Messrs. Boolpin and Persimmon laughed heartily. "He's a perfect idiot,

you see," remarked the former. "Coming the nose system at him always

makes him mad."

Tiffles did not understand how that was any proof of idiocy; but, to

prevent the recurrence of any difficulty between his new assistant and

the populace of small boys, he thought it best to take possession of the

hall, and lock the door. He therefore signified to Mr. Boolpin that they

would at once proceed to put up the panorama. Tiffles threw off his

coat, thereby intimating that he would go to work at once.

Messrs. Boolpin and Persimmon inquired, as a matter of form, whether

their further assistance was needed, and were answered in the negative.

Whereupon they retired--Mr. Boolpin uttering a farewell caution against

driving more nails in the wall than were necessary, and not to cut the

floor under any circumstances--and the panorama and its adherents were

left alone.

Mr. Boolpin had driven the uproarious boys before him with his pestle,

administering smart taps to the reluctant ones. Tiffles suffered no

further annoyance from them that day, save an occasional "Boo! boo!"

shouted through the keyhole, and followed by an immediate scampering of

the perpetrators down stairs. This well-known sound always roused the

idiot to fury; and the peaceable persuasions, and even the gentle

violence of Tiffles, were needed to keep him from relinquishing his work

and springing to the door.

He was a most intelligent and useful idiot. He could measure distances

more accurately than either of the three, and could ply the saw, hammer,

plane, or hatchet (Tiffles brought all these tools with him) like a

carpenter. His strength and skill were so great, that Tiffles found

himself gratefully relieved from the necessity of lifting, or directing.

Marcus Wilkeson, who had also thrown off his coat with a manful

determination to do a hard day's work, in the hope of tiring out and

driving away the sadness that possessed him, put on the garment again,

and sat on a front bench, vacantly staring like an idiot at the idiot,

and all the while thinking, gloomily, of New York. Patching stalked

about the hall, and criticized the work as it progressed, from numerous

angles of observation; but even he confessed that he could make no

improvement on Stoop's highly artistic disposition of things.

The idiot worked on steadily and swiftly, and only two things

interrupted him. The first was the "Boo!" yelled through the keyhole, as

heretofore described. The second was the unrolling of portions of the

panorama as they were taken out of the boxes, fastened together, and

attached to the rollers.

As the canvas was unwound, Stoop would drop his saw, or hammer, or other

tool, and gaze, with his large mouth and small eyes wide open, at the

pictorial marvels successively disclosed. "Blame it!" said he; "a'n't

that splendid?" or, "By jingo! look at that!" or, "Thunder! don't that

beat all?" The tigers' tails and the elephants' trunks, the alligators'

snouts and the boa constrictor's convolutions, he recognized at once. He

had "read all about 'em in Olney's Jogriffy."

"He is an idiot of taste," thought Patching. "I wonder what they call

him an idiot for?" thought Tiffles. "It's a pity all the people aren't

idiots," said Marcus Wilkeson to Tiffles. "Your panorama would be

patronized and appreciated then." It was Marcus's first approach to a

joke that day.

By four o'clock in the afternoon the Panorama of Africa was all up, the

rollers and the curtain in good working order, and everything ready for

the eventful night. Stoop had taken a lesson at the wheel, and turned it

beautifully. Tiffles had arranged a system of signals with him. One

cough was "Stop;" two coughs were "Go on;" one stamp was "Slower;" two,

stamps were "Faster." Tiffles and Stoop rehearsed the system several

times, the one being before the curtain, in the position of the

lecturer, and the other behind it, at the crank. Nothing could be more

satisfactory.

"Only one thing puzzles me," said Tiffles to his friends. "Why do they

call this smart fellow an idiot?"

CHAPTER V.

AN AUDIENCE ANALYZED.

The eventful night came on. Tiffles and friends fortified themselves

with a poor supper, including numerous cups of weak black tea, at the

hotel, and repaired, full of anxiety and misgivings, to the hall. The

idiotic but intelligent Stoop had remained in charge of the panorama,

and feasted himself, intellectually, upon the splendors of that work of

Art, as disclosed by a single candle in front.

