor glanced significantly at

Marcus. That glance, so full of distrust, entered his soul. He longed to

say something--if only a word of common civility--to the young girl;

but he felt that there was now an impassable barrier between them.

"But what is the matter, Pet?" exclaimed the father. She had dropped

into a chair, and her head fell on one side. He sprang to catch her. So

did Marcus. But the inventor reached her first, and seized her in his

arms, directing another of his speaking looks at Marcus.

Pet roused herself at the touch of her father's hands, sat erect, and

opened her large blue eyes. "I am so sleepy," she said.

"Of course you are, my blessed; and to bed you must go at once. That is

my prescription. But, first--always first--a cup of tea."

The inventor darted to the stove, snatched up the teapot, poured out a

cup of the universal restorer, scalding his forefinger in the hurry,

milked and sugared it just right, and bore it to his daughter, who was

nodding again. She drank it dutifully, like medicine.

Children do not comprehend tea. We have to grow up to it. It is the

appointed balm of fatigued and sorrowing middle age.

In its function of medicine, the strong draught revived her, giving a

twist to her pretty features, and sending a lively shudder through her

slender frame. Pet rose from her seat quite briskly.

"Now to bed. To bed at once. No delay. And mind you put on all the

blankets, and your heavy shawl a-top of them."

"Yes, father."

Marcus blushed, twirled his hat, and made a motion toward the door.

"You need not go, Mr. Wilkeson," said the inventor. "I beg that you will

not. I wish to settle up that little unfinished business with you

to-night."

Marcus saw that the inventor was in earnest. He coughed, and hesitated

what to say.

But, before he could say anything, Pet had kissed her father, and said

"Good-night," in a faint voice, to the guest, and already had her hand

on the knob of the door which led to her little sleeping room.

"Remember, darling--all the blankets, and your shawl. To-morrow morning

you will wake up bright and happy, and ready to enjoy a little surprise

that I shall have for you." He jerked his thumb toward the machine.

Pet understood him, and smiled sadly. "You need bed more than I,

father," said she.

"Nonsense, child!" replied the old man, with a hollow laugh. "It is not

for the patient to prescribe to the physician. There, good-night, now."

He kissed her again with more tenderness. "Remember," said he, "there is

a little surprise in store for you to-morrow."

Pet said, "Heaven bless you, father," murmured another "Good-night," and

disappeared within her sanctuary, closing the door after her.

"Now, Mr. Wilkeson," said the inventor, "we can finish our

conversation."

His voice sounded like a voice from the tomb.

CHAPTER III.

THE CLASHING ORBS.

The rain had ceased, and the moon was out. The dark, massy clouds that

floated between her and the earth were doing their ghostly,

phantasmagoric work. At one moment, clear, white light, like a shroud;

at another moment, darkness, like a pall. An owl, lighting on the spire

of Grace Church in his flight over the city, might have seen the white

edge of the shroud, or the black edge of the pall, advancing in

well-defined lines over the housetops, and the parks, and the two

rivers, swiftly succeeding each other.

It was as if the mighty invisible demons of the night were capriciously

trying the effects of cerements on the sleeping city. It was as if they

were perplexed between the soft beauty of the shroud and the sombre

majesty of the pall. A woman could not have tried on two shawls more

often and more indecisively, before making up her mind to buy.

Little Pet's sleeping room, like every room that faced the south, that

night, was full of strange, spectral effects. The scrolls and the roses

on the cheap yellow curtains that hung in the windows, were changed to

hideous faces of variable size and ugliness. Their grotesque shadows on

the floor mingled with other faces--horrible as antique masks--wrought

by the magic of the moon from the gigantic flowers that adorned the

narrow strip of carpet by the bedside. Her dresses, suspended from a row

of hooks in the corner--and showing, in gentle swells and curves, the

lithe, graceful form of the little wearer, like moulds,--would have

looked to any open eye, that dreadful night, like women hanging against

the wall. This startling idea would have been helped along by two or

three shadowy bonnets depending from pegs above them. The white

somethings carelessly tossed over a chair near the head of the bed, were

no longer the garments of youth, beauty, and innocence, but

graveclothes, cold, shining, shuddering, in that deathly light. The

touch of the moon, like the presence of a sexton, suggested mortality.

The narrow, single bed, with its four black posts, looked like the fatal

trestle, or bier. The slender body which lay upon it was still as death.

The head nestled motionless in a deep indentation of the pillow. A

slanting ray of the moon, coming between one of the window curtains and

the window, fell upon the face, and showed it white and waxen; the lips,

still red, parted to the gleaming teeth; and the eyes not quite covered

by the lids. One beautiful round arm curved above her head, and some of

her soft brown hair rested in the little open palm. The other stretched

down toward the centre of the bed, as if fearlessly to invite the touch

of those weird things with which imagination peoples the solemn

night--which the wakeful eye, in the still, small hours, sees moving in

the darker corners, or passing swiftly by the bedside, or hovering in

the air, wearing the semblance of one's dead friends, or filling large

portions of the room with some formless presence of unutterable

malignity and woe.

It was only sleep to which the moon thus gave the pale polish of death.

The gentle murmur of a childish breath broke the silence. The heavy

bedclothes slowly rose and fell with the mysterious pulsations of warm

life beneath. At intervals, a shudder shook the little figure of the

sleeper, her breath came louder and quicker, and her arms moved with

sudden starts. Pet was dreaming, under the joint influences of an excess

of blankets and a cup of strong tea.

She was alone in infinite space. Above, below, on all sides, was a

leaden atmosphere. Neither sun, nor moon, nor stars illumined it, but

only some dull, phosphorescent light, which seemed to be born of the

murky, stagnant air. It was such a strange, sickly, wavering gleam as

she had seen above decaying wood, fish, and other substances. All around

was absolute stillness. Not a swallow waved his wing nor an insect

hummed in that barren immensity. Nature was hushed by some deadly spell.

Yet the dread silence portended the near approach of HORRORS. She knew

what they were, for she had been in this frightful region often before,

and was familiar with its dread phenomena. They came. They were only two

little black specks--like motes in the sunbeams--scarcely visible to her

strained vision at first. She gazed upon them with the fascination of a

charmed bird on the two small jet eyes of a serpent; but with this

difference, that she knew the terrible peril that they brought. The

moment that these two motes became visible to her in that dimly lighted

mist, they commenced revolving around each other.

They revolved slowly, and increased in size as they rolled on. The

slowness of the motion and the swelling of the motes were elements of

horror. But she could not take her eyes from those two black objects

revolving like binary stars, until her breath should cease to come and

go, and her heart to beat. As the motes enlarged, their orbits widened.

And they grew and-grew, performing greater and more awful

circuits--still slowly, still noiselessly. The eternal, unbroken silence

was another element of horror. The doomed spectatress of this solemn,

maddening whirl would fain have shrieked, or even whispered, to break

the silence, but she could not. Either her powers of articulation had

disappeared in that region of universal dumbness, or the dead atmosphere

was waveless, and could vibrate to no sound. She knew, by harrowing

experience, the scene that was to come, and she prayed inwardly to God

to strengthen her for it.

The two black objects swelled and swelled in even proportions, until

they became as large as a full moon just seen above the horizon; then to

the size of two full moons, and a dozen, and a hundred, and a thousand.

Still black, still noiseless, still revolving slowly, like a tardy but

certain doom. Then a quarter of the leaden space was filled with their

gigantic bodies, and the lurid air was darker. Then a half of the

heavens was blotted out; She grew faint and sick, as she moved her head

to the right and left, and up and down, and watched the dizzy

revolutions of those vast orbs, between which she knew that she was to

be crushed at last, as by the nether and upper millstones. Her

inarticulate cries to God were unheard. It seemed as if there were no

God for that accursed part of the universe.