All the candles in the hall and the entry were then lighted up, and

produced quite a gorgeous illumination of the four windows fronting on

the main street. This having been done, Marcus (who, having a more

extensive acquaintance with the faces of bank bills than either of his

friends, had kindly consented to act as money taker and cashier) took

his seat in a little box with a pigeon hole in it, and his entire stock

of loose change, amounting to seventy-five cents in silver, spread

before him. Tiffles stood within the door of the hall, to see that

nobody came in (especially small boys) who had not paid. Stoop remained

behind the scenes, and was positively instructed to stay there. Patching

wandered up and down the hall, as if he were an early comer, and had

paid his quarter, and had no personal knowledge of or interest in

the panorama.

Performance was to commence at 8 o'clock. Doors were open at 61/2. Some

time previous to that hour, the stairs leading from the street door to

the hall were lined with the lads of the village, who amused themselves

with making jocular remarks about "the man in the cage there" (meaning

Marcus), and "t'other man at the door, whose shirt was out of jail"

(meaning Tiffles). Marcus smiled grimly at his assailants through the

small pigeon hole; and Tiffles, who felt reckless in the sure view of a

failure, laughed heartily at them, returned jokes as bad as they sent,

but, in the height of his humor, begged them distinctly to understand

that they could not get In without paying. At which the juvenile chorus

sarcastically replied, "P'r'aps not;" "Mebbe you're right," "You'll have

to stop up the keyhole, Mister;" "Mind I don't get down the

chimbley," &c., &c.

At precisely forty-seven minutes past six, the first man made his

appearance. He was a thick-set, pompous individual, with a gold-headed

cane and gold spectacles, and climbed up the stairs with dignity and

difficulty. He was followed by a pale little woman, four small children,

and a stout, red-haired nurse, bearing in her arms a baby, which was

laboring under an attack of the intermittent squalls. Marcus

reconnoitred the party through his pigeon hole, and nervously jingled

the seventy-five cents in his hand. Tiffles stepped forward to the head

of the stairs, in order that he might not be wanting in personal respect

to his first patron.

As this thick-set man ascended the stairs, the boys hushed their voices;

but Tiffles distinctly heard several of them say, "It's the Square."

Though apparently awestruck in his presence, the boys did not forget to

play a few practical jokes on "the Square's" children, such as slapping

them, and pinching their legs as they clambered wearily up. A peal of

cries from his tortured offspring, particularly the baby, who received a

pin in a sensitive part of its little person, so enraged "the Square,"

that he would have beaten all the boys with his gold-headed cane, had

they not jumped away, laughing, and got safely out of the building, only

to be back again the next minute.

"You should not allow these boys to hang around the stairs, sir," said

the pompous man, planting his foot on the topmost step, and bringing

down his cane on the floor with the ring of a watchman's club. "It's

trouble enough to come to your panorama, without being annoyed by all

the young vagabonds in the village."

"I'm sorry, sir," replied Tiffles, inwardly laughing, "but it would take

six strong men to regulate the little rascals."

"Then you ought to employ six strong men, sir. It's your business to see

that your patrons are not insulted."

Tiffles could only smile deprecatingly.

"Every exhibition in this hall, for a year past," continued the man,

"has been a humbug--an outrage on the common sense of mankind. Perhaps

yours is an exception, though, to be candid, I have my doubts of it. Do

I understand, sir, that you have travelled in Africa?"

Tiffles indulged in the unjustifiable deception of nodding his head.

"And you mean to say that the sketches for this panorama were taken on

the spot?"

"Yes, sir; on the spot--in a horn."

"In a horn! What's that?"

"A technical phrase, sir, which it is hardly worth while to explain at

length. Briefly, however, I may say, that no more ingenious or

satisfactory mode of taking sketches has been invented."

"Oh! never mind the details. I hate the jargon of Art. I only wished to

assure myself that I am not to be imposed on. Well, I think I will risk

it, and go in. You can put us on a front seat, I suppose?"