Majestically, slowly, silently ever, the orbs increased. Two strips of

the sky could be seen constantly changing positions, but always opposite

to each other. These were the gaps, fast narrowing, which were to be

filled up by the swelling worlds before her destruction was

accomplished. Her long familiarity with the movements of this stupendous

enginery of death enabled her to calculate to a nicety when the crash

would come. She lay like the bound victim under the guillotine, watching

fer the axe to descend.

The blackness of darkness above and beneath and around her ... a

suffocating compression of the stagnant air ... a thrilling

consciousness of the close approach of the two cruel orbs.... a

superlative stillness ... and then a mighty attrition, in which the

mortal part of the poor girl was about to be ground to atoms, when she

... awoke.

She threw back the heavy blankets that oppressed her chest, as if

_they_ were the crushing danger. She looked overhead, expecting to see a

whirling globe within a foot of her face. But she saw only the ceiling,

made visible by the pallid light of the room. Then she knew that she was

in her own little room, and that this frightful adventure was only the

old, old dream, that came to her two or three times a year, as far back

as she could remember--the same always, without addition or curtailment.

CHAPTER IV.

A VISION OF HORRORS.

Little Pet was not the least superstitious; because her father had

taught her from infancy to pay no heed to dreams or signs; and because

he had allowed no housemaid or fussy old woman to inoculate his young

daughter with her own senseless and cowardly fears. Pet smiled at the

momentary terror which the strange old dream had caused, closed her

eyes, and addressed herself again to sleep. But, first, she drew up the

weighty blankets over her little frame, as her father had told her to

do. She had already found out by experience, that a hot application of

blankets was the best remedy for a young cold.

A low murmur, as of conversation, came from the adjoining room. Then she

remembered that Mr. Wilkeson was there when she had come to bed. She

said to herself: "It cannot be late; for he never stops after ten

o'clock." Then she began to think of some matters which had recently

perplexed and distressed her greatly. But she was so sleepy, that the

thoughts came into her little head confusedly, and, several times,

merged into dreams, and then came out again. The low murmur of the talk

outside, like the distant hum of a waterfall or a mill, was sedative.

The act of listening to it--as she did for a few moments with natural

curiosity--was provocative of sleep.

* * * * *

The conversation suddenly grew louder. The hollow voice of the inventor,

and the deep bass of Marcus Wilkeson, could be heard alternating

quickly. These words reached little Pet:

THE INVENTOR. "We have had along conversation, Mr. Wilkeson, and I will

end it by saying that it is best for us to separate, now and forever."

MARCUS (_bitterly_). "As you please, sir; but it is hard that a man's

reputation should be at the mercy of any scoundrel who knows how to

write a libel, and has not courage enough to acknowledge it."

THE INVENTOR (_pettishly_). "I have told you a dozen times, that I

despise anonymous letter writers. They are ever liars and cowards."

MARCUS. "But you respected this one enough to adopt his suggestions."

THE INVENTOR. "So the magistrate uses hints that may be furnished him by

professional thieves, for the detection of crime. But he, none the less,

loathes those who would inform upon their comrades."

MARCUS. "You believe, therefore, only what you have seen or heard for

yourself."

THE INVENTOR. "Nothing further, I assure you. In all matters of proof,

it is my nature to be suspicious."

MARCUS. "But none of these accusations against me have been proved."

THE INVENTOR. "Why protract this painful conversation? It is sufficient

for me to say that we must part.--(_Excitedly_.) Good heavens, sir! am I

not the guardian of my daughter, and warranted in accepting or rejecting

acquaintances for her? Must I make long explanations to everybody that I

don't see fit to admit into my house and my daughter's society? Is not

this a free country, sir?"

MARCUS _(with deep despair in his voice_). "Perfectly free, sir. I admit

your rights. And I hereby pledge myself not to intrude upon you or

her--at least, until you are convinced of the great injustice of your

conduct toward me, and invite me again to your house. But there is one

thing more!"

THE INVENTOR (_impatiently_). "One thing more! will this dialogue never

end? Well, sir. What the devil is it?" Then he added, as if aware of the

coarseness and gross impropriety of that expression. "Excuse me, sir,

but it is late, and my machine is waiting."

MARCUS (_slowly and firmly_). "One moment, sir. I have sworn my

innocence before God, with the most solemn oath known to man. I may have

misconstrued your remarks, but I thought you still doubted me. It is my

misfortune to be extremely sensitive upon the point of honor. Having

relinquished your acquaintance and that of--of--your daughter, it is now

my duty to ask whether you presume to question my oath?"

THE INVENTOR (_with increased impatience_). "Why should I be bored with

this cross-examination? I have never said I doubted your oath."

MARCUS (_quickly_). "That is not an answer. Do you believe me, or

disbelieve me? Am I a liar and perjurer, or not? In one word; yes,

or no!"

THE INVENTOR (_laughing nervously_). "Will you bully me in my own house,

sir? There is the door. Out of it!"

There was a noise like the opening of a door.

MARCUS (_between his teeth_). "Never, sir. Never, until you retract your

imputation upon my honor."

THE INVENTOR (_losing all control of himself_). "Curse your honor. If

you had been more careful of it in your native village--where you are

best known--it would not trouble you now. Come, there are the stairs."

MARCUS. "Once more. Do you believe my oath, or not?"

THE INVENTOR (_shouting_). "No! no! a million times, no! since you drive

me to it. I believe you to be a crafty scoundrel, who has been trying to

ruin my daughter. Out, sir, now--out!"

Then was a sound of two men clenching, and struggling toward the door.

A noise followed like that caused by the sharp closing of the door; but

the two men were still in the room, for their scuffling and their short,

quick grunts of exertion could be heard with increased distinctness. The

noise indicated that one was pushing the other toward the centre of the

room. Then followed the dull, nauseating sound of blows, apparently

struck with fists upon heads and chests, mingled with noisier but still

partly suppressed groans, and defiances.

The conversation which preceded this struggle, had come to Pet's ears

with such distinctness, and made such a terrifying impression upon her

mind, that it seemed as if she could see the combatants.

At the time when the clenching commenced, the vision was faint, as if

she were looking into a dark room. But, as the struggle proceeded, the

room seemed to be gradually lighted up for her; and every grapple, every

blow, every facial contortion of this horrible contest, were plainly

visible. And yet she was not in the room, but lying in her little bed,

bound as in the awful dream of the clashing orbs. She knew she was

there, and yet she felt that her eyes, all her faculties of observation,

had been somehow transferred to her father's room, and that she was

actually seeing and hearing the commission of a murder there.

She tried to cry aloud, but her jaws were closed. She would have risen,

entered the room, and thrown herself between the frenzied men, but

neither hand nor foot could she move. Her body was fastened to the bed

as if with adamantine chains, while her mind and soul were the voiceless

spectators of a tragedy of which she knew that she was the cause. She

could not even open her eyes. If she could have loosed but a muscle from

the rigidity of the trance, she knew that her whole frame would be

relaxed in an instant. Then she would have bounded--oh! with what

speed--into the other room, where her immortal part was helplessly

watching the conflict, and interceded at the risk of her life. Alas!

Prometheus was tied to the rock not more firmly than she to that bed

of anguish!

The struggle went on. The inventor, though past the prime of life, and

worn down by excessive thought, had some strength left. Its duration was

brief; but it was not to be despised while it lasted. He grasped the

tall figure of Marcus Wilkeson by the neck with one arm, and with the

other struck dozens of blows upon his face and chest. The comparative

youth and freshness of Marcus were unable to free him from the strong

hold of this vigorous old man. Pangs of terror shot through the heart of

the poor girl as she saw that her father was about to become a murderer.

Then the tide of fortune changed. Marcus, bruised and black in the face,

and panting with exertion, released himself from the inventor's clutch,

and, in turn, caught him by the throat. With his long arm he held the

furious old man at a safe distance. The unhappy girl was now agonized

with fears for her father's life.

"This is madness. Let us stop it." Thus Pet heard Marcus Wilkeson say,

in panting accents.

What demoniac spell was it that prevented her from shrieking--"Stop it.

In God's name, father, stop?"

"Never!" said the undaunted old man. "Never, till I have thrown you

headlong down stairs! Liar! Villain!"

With that, Pet saw her father hurl himself, with the ferocity of a

tiger, on Marcus Wilkeson. Such was the suddenness and impetuosity of

the movement, that Marcus was pushed back several feet toward the door,

from the centre of the room, where the most obstinate part of the

struggle had taken place.

But the old man's supremacy was short lived. The younger and stronger

man suddenly stooped, caught the inventor with both hands under the

arms, and thrust him toward the corner occupied by the mysterious

machine. The inventor would have fallen on it, and perhaps have been

instantly killed by contact with some portion of the brass or iron work,

but for the interposition of the screen. This broke his fall. He

scrambled to his feet, full of rage, and foaming at the mouth.

Marcus stepped back, and said, "Now let it cease."

Pet saw her father snatch something that looked like a club, from some

part of the machine.

"This is my answer," he said, and precipitated himself with fresh fury

upon Marcus.

The younger man had expected the attack, and braced himself for it. He

caught the inventor by the arm that held the club, or other weapon. They

wrestled for its possession--the inventor with frenzy in every feature,

Marcus with fixed determination, and silently.

The weapon was now aloft--now below--now shifted in the twinkling of an

eye to the right, and now to the left. At one time the inventor seemed

to be on the point of securing it; at another, Marcus. Suddenly Pet saw

it whirl like a shillelah above her father's head, with a strange noise

like the quick winding of a clock. Then she heard a dull sound, as of

striking a board with a brick, and--she saw her father fall to the

floor. At the same moment, the light in the room went out, and all

was darkness.

The pent-up agony at last found utterance. She shrieked, and, instantly,

her eyes were open, and her limbs free. She jumped out of bed, and was

about to rush into the chamber of horrors, when she saw the bright light

of the gas yet shining through the crack beneath her door. She listened.

The house was still as the grave. Not a sound from all the world

outside, except the striking of a fire alarm for the seventh district.

The deep notes vibrated upon her quickened hearing like a knell.

Then she remembered that, in the vision, the light had disappeared. Here

it was gleaming under her door as brightly as ever. "Pshaw! what a silly

girl I am!" said she. "It was a nightmare. That's all." She raised her

hands to her face. It was hot and dripping.

"Father prescribed too large a dose of blankets. No wonder I had this

horrid dream."

But, notwithstanding the presence of the light, and the absence of all

noise, such as would be caused by the murderer in leaving the room and

going down stairs, the impression of this tragic vision upon her mind

was not to be dismissed with a "Pshaw!"

Pet would have derived much relief from opening the door and looking in,

and seeing, with her own waking eyes, that her father was alive, at his

usual seat in the corner. She placed her hand upon the latch.

But then she remembered how her father had laughed at her, two or three

times before, when she was a younger girl, and not so wise as now, and

had rushed into his room screaming with fright from a nightmare. She

prided herself on having outgrown childish fears.

She also remembered that her father had told her, two days before, that

he was engaged in the most difficult mathematical calculations, day and

night, and, kissing her, had playfully said that she must not

disturb him.

"He is thinking over his problems now," thought little Pet. "Dear

father! I _do_ wish he would give up that hateful machine. It will be

the death of him. But he said I must not disturb him, and I will not.

Mr. Wilkeson must have gone home a long time ago; and dear father is

thinking, as he calls it, with his hand on his forehead, in the old

corner. Let me take one little peep through the keyhole, and go to

bed again."

Pet stooped, and looked through the keyhole. Within her range were the

chair where Marcus Wilkeson had sat that evening, and the nail

where--with bachelor-like precision--he always hung his hat. Neither

Marcus Wilkeson nor his hat were in their accustomed, places. "What

silly things these dreams are!" thought little Pet. The keyhole did not

command the corner of the room where the machine stood, and where the

inventor pondered and toiled; but Pet felt as certain that he was there,

coaxing thoughts out of his pale brow with that habitual caress of the

hand, as if she had seen him.

"Good night, dear father," she whispered, softly. "May Heaven watch over

your labors, and keep you from all harm."

With this pious prayer, she slid into her warm nest. But, before

adjusting her limbs for sleep, she threw off a portion of the heavy

blankets which had weighed upon her, and was soon sound asleep, and

dreaming of a garden in which all the roses were beautiful new bonnets.

Still the moon played her ghastly metamorphoses in the little chamber.

And the figures on the carpet and the figures on the curtain writhed in

horrible contortions of glee, as if they rejoiced over a calamity which

had befallen that house.

CHAPTER V.

WHAT THE MORNING BROUGHT.

The child woke about seven o'clock. She knew the time by the sun's rays

upon the window curtains. In that strong, cheerful light, the phantom

faces had shrunk back to great red bunches of flowers again. She thought

of the absurd dream, or vision, as of something that had happened ages

ago, and wondered that she had been foolish enough to be frightened

by it.

There was no noise in her father's room. But that was not strange, for

he rarely retired to bed before three o'clock in the morning (even when

he did not sit up all night), and slept till eight. His sleep, though

short, was sound; and it was Pet's custom to prepare breakfast in her

father's room without waking him.

She washed her face, which looked rosy and bewitching in the little

cracked mirror, and dressed her hair in two simple bands down the

cheeks, and put on a white calico dress with small red spots, and a

white apron bound with blue. This was the dress that her father loved

the best. She looked in the glass, and examined her damaged reflection

with a charming coquetry, and said, "Pet, child, you are looking well

to-day. Now for breakfast."

Pet walked to the door, humming her last music lesson in a low voice.

She placed her hand upon the latch, and opened the door softly. As it

swung on its hinges, and she began to obtain a glimpse of the room, she

noticed the gas still burning, though the daylight filled the apartment.

This was strange. A shudder passed through her frame, and her cheeks

began to pale.

"Pooh! what nonsense!" she said. She pushed the door wide open.

Was it another mocking, maddening vision that she saw? She rubbed her

eyes in wild affright, and then raised her hands aloft with a

piercing shriek.

There, before her, lay the dead body of her father. In the centre of his

ghastly forehead was a small wound, from which the blood had trickled

over the temples, bedabbling his thin gray hairs, and forming a small

red pool by his side. Near him, on the floor, was a club with an iron

tip, which had done the dreadful deed. She recognized it at once as a

part of the machine.

The monstrous vision of the night was true! Her father was dead! Mr.

Wilkeson was his murderer! She was an orphan!

These agonizing thoughts flashed through her brain in the single

instant. She felt her head turning, and her limbs failing under her. She

had only strength to shriek, "Murder! murder! Help! help!" and then she

fell headlong and senseless upon her father's dead body.

BOOK SEVENTH.

JOURNEYINGS AGAINST FATE.

CHAPTER I.

PEA-SHOOTING AS A SCIENCE.

Be it said to the credit of Wesley Tiffles, that he always paid bills

promptly when he could borrow money to do it. The funds that he had

raised from Marcus Wilkeson, and others, for the panorama, had been

faithfully applied to that great object. If he could have borrowed money

from other people to repay those loans, that act of financial justice

would also have been done; and so on without end, like a round robin.