"First come, first served," said Tiffles, amiably, for he had reckoned

up, and found that this party brought him a dollar and a quarter,

counting the children as half prices, and the baby free.

"Under these circumstances we will go in, though I must confess I expect

to be disappointed. You will excuse my plain speaking." The thick-set

gentleman thereupon thrust a hand into a pocket, and produced--not a

huge roll of bank bills, or a half pint of silver, as Marcus, who eyed

him sharply through the pigeon hole, had expected, but--a card, which he

poked at Tiffles.

Tiffles recognized it at the first glance. It was one of thirty

complimentary tickets that he had caused to be distributed among the

leading men of the village that morning, by advice of the landlord; and

it bore the name of "C. Skimmerhorn, Esq."

"Welcome, sir, welcome!" said Tiffles, as he observed the dollar and a

quarter disappear from his mental horizon, and felt that, but for his

indomitable good nature, he would like to kick C. Skimmerhorn, Esq.,

down stairs. And Tiffles, nobly concealing his disappointment, showed C.

Skimmerhorn, Esq., and his domestic caravan to the best front seat. As

he turned back to the door, he heard that gentleman say to his spouse,

"That fellow looks like a humbug."

A stream of people on the stairs gladdened his eyes. In one sweeping

survey, he figured up three dollars. But they proved to be three

clergymen, with faded wives, large families, and female relatives

stopping with them. Each of the clergymen graciously informed Tiffles,

on delivering up his family ticket, that a panorama was one of the few

secular entertainments that he could consent to patronize. They doubted

very much whether they could have been persuaded to come, but for the

recommendation of their evangelical brethren in the city.

Tiffles bowed acknowledgment of the empty honor, and ushered the three

clergymen and families to the front row of seats, of which C.

Skimmerhorn, Esq., and his train, occupied as much as they could cover

by spreading out. Mr. Skimmerhorn recognized, in one of the clergymen,

his beloved pastor, and proceeded, in a pleasant, off-hand manner, and a

loud voice, to give a few of the reasons which inclined him to pronounce

the panorama a humbug.

"Being deadheads," sarcastically observed Tiffles to Marcus Wilkeson,

"of course they come early, and take the best seats."

The next customer was a poor but jovial mechanic, having a red-faced

little wife slung on his arm. This humble individual paid down fifty

cents in bright new silver to the grim treasurer, entered the hall, and

took seats about halfway up. "It's a splendid affair, Sally, this 'ere

pannyrammer, I'll bet anything." "Sha'n't we enjoy it, John!" returned

that healthy young woman.

More work for the amiable Tiffles, but none for the melancholy

Wilkeson. Two more clergymen with families, the County Judge, the local

railroad agent, all the members of the Board of Freeholders, and several

other people, who, according to the landlord of the United States Hotel,

were highly influential in moulding public opinion, and were in the

habit of receiving free tickets.

"Very good for a school of comparative anatomy," said Tiffles to Marcus

(in facetious allusion to the deadheads), "but decidedly bad for my

panorama."

Marcus responded with a dreary smile through the pigeon hole.

Then there came a few more mechanics and other plain people, and then a

streak of fortune--an entire young ladies' seminary, headed by the

preceptress, and divided into squads, each commanded by an assistant

teacher acting as drill sergeant. They were admitted at half price (as

per advertisement), and brought five dollars and sixty-two cents into

the treasury. Tiffles rubbed his eyes at the sight of such a troop of

blooming faces, and his hands at the thought of the grand accession to

his cash box. The female seminary was accommodated with the two front

rows of the best seats left.

Following the seminary, in an unprecedented sequence of luck, was a

boys' school, that came whooping up the stairway like a tribe of young

Indians, in charge of a venerable sachem in spectacles. In the rush and

excitement of the moment, several of them ran toll--a circumstance of

which the old gentleman did not take cognizance when he settled with

Marcus Wilkeson for their admission at twelve and a half cents _per

capita_. Marcus had not noticed it, and Tiffles was far too generous to

make a fuss about a few shillings.