When Tiffles bestowed the last instalment of compensation upon Patching,

that individual shrugged his shoulders, and smiled. "The paltry price of

artistic degradation," said he. "Remember, I would have done this job

only for a friend. The world must not know it is a Patching--though I

fear that even on this hasty daub I have left marks of my style which

will betray me."

"You are safe, my dear fellow," said Tiffles. "I have already ordered

the posters and bills; and the name of Andrea Ceccarini will appear

thereon as the artist. Ceccarini has an Italian look, which is an

advantage; and, you will pardon me for saying, is rather more imposing

than Patching."

The artist was sensitive touching his name. It had been punned upon in

some of the comic papers. He could not take offence at the innocent

remark of a friend, but he felt hurt, and vindictively rammed the large

roll of one-dollar bills into his vest pocket without counting them.

(Whenever it was practicable, Tiffles paid his debts in bills of that

denomination. He had a theory that the amount looked larger, and was

more satisfactory to the receiver.)

As Tiffles saw how lightly the artist regarded the money, not even

counting it, he felt a momentary pang at the thought that he had

paid him.

The panorama of Africa had not only been finished and paid for, but it

had been exhibited to a large number of clergymen of all denominations,

at the lecture room of an up-town church. The clergymen, being debarred

from attending secular amusements, as a class, had gladly accepted the

invitation of "Professor Wesley" (Tiffles's panoramic name), and brought

with them their wives and a number of children apiece.

The panorama was rigged up at the end of the lecture room, in front of

the desk, under the personal supervision of a former assistant of

Banvard's, and worked beautifully, saving an occasional squeak in

the rollers.

Tiffles, in his character of Professor Wesley, told his story glibly and

with perfect coolness, interspersing the heavier details with amusing

anecdotes, which made the ministers smile, and brought out a loud titter

of laughter from the ministers' wives, and tremendous applause,

inclusive of stamping and the banging of hymn books, from the

ministers' children.

One of the children, with the love of mischief peculiar to that division

of the human family, had provided himself with peas, and, taking

advantage of the partial darkness in which the panorama was exhibited,

shot those missiles with practised aim at Professor Wesley, and now and

then hit him in the face. The lecturer kept in good humor; and when,

after a smart volley of peas, Rev. Dr. A---- arose, and suggested that

these disturbances were disgraceful, and, although he did not wish to

meddle with the household government of his brethren, he thought that

the children who were guilty of such outrages ought to be taken home,

soundly whipped, and put to bed--when Rev. Dr. A----, moved by just

indignation, did this, the lecturer smiled, and blandly said: Oh, no; he

wasn't annoyed in the least (at the same time receiving a pea on his

left cheek). He would trust to the generosity of his young friends not

to fire their peas too hard; and he hoped that the reverend gentleman

would withdraw his suggestion.

Cries of "All right, brother!" "We'll keep the boys quiet!" "Go on! go

on!" went up from all parts of the room. Rev. Dr. A----, yielding to the

pressure, sat down, and received, at that moment, one pea on the right

eye of his gold spectacles, and another square on the end of his nose.

The two peas were fired by his second son John, who had been delivering

this invisible artillery all the evening from the other end of the

identical pew in which the Rev. Dr. was seated. He groaned in the

spirit, and muttered something to Mrs. Rev. Dr. A---- about the

degeneracy of other people's children, which made that lady chuckle low,

under cover of the night; for she knew that her second son John was the

pea-shooter, and had made vain efforts to stop him, by pinching his leg,

though the good matron could not help laughing at every fine shot

achieved by her promising boy.

Professor Wesley "went on," as requested, and so did the pea-shooting,

until John's stock of ammunition gave out.

The lecturer had ransacked the Society, Astor, and Mercantile libraries,

and stuffed himself with facts touching the interior of Africa, so far

as that mystery had been explored. Fortified with these facts, and a

lively imagination, he found no difficulty in satisfying the curiosity

of his auditors on every point; and answered questions of all sorts,

which were fired at him even thicker than the peas, without the least

hesitation.

When the exhibition was over, every clergyman present signed a

certificate declaring that they had been highly entertained and

instructed by the Panorama of Africa, and Mr. Wesley's able lecture;

that they considered the painting a masterpiece of moral Art, and

cordially recommended it to the patronage of an enlightened public.

CHAPTER II.

BY STEAM.

Tiffles had selected, as his first field of active operations, the State

of New Jersey. His large number of relatives (the Tiffleses were

prolific on the female side) and friends, and occasional creditors,

scattered through New England and New York, effectually barred him from

all that territory. New Jersey, then Pennsylvania, then the West--those

were the great topographical features of his campaign.

For his initiatory performance, he had chosen a quiet little town less

than thirty miles from the city, on a line of railway. If his panorama

was to be a hopeless failure at the very outset, Tiffles wanted to be

within striking distance of New York. He was sanguine of success; but,

like a prudent general, he looked after his lines of retreat.

To this small town in New Jersey, with which the fate of the great

enterprise was to be indissolubly linked, Tiffles had sent a large stock

of posters and handbills. He had previously corresponded (free of

expense both ways) with that universal business man of every American

village, the postmaster, and, through him, had engaged Washington

Hall--the largest hall in the place, capable of holding six hundred

people--at five dollars for one night, with the refusal of two

nights more.

The name of the hall and the night of exhibition were written in blank

spaces on the posters and handbills with red chalk, in a fine commercial

hand, by Tiffles himself; and, for a small consideration, the postmaster

had agreed to stick up the posters on every corner; also on the post

office and the three town pumps; and to distribute the handbills in

every house. These labors the P.M. did not undertake to perform

personally--though he had plenty of leisure for them, as well as for the

local defence of the National Administration, which was his peculiar and

official function--but he turned them over to a semi-idiot, who

occasionally did jobs of that kind, and who was willing to trust for his

pay to the coming of Professor Wesley.

The last letter from the postmaster ran thus:

Yure's of the 6th reseved, and contense, including for my

pussenel expenses, dooly noted, Washinton Hall has been moped

out for you and is clene as a pin, six new tin cannel sticks

have been put up in the antyrum by the propryetor, this is

lyberul, all the hanbils has been distributid, and the

posters stuck up, sum of em wrong side down, owin to the

bilposter bein a little week-minded, which will be a kind of

curosity, and an advantije to you I think. I have sent

tickets to the village pastures and their famylis, as yu

requested and they red the notises last Sunday and advised

everybuddy to go. I have gut public opinion all rite for yu

here, now cum on with yer panyrammer of Afriky.

Yure's trooly,

B. PERSIMMON, p.m.

This was cheering; and Tiffles only hoped that he would be able to

secure so faithful an ally in every postmaster, for he had decided to do

this preliminary work through that variety of public functionary, until

the success of the panorama would justify hiring a special courier to go

in advance and smooth the way for him,

All these preparations having been satisfactorily made; and the

panorama, with the curtains, the lighting apparatus, and the other

properties, having been forwarded in three enormous boxes to the scene

of the impending conflict with public opinion, Tiffles made ready to

follow. And, on the eventful morning of the----- of April, 185-, he

might have been seen at the Cortlandt-street ferry, accompanied by

Patching, who had graciously consented to see how the "thing worked" on

its first public trial.

Patching pulled his enormous hat still farther over his eyes, so that he

might not be recognized. This gave him an extremely questionable aspect;

and the ticket taker at the ferry peered under the huge brim

suspiciously as Patching came in. He also attracted the attention of a

detective in citizen's clothes, and was a general object of interest to

all the people congregated in the ferry house and waiting for the boat.

"This is fame," muttered Patching, glancing at his scrutinizers from the

shadow of the far-reaching hat. "This is what people starve and die for.

It is a bore." He struck an attitude, as if unconsciously, folding his

arms, and appearing to be in a profound revery. Then, after another

cautious glance about, he turned to Tiffles, by his side, and said:

"It is useless. I am recognized. But remember your solemn promise. I had

no hand in the painting of it."

"Not a little finger, my dear fellow," cheerfully replied Tiffles, who

had given the artist similar assurances of secrecy five times

that morning.

At that moment a hand touched Tiffles familiarly on the shoulder. He

turned suddenly, for he was always expecting rear attacks from

creditors. He saw Marcus Wilkeson.

"Best of friends," said Tiffles, with unfeigned joy, "I am glad to see

you. Of course you are going with us, though I hardly dared hope as much

when I sent you the invitation."

"To tell the truth, Tiffles, I had no intention of going, till this

morning, when it suddenly occurred to me that a little trip in the

country, and the fun of seeing your panorama and hearing you lecture,

would drive away the blues. I had a bad fit of them last night."

Here Patching turned, and looked Marcus in the face, without seeming to

recognize him. It was his habit (not a singular one among the human

species) to pretend not to remember people, and to wait for the first

word. Marcus indulged in the same habit to some extent, and, when he saw

Patching looking at him without a nod or a word, he also was blank and

speechless.

"Don't you remember each other?" said Tiffles. "Mr. Patching. Mr. Marcus

Wilkeson."

The gentlemen shook hands, and said:

"Oh, yes! How do you do? It is a fine morning. Very."

"So much paler than when I last saw you, that I didn't know you,

positively. Little ill, sir?" asked Patching. The artist was sure to

observe and speak of any signs of illness on the faces of his friends

and acquaintances. Some people called him malevolent for it.

To be told that one looks pale, always makes one turn paler. Marcus,

extra sensitive on the point of looks, became quite pallid, and said,

with confusion:

"I have not been well for several days, and my rest was badly broken

last night."

Tiffles had also remarked the unusual deadly whiteness of his friend's

complexion, and the air of lassitude and unhappiness which pervaded his

face, but he would not have alluded to them for the world. He never made

impertinent observations of that sort.

"Unwell?" said Tiffles. "I had not noticed it. In the morning, all New

York looks as if it had just come out of a debauch. Wilkeson will pass,

I guess." This calumny upon the city was Tiffles's favorite bit of

satire, and it had cheered up many a poor fellow who thought himself

looking uncommonly haggard.

Marcus smiled languidly, and turned away his head with a sigh. As his

eyes swept about, they encountered the gaze of the man in citizen's

clothes, previously noticed. At first, Marcus thought he had seen this

man somewhere before; and then he thought he was mistaken. The man

evinced no recognition of Marcus, and, an instant after, his sharp

glance wandered to some other person in the large group waiting for

the boat.

Here the boat came into the slip, and, after bumping in an uncertain way

against the piles on either side, neared almost within leaping distance

of the wharf. A solid crowd of passengers stood at the edge of the boat,

with their eyes fixed on the landing place, as if it were the soil of a

new world upon which they were to leap for the first time, like a party

of Columbuses When the distance had been diminished to about four feet,

the front row of passengers jumped ashore, and rushed wildly up the

street, as if impelled by a rocket-like power from behind. These people

could not have been more eager to get ashore, if they had come from the

other side of the globe on business involving a million apiece, to be

transacted on that day only.

In fact, they were only lawyers, tradesmen, mechanics, and clerks,

living in Jersey City, and going over to New York on their daily,

humdrum business. It was not the business that attracted them, but the

demon of American restlessness that pushed them on. They went back at

night in just the same hurry, and made equally hazardous jumps on the

Jersey side. They were mere shuttlecocks between the battledoors of

Jersey City and New York.

Tiffles and Patching lifted up the thin carpet bags which reposed at

their feet, and which contained an exceedingly small amount of personal

linen and other attire, and went on board the boat, followed by Marcus,

who was unencumbered with baggage. They entered the ladies' cabin. The

thick crowd of people pressed into the cabin in their front and rear,

and all about them, and scrambled for seats. There was a general

preference for the part forward of the wheelhouse, because it was a few

feet nearer New Jersey than the aft part. The rush to obtain these

preferred places was like that of the opera-going world for the front

row of boxes at a _matinée_. Ladies who obtained eligible seats, settled

themselves in them, spread out their dresses, put their gloved hands in

position, and smiled with a sweet satisfaction at ladies who had got no

seats. Those ladies, in turn, looked reproachfully at the gentlemen who

were comfortably seated. And those gentlemen, with the exception of a

few who rose and gracefully offered their seats to the youngest and

prettiest of the ladies, in turn looked out of the windows, or at the

floor, or at a paper, intently.

A stranger to the ferry boats and customs of the country would have

supposed that the passengers were bound for Europe instead of the

opposite shore of North River.

Marcus Wilkeson, Times, and Patching did not participate in this contest

for seats, but walked through the fetid and stifling cabins to the

forward deck, where fresh, bracing air, glorious sunlight, and a cheery

view of the river were to be had. But these charms of nature were

apparently thrown away on the trio. They all leaned over the railing,

and, looked steadily into the water. Times was thinking up his lecture,

and other matters of the panorama. Patching was misanthropically

reviewing his career, and exulting in future triumphs over his

professional enemies. Marcus was engrossed with some sad theme which,

once or twice, brought tears into his eyes. A burst of noble music, a

fine sentiment in a poem, a poor woman crying, keen personal

disappointment, or any acute mental trouble, had this strange effect on

the optics of Marcus Wilkeson.

The bell rang; voices shouted, "All aboard!" the gangplank was drawn in;

several belated people jumped on, at the risk of their lives, after the

boat had left the wharf, one man vaulting over ten feet; and the voyage

for Jersey was commenced.

Three minutes later, the inmates of the cabins began to go forward and

pick favorable positions for jumping off on the other side. The scramble

to evacuate the seats then was as sharp as the scramble to possess them,

three minutes before. A few more rounds of the wheels, and the boat

thumped in the usual way against one row of piles at the entrance of the

Jersey slip, and then caromed like a billiard ball on the other, each

time nearly knocking the passengers off their feet, and shaking a small

chorus of screams out of the ladies.

When the boat was within a yard of the wharf, the jumping commenced; and

all the able-bodied men, most of the boys, and some of the ladies, were

off before the boat butted with tremendous force against the wharf,

shaking both wharf and boat to their foundations, and giving to the

people on both a parting jar, which they carried in their bones for the

rest of the day.

Once safely on the wharf, the scramble was continued in various

directions and for various objects. Marcus, Tiffles, and Patching

indulged in the eccentricity of not scrambling; and, when they reached

the Erie Railroad cars, they found every seat taken, some by two

persons, but many by one lady and a bandbox or carpet bag, which was

intended to signify to the inquiring eye that the lawful human occupant

of that half of the seat was absent, but might be expected to come in

and claim it at any moment.

The three companions understood this conventional imposture, and

politely claimed the spare half seats from the nearest ladies. The fair

occupants looked forbidding, and slowly removed their bandboxes,

baskets, and other parcels, to the floor beneath, or the rack overhead;

and the disturbers of their peace and comfort ruthlessly took the

vacated seats, with a bow, signifying "Thank you."

The seats thus procured were some distance apart; and so the three

companions were precluded from conversing with each other. This suited

the taciturn mood of each that morning. As for the ladies who filled the

other half of the three seats, they might as well have been lay figures

from a Broadway drygoods store; conversation with them being prohibited

by the etiquette of railway travelling. A man may journey two hundred

and fifty miles in a car, with his elbow unavoidably jogging a lady's

all the way, and still be as far from her acquaintance (unless she is

graciously inclined to say something first) as if the pair were leagues

apart. This is proper, but peculiar.