Then a party of six flashily dressed young men, who threw away their

cigars as they came up stairs, and thrust their quarters through the

pigeon hole at Marcus Wilkeson, as if they were good for nothing--which

proved to be true of two of them. Being informed of the fact by Marcus,

the owners of the counterfeits winked at each other, and whispered, "No

go," and then offered a broken bill on a Connecticut bank. This also

proved "no go," whereat the sharp practitioners winked again and

laughed, and this time paid out good current coin. These were some of

the fast men of the village. They took seats behind the female seminary.

Luck changed again, and brought in the landlord, Mr. Persimmon, P.M.,

Mr. Boolpin, and three more free tickets, with their wives and families.

Mr. Boolpin whispered in Tiffles's ear, that he hoped there wouldn't be

a row; but it was a hard-looking crowd that had just gone in ahead of

him. And there were plenty more of them coming.

The latter observation proved true. The next minute, the stairs swarmed

with a jovial party, under the leadership of a gorgeous person, who wore

in the middle of his snowy shirt front a cluster diamond pin larger than

a ten-cent piece. This was one of the gentlemanly conductors on the

railroad; and the mixed company which he had the honor to command, was

composed of ticket sellers, freight masters, brakemen, civil engineers,

and clerks of liberal dispositions and small salaries in various walks

of life. The party was slightly drunk, but not offensive. The

gentlemanly conductor paid for himself and associates out of a huge side

pocket full of loose silver. They rolled up the hall, and took the

nearest spare seats to the female seminary.

Seven and three quarters P.M. arrived. The people in the hall began to

stamp with a noise like thunder. Tiffles had marked the heavy boots of

the conductor, and could recognize them in the din. Several deep hisses

varied the monotony of the performance. There were no persons coming up

stairs. The small boys, Tiffles observed with astonishment, had vacated

the building some time before, and could now be heard whispering quietly

around the door below.

CHAPTER VI.

HUMOUS OF THE MANY-HEADED.

Tiffles knew that his time had come, and he accepted the crisis.

Requesting Marcus to pocket the funds, shut up the shop, and leave the

door to take care of itself, Tiffles marched boldly to his doom.

Previous to extinguishing the candles in the exhibition hall, he went

behind the curtain, and there found the idiot sitting patiently at the

crank, and rehearsing, in a low tone, the code of signals which had been

adopted. Patching was also there. He shrugged his shoulders in the

French style as Tiffles came in, but said not a word. Tiffles proceeded

straight to a bottle which stood on a window sill, and took a long drink

from it, and then passed it to Patching, who mutely did the same, and,

in turn, handed it to the idiot, who pulled at it with great gusto, in

the manner of a rational person.

Feeling that it would be superfluous to repeat his instructions to so

sagacious an idiot, Tiffles immediately presented himself before the

audience again, with a long stick, or wand, for pointing out the

beauties of the panorama.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I am about to exhibit to you the Panorama of

Africa. You have all heard of Africa."

VOICE. "Consider'ble."

"True, my friend; therefore you will be well prepared to enjoy the

pictorial attractions which I am about to unfold."

VOICE. "H'ist the rag."

"My friend--who has no doubt paid his quarter--I respect your request.

The rag _is_ about to be h'isted. But, before that ceremony is proceeded

with, I would ask the gentlemen sitting nearest the candles to be good

enough to blow them out."

Never was request more cheerfully complied with. There was a scramble of

six or seven tall young men to each candle; and, at several of the

candles, a brisk but friendly struggle took place between rival

aspirants for the privilege. The room was then in total darkness, save a

small gleam which came through the partly opened door from a solitary

tallow in the entry, and the dull reflection of the panorama lights

through the curtain.

Some of the effects of this sudden extinguishment were extraordinary.

The female seminary all screamed slightly. The boys' school all laughed,

and several were heard to say, "Prime fun, a'n't it?" The railroad

conductor and his friends coughed fictitiously, and said, "Oh! oh!"