The strange sadness that possessed Marcus that morning was intensified

as the ears rolled on. There is something in the monotonous vibration of

the train, and the recurring click of the wheels against the end of the

rails, that provokes melancholy. Marcus looked out of the window at the

flying landscape, and the distant patches of wood which seemed to be

slowly revolving about each other, and was profoundly wretched. He was

totally unconscious of the sharp, pale, nervous face by his side.

The owner of the face was about thirty-five years old, though the lines

on her brow and cheeks added an apparent five years to her age. If she

had been put upon her trial for murder, the police reporters would have

discovered traces of great beauty in her countenance. An ordinary

spectator, having no occasion to spice a paragraph, would have made the

equivocal remark that she had once been handsomer.

This lady was dressed plainly, comfortably, and in good taste. Her

hands, ungloved, were shapely, but red and hard with manual labor. On

the second finger of the left hand was a little gold ring, much thinned

by wearing. The eyes of this lady were regarding the unconscious Marcus

obliquely, with a singular expression of mingled recollection and doubt.

Sometimes her glance would drop to the ring, as if that were a link in

the chain of her perplexed reflections. A sudden jolt of the car, as the

train ran over a pole which had fallen on the track, roused Marcus to

the existence of this face and those eyes.

As he saw the eyes sternly bent on him, he thought that his staring out

of the window, past the lady's profile, might have offended her. So,

with a cough which was meant to serve as an apology for the

unintentional rudeness, he turned his face away, and continued his

gloomy revery among the odd patterns of the oilcloth on the floor of

the aisle.

Still the thin, nervous lady watched him obliquely.

A ride of three quarters of an hour brought them to their destination,

as they learned from a preliminary howl of the conductor through the

rear door of the car. The engine bell rang, the whistle screamed, the

clack of the wheels gradually became slower.

"Only one minute. Hurry!" howled the conductor again.

Marcus, Tiffles, and Patching were out of their seats and at the door

with American despatch. Before the car had quite stopped, they had

jumped off. Marcus did not notice that, behind him, was a woman

struggling between the two rows of seats with a bandbox, a workbasket,

an umbrella, and her hoops, all of which caught in turn on one side or

the other. Nor did the conductor observe that this burdened and

distressed lady was trying to make her way out; for, after looking from

the rear of the train, and seeing that three persons had landed, and

that there was nobody to get on, he concluded that it would be a waste

of time to stop a minute, and so rang the bell to go ahead. The engine

driver, equally impatient, jerked the starting lever, and the engine

bounded forward like a horse, giving a shock to the train, and nearly

upsetting the woman, who was still wrestling with her personal effects

between the rows of seats. With a sudden effort, she freed herself,

opened the door, and stood upon the platform.

The engine had wheezed three times, and she hesitated to jump. She

screamed shrilly. The sound entered the ears of Marcus Wilkeson, who was

whisking dust and ashes off his clothes with a handkerchief. He ran

forward, and saw the predicament of his pale and nervous fellow

traveller. She screamed again, as the engine wheezed for the

eighth time.

Marcus extended his hand. "Jump!" said he; "I'll catch you."

She did jump, much to the surprise of Marcus and the two lookers

on--thereby indicating decision of character.

Marcus caught her in his arms--bandbox, basket, and all--and the train

hurried on.

"Thank you, sir," said the lady, with some confusion. Then she walked

rapidly down the road toward the village, like one who lived there.

"A customer for the panorama, perhaps," said Tiffles. "I'm glad you

landed her safely." Tiffles had got through his thinking, and was

exhilarate again. He laughed so pleasantly, that even Marcus relaxed his

grim visage, and smiled.

"Not a bad ankle, that," observed Patching, looking at the rapidly

retreating form of the rescued woman. Patching, artist-like, was always

discovering beauties where nobody else looked for them.

Marcus had no eye for the charms of nature that morning, and he

responded not to the remark which the artist had addressed to him.

Whereupon Patching determined not to speak to Marcus again that day.

They followed the mysterious female down the road which led to the

village. On the fences, every few rods, were plastered posters

announcing the "Panorama of Africa" for that evening, at "Washington

Hall"--"Tickets, twenty-five cents"--"Children under twelve years of

age, half price," &c., &c. As B. Persimmon, P.M., had said, in one of

his letters, some of the posters were stuck upside down. This

circumstance did not seem to prevent the population from reading them;

for the party observed at least two boys (half prices) in the act of

spelling them out between their legs.

Tiffles was so absorbed in the contemplation of the posters, Patching in

a critical survey of the scenery on both sides of the road, and Marcus

Wilkeson in an introspection of his troubled heart, that none of them

observed how often the thin, nervous female, walking rapidly ahead,

looked over her shoulder at one of their number.

CHAPTER III.

PIGWORTH, J.P.

The village was composed of the usual ingredients, in the usual

proportions. Law, drygoods, liquor, blacksmithing, carpentry, education,

painting and glazing, medicine, dentistry, tinware, and other comforts

of civilization, were all to be had on reasonable terms. There were four

churches with rival steeples, and two taverns with rival signs. The

village contained everything that any reasonable man could ask for,

except a barber's shop. It takes a good-sized town to support a

barber's shop.

As they marched into the village, they were conscious of attracting

general attention. Men looked out of the doors, women out of the

windows, and boys had begun to fall in procession behind.

"Them are the performers," said one boy to another "Wonder what that

feller with the big hat does?" observed a second. "Turns the crank,

guess," was the response.

Patching pulled his hat farther over his eyes, and smiled gloomily at

Tiffles, "They little think who I am," he murmured.

"What a solemncholy mug that tall chap's got," said another youthful

citizen. This made Marcus try to laugh genially at the boys. But

in vain.

"Say, Bill, isn't that little feller's shirt out o' jail?"

Tiffles made a personal application of this remark. It was his constant

misfortune to suffer rents in portions of his garments where their

existence was least likely to be discovered by himself. As he could not

publicly verify the suggestion of the impertinent small boy, he buttoned

his coat tightly about him.

How their identity with the panorama of Africa had been established, was

a mystery. Small boys divine secrets by instinct, as birds find food

and water.

The two taverns were the National House and the United States Hotel.

Although the signs were large and clean, the taverns were small and

dirty. There was no choice between them, except in the fact that the

United States Hotel was directly opposite Washington Hall. Therefore the

adherents of the panorama cast their fortunes with that place of

entertainment for man and beast--particularly beast.

Mr. Thomas Pigworth, the landlord, was seated on the stoop of his

hostelry, discoursing of national politics to a small group of his

fellow citizens, who were performing acrobatic feats with chairs in a

circle about him. Pigworth was a justice of the peace, and was always

dressed in his best clothes, so as to perform his judicial functions at

a moments notice, with dignity and ease. He was tall, thin, baldheaded.

T.J. Childon, landlord of the "National," said hard things, as in duty

bound, of his rival. Among others, that he had kept himself lean by

running so hard for office for the last ten years. To which slander

Pigworth retorted, that Childon was fat (which was true--a fine, plump

figure was Childon's) only because he ate everything in his house, and

left nothing for his customers.

The three newcomers mounted the rotten wooden steps to the stoop. Mr.

Pigworth left his group of auditors, came forward, and received them

with the affability of a retired statesman.

"The landlord?" asked Tiffles.

"I keep the hotel," said Pigworth, with a smile which intimated that he

kept it for amusement rather than profit.

"Room and board for three of us?" asked Tiffles.

"Certainly," said Pigworth, with the air of a man who was doing them a

favor. "Ef you want only one apartment, I can give you the one occupied

last week by the Hon. Mr. Podhammer. You have heard of him?"

"Of course," responded Tiffles, to cut short the conversation.

"He spoke in Washington Hall, there, on the Cons'tution. He is smart on

some things, but THE CONS'TUTION he doesn't understand--not a word of

it. I told him so."

Tiffles was about to ask why, if the Hon. Mr. Podhammer didn't

understand a word of the Constitution, he had the audacity to lecture on

it; when he remembered that it was no uncommon thing for lecturers to

talk of what they don't understand--himself of Africa, for instance.

"Be good enough to show us the room," said he.

"I say, Judge" (Pigworth, being a justice of the peace, was universally

styled thus), cried a voice from the group, "do you, or do you not,

indorse my sentiments?"

Pigworth turned majestically, and spoke like an oracle:

"I do not indorse your sentiments. I wish it distinctly understood, that

I do not indorse them. I indorse nothing but the Cons'tution. That

instrument I indorse to any extent. Are you satisfied now?"

This speech was hailed by cries of "Good! good!" "That's so!" "Sound

doctrine, that!" "The Judge knows what's what!" Only one person, the

questioner, a young man with a preternatural head, was unappeased.

"A single word more," said this young man. "Do you, or do you not,

subscribe to my views on the Homestead Law?"

Pigworth looked at the three comers as if to say, "Mark how I crush him

now." Then, pointing his long right arm at the rash youth, he replied,

slowly, but with fearful distinctness: "I do not subscribe to your

views. Sooner would I lose this right arm than subscribe to them. There

is only one view that I subscribe to. That view to which I subscribe

(the Judge spoke with increased dignity here, and rose on his

toes)--that view is found in the Cons'tution. You would do well to study

the Cons'tution, my young friend."

This withering rebuke was greeted with shouts and clapping of hands from

all but the young man, who muttered something about humbug, and

looked glum.

The landlord had another excoriating remark, which he might have flung

at the young man and finished him up, but he magnanimously forbore.

"Now, my friends," said the landlord, patronizingly. He ushered them

into a dirty entry, and piloted the way up stairs.

"From New York, I suppose?" said the landlord. "Any political news?"

"Really, sir, we don't meddle with politics," replied Tiffles, sharply.

The landlord looked at him with an expression of pity "Oh! to be sure

not. You belong to the pannyrama. I recolleck that the last circus folks

that come here never talked about politics. Are you Professor Wesley?"

"I am," said Tiffles.

"I merely wanted to say," continued the landlord, "that six of my

lodgers are goin' to the pannyrama on my recommendation. I have a wife,

sister-in-law and five children."

Tiffles took the hint. "I will hand you a complimentary ticket for

yourself and family," said he.

"Oh, no! by no means!" replied the landlord. "I wouldn't think of taking

it."

Mr. Pigworth then ushered his guests into the large, uncomfortable

apartment known as the "best room" in all country hotels. The ceiling

was low; there were three windows with small panes, the sashes of which

rattled in the wind; a rag carpet covered the floor; an old bureau,

topped off with a dirty white cloth, a rickety table similarly draped,

four cane-bottomed chairs, and a huge wooden spitbox filled with

sawdust, stood at intervals around. Two single beds occupied

opposite corners.

With reference to the beds, Mr. Pigworth remarked:

"Podhammer and Gineral Chetley slept in that air one. Colonel

Hockensacker and Judge Waterfield in t'other. There was four other

mattresses put down here that night, each of 'em with two of our most

distinguished citizens on it. That convention was worth to me a good

hundred dollars."

With every respect for the precedent established by Podhammer and

associates, Marcus Wilkeson preferred to sleep alone, as he had done for

twenty years. He privately expressed to the landlord a desire for one of

the mattresses which had done duty during the convention.

The landlord smiled, evidently regarding the request as eccentric and

unreasonable, but nodded "All right." As for Tiffles and Patching,

having shared the same couch several nights during the incubation of the

panorama, the problem of how to distribute three men among two beds

gave them no concern. Pigworth then retired.

Marcus Wilkeson's first act was to open the windows, and mix some fresh

air with the damp and mouldy atmosphere of the apartment. Patching's

first act was to light his pipe, and throw himself on the nearest bed

for a smoke. Tiffles's first act was to inspect the rent which the

impertinent small boy had discovered, and make temporary repairs with a

pin. Having done these things, and arranged their toilets hastily in a

mirror with a crack running through it like a streak of lightning, the

three adventurers sallied forth, and crossed the street to

Washington Hall.

CHAPTER IV.

STOOP.

Washington Hall was the only place of public congregation, excepting the

churches, in the village. It was used on Sunday by a small but clamorous

religious sect; on Monday by a lodge of Free Masons; on Tuesday by a

lodge of Odd Fellows; on Wednesday by the Sons of Temperance; and for

the balance of the week was open to any description of exhibition that

came along. It was originally built for a loft, and its reconstruction

into a public hall was an afterthought. It was situated over a drug

store, and was owned by the druggist, Mr. Boolpin, who was universally

regarded as the meanest man in the village.

As the three drew near the door, Mr. Boolpin, strongly smelling of

aloes, and carrying a pestle in his hand, came out to greet them. He, in

common with all the inhabitants, knew that the "pannyrarmer folks" were

in town. The small boys had borne the glad intelligence all abroad. A

number of citizens, who had been lying in wait, issued forth with Mr.

Boolpin, and looked hard at the three.

"The proprietor of the hall," said Mr. Boolpin, introducing himself.

"My name is Wesley," responded Tiffles. He then introduced Patching as

Signor Ceccarini, and Wilkeson as Mr. Wilkes. Patching chuckled inwardly

at the thought of the incognito, and imagined the sensation that would

be produced by the accidental revelation of his real name. Marcus felt a

momentary humiliation at having consented to this innocent imposture.

Mr. Boolpin, having shaken hands solemnly with the three, asked them to

walk up stairs and look at the hall. They accordingly followed him up a

series of creaking steps.

"Everything in apple-pie order," said Mr. Boolpin. "The three boxes

containing the panorama right side up with care, you see. I had them

carted from the depot. Cost me a dollar. People thought they were

coffins. Ha! ha! Six new tin candlesticks, you observe; also the ceiling

whitewashed; also ten extra seats introduced, making the entire capacity

of the hall three hundred and fifty--giving twelve inches of sitting

room to each person. No extra charge for these fixings, though I made

them expressly on your account. There are some things about this hall to

which I would call your attention. Boo! Boo! Hallo! Hallo! No echo, you

perceive. Likewise notice the fine view from the window." Mr. Boolpin

pointed to a swamp which could be distinctly seen over a housetop toward

the east. "The ventilation is a great feature, too." Mr. Boolpin

directed his pestle toward a trap door in a corner of the ceiling,

through which a quantity of rain had come a night or two previous,

leaving a large wet patch on the floor. "It's almost too cheap for

fifteen dollars a night."

"For what?" asked Tiffles.

"For fifteen dollars," replied Mr. Boolpin, twirling his pestle

playfully. "Of course, not reckoning in the one dollar that you owe me

for cartage. It's too cheap. I ought to have made it twenty dollars."

"Why, Mr. Persimmon, the postmaster here, engaged the hall for five

dollars. Here is his letter mentioning the price." Tiffles produced the

letter, and pointed out the numeral in question.

"It's a 5, without any doubt," rejoined Mr. Boolpin; "but Persimmon had

no authority to name that price. I distinctly told him fifteen dollars.

But here he is. Perhaps he can explain it."

The three turned on their heels, and beheld, standing at the door, a

short, dirty man in a faded suit of black, and a cold-shining satin

vest. He wore an old hat set well back on a bald head, and his cravat

was tied on one side in hangman's fashion. One leg of his trowsers was

tucked into the top of his boot; the other hung down in its proper

position. The man's face and hands wanted washing. This was Mr.

Persimmon, postmaster. The secrets of his popularity were: First, his

addiction to dirt; second, his eccentricities of dress, heretofore

enumerated; third, a reputation for political craft and long-headedness,

not wholly unfounded, as his ingenuity in procuring the passage of

resolutions supporting the policy of the Administration, in all the

conventions of his party since he became postmaster, fully proved. This

political sage walked about town with Post-Office documents and

confidential communications from Washington sticking out of all his

pockets, and under the edge of his hat. He had a slight stoop in the

shoulders, which the local wits said had increased since he undertook to

carry the Administration.

"Professor Wesley?" remarked Persimmon, extending a grimy hand. "Happy

to see you."

"Your most obedient," said Tiffles, a little stiffly, for the fifteen

dollars annoyed him. It was a small sum to borrow, but a large one

to pay.

"Have you such a thing as a morning newspaper about you?" asked the

postmaster. "Our bundle missed the train. As you may naturally imagine,

sir, I am anxious to see how the grand mass meeting went off last night

in your city. Perhaps you wos there?"

Tiffles had never attended such a thing in his life; although he was

aware that two or three grand mass meetings were held every week about

all the year round, and a dozen nightly in times of political

excitement. "No," said he; "but will you be good enough to tell me how

much you hired this room for?"

Persimmon thought how culpably ignorant some people were of the great

political movements of the day, but did not say so. Descending from

politics to the subject in hand, he replied:

"Oh! fifteen dollars, of course. You will find it stated in my last

letter to you." At this moment (no one of the three observing the act),

the long-headed postmaster tipped a slight wink to Mr. Boolpin, who

returned that signal of mutual understanding.

Tiffles handed the letter to the postmaster, pointing out the figure 5.

"Can I believe my eyes?" said the postmaster. "True enough, it is a 5.

Confound my absent-mindedness in not puttin' down a 1." It may here be

said, that similar instances of mental aberration were discovered in Mr.

Persimmon's accounts toward the close of his official term.

Tiffles was staggered, as he reflected that it would take sixty full

tickets to pay the single item of rent. He had less than half a dollar

in his own pocket. Patching was, as usual, reduced to his last

five-dollar bill. Marcus had incidentally observed, a few minutes

before, that he had left his wallet at home, and had only a handful of

small silver about him. Suppose the panorama should fail on the first

night, and be detained for debt! Tiffles had not thought of that.

Tiffles remonstrated, entreated, suggested compromises, but all to no

purpose. Boolpin was iron. The best arrangement that Tiffles could make,

was to postpone the final settlement of the terms until after the

performance. To that, Boolpin had not the least objection.

"One thing more," said Boolpin. "If there is a row, and any seats or

windows are broken, you are to pay the damages."

Tiffles laughed faintly. "Oh! of course," said he. "But you never have

rows here, do you?" He put the question with disguised interest.

"Sometimes," carelessly replied Mr. Boolpin. "There was a legerdemain

man got his machinery knocked to pieces, and his head broken. The mob

was quite reasonable about the furniture, and smashed only ten seats and

sixteen panes of glass. I charged the Professor twenty dollars for

damages, but took off two dollars on account of his illness. Poor

fellow! he was laid up more than a month. Then there was a band of

nigger minstrels, called the 'Metropoliganians.' They were regular

humbugs; and so the mob took them, and tarred and feathered them in the

back lot. Damage to furniture on that occasion was only sixteen dollars;

and I got every cent of it, by holding on to their trunks. There have

been a good many such little affairs in this village. I mention these

two cases only as examples."

"And yet no people in the world is more peaceable, nor more easily

satisfied, than the people of this town," said the postmaster. "They

only axes not to be imposed on. That's all."

"A kinder-hearted people don't live on the face of this earth," added

Boolpin, stating the case in another way; "but you mustn't give them

less than twenty-five cents' worth for a quarter."

Tiffles replied to the effect that he would give them a dollar's worth

apiece; but, in his heart, he foresaw, with that remarkable prescience

which is occasionally vouchsafed to mortals, that the panorama of Africa

was doomed to be a bad failure; and he bitterly regretted that he had

not tried some one of a dozen other immense speculations which he had

thought of. But he determined to give one night's exhibition, whatever

might be the consequences. "I may as well die for an old sheep as a

lamb," thought Tiffles.

During this conversation, Patching was secretly studying the effect of

the swamp, visible from the eastern windows; and Marcus was looking at

the cracked wall in a fit of abstraction.

Tiffles had observed several times, that morning, a youth, or man, of

singular aspect, following him. Occasionally, on turning around

suddenly, he would see this person at his elbow. Looking behind, at the

close of the colloquy with the landlord, he again saw the strange youth,

or man. The being was nearly six feet high, and powerfully built, like a

strong man of twenty-five. His face was childish even to the degree of

silliness. The mouth opened like a flytrap; the eyes were small and

intensely guileless. Only a few wrinkles, and a few hairs, which grew

wide apart on his cheeks and chin, indicated his manhood. But the oddest

feature was the falling away of his forehead, at an angle which a dirty

greased cap, pulled over his brow, could not conceal.

"Well, sir, what do you want?" said Tiffles.

"If you please, sir," said the singular being, in a cracked voice, "yure

the pannyrarmer, a'n't ye?"

"Not exactly, my lad, but I own it. And who are you?"

"My name's Stoop, if you please, sir."

Mr. Boolpin broke out with a laugh, which made the building reverberate.

"It's the village idiot," said he. "He goes by the name of Stoop, which

is short for Stupid. Ha! ha! Come, now, clear out, Stupid, and don't be

bothering the gentleman."

The boy-man began to whimper, when Tiffles, recollecting an allusion to

a semi-idiot in one of the postmaster's letters, said:

"Stay, my lad; I believe I owe you something."

"For pastin' up two hundred posters, fifty cents; and distributin' five

hundred bills, twenty-five cents. Totale, seventy-five cents." The idiot

did not hold out his hand for the pay, and Tiffles conceived an instant

esteem for him. An idea came to Tiffles. This idiot, as he was called,

had shown intelligence in reckoning. He might have a deal of good sense

under that dull exterior. Tiffles had observed, in his travels, that

_the_ idiot which Providence assigns to every town and village, is not

always the biggest fool in it. This idiot might have sufficient

intellect to turn the crank of the panorama, and render muscular aid in

other respects. At any rate, he was able-bodied enough.

"My lad," said Tiffles.

"Stoop, if you please, sir."

"Very good. Stoop, I think I can find some work for you behind the

scenes to-night. Can you turn a crank?"

"I've done it to grindstones, sir."

"It's the same principle," said Tiffles, laughing. "I'll engage you."

The idiot took off his greasy cap, and swung it in the air with joy. A

smile irradiated his great, coarse face, and his small eyes twinkled.

"Gosh golly!" he cried; "I'm goin' to be one of the performers. I'm

so glad!"

He said this, in a spirit of juvenile exultation, to the dozen boys who

stood gaping in at the doorway. This innocent bit of boasting provoked

their derisive laughter, and a quantity of playful epithets and

nicknames, which the idiot endured with marvellous patience, until one

dirty little boy put the thumb of his left hand to his nose, twirled the

fingers, and said, "Boo! boo! boo!" This act had the same effect on poor

Stoop as the shaking of a red handkerchief at a bull. It enraged him. He

sprang at the youth, and, but for the sudden closing of the door by the

offender, who had judiciously kept a hand on the knob, would have

chastised him on the spot.

The door not only arrested his progress, but suddenly checked his wrath.

"I'm very sorry, indeed, Professor," said he; "but Gorrifus! it makes

me so mad!"