"A'n't you ashamed!" "Look out for pockets!" "Thief in the house!" and

other playful things, which put the entire audience in good humor. But

the strangest and most unexpected occurrence, was a grand rush, as of a

herd of wild bulls, on the stairs, accompanied by the dousing of the one

remaining light in the entry. Another moment, and over a hundred of the

choicest juvenile spirits tore into the hall, and knocked over each

other and everybody else in a frantic contest for free seats. The young

ladies' seminary screamed in concert, and all the elderly ladies cried,

"Oh my!" "Good gracious!" "What's that?"

"Only the boys," said Tiffles, with unruffled composure. "Let them come.

It is a moral entertainment, and will do them good."

After a pause of about three minutes, giving the boys time to seat

themselves, and the screams, mutterings, and laughter of the rest of the

audience to die away, Tiffles said:

"Now, ladies and gentlemen, I will introduce you to sunrise, in the

Bight of Benin."

This was the preconcerted signal for the raising of the curtain, which

office was performed by Patching, without a hitch. The gorgeous proem,

or introduction to the panorama, was then for the first time disclosed

to the public. Patching blushed as he thought of the vile pandering to

popular taste of which he had been guilty.

There was a dead calm for a minute. Tiffles was silent, in order that he

might not interrupt the quiet admiration of the spectators. The

spectators were silent, because they could not exactly understand the

scene, and did not know whether to laugh, hiss, or applaud. The silence

was broken, by a boy in the back part of the hall:

"I say, Mister, is that a cartwheel on top of a stonewall?"

"No, sonny not exactly," said Tiffles. "What your uneducated eyes

mistake for a cartwheel is the rising sun. The objects that your

immature judgment confounds with spokes, are rays. Your stone wall, it

is hardly necessary to inform riper intellects, is a distant range of

mountains. It is one of Ceccarini's happiest efforts."

"Hurrah for Checkerberry!" cried another lad, mistaking the name of the

high (imaginary) Italian artist.

"Are we to understand, sir, that this is a rolling prairie in the

foreground?" asked a deep voice, which Tiffles at once recognized as

emanating from C. Skimmerhorn, Esq.

"Oh! no, sir; it is the Bight of Benin; and I must say, though, perhaps,

I am too partial, that Ceccarini never did a better thing."

"The _what_ of Benin?" asked the voice.

"The Bight--or, in other words, as you may not be familiar with

geography, the Bay of Benin."

"Then why not say Bay, sir?" replied C. Skimmerhorn Esq., stung with the

allusion to his want of geographical knowledge. "Why this mystery

about terms!"

There were cries of "Go it, Square." "Dry up, old boy!" "Propel with the

show!" &c., &c. Tiffles adopted the latter suggestion, and without

answering the lawyer's insinuation, proceeded to point out the natural

appearance of the waves, the truthfulness of the distant mountains, the

absolute fidelity of the sunrise. "And here let me answer an

objection in advance. It may be said that this sunrise does not

look like a sunrise in Jersey. Admit it. Neither do the snakes

(_sensation_)--neither do the snakes which I am about, to exhibit

(_increased sensation_ and Oh! me's! from the Young Ladies' Seminary)

resemble the familiar green or striped serpent of your own peaceful

fields. Neither do the tigers, which I shall presently have the honor of

showing to you _(renewed sensation)_, bear any marked affinity to the

serene woodchuck that burrows in your happy hills. The sunrises and

sunsets, the boa constrictors, the tigers, and the other phenomena of

Africa, are all immense, gorgeous, and peculiar. They must be judged by

themselves, and not by comparison. My hearers will be kind enough to

bear this in mind, as we go on."

He then went on to repeat a great many statistics concerning the

population and resources of Africa. He had read up for these facts and

figures, under the impression that they would interest the solid portion

of his audience. But he soon found out that he interested nobody

(perhaps because the solid portion of audiences is a myth), and finally

yielded to general requests of "Push ahead!" "Fire away!" "Start your

train!" (the latter from the gentlemanly conductor and friends.)

Tiffles therefore whistled once, and the panorama commenced moving

slowly and steadily. The idiot, the rollers, and the lights, all

worked well.

From the Bight of Benin, the voyaging spectators took an excursion up

the river.

The uninterrupted stretch of deep blue for water, and light blue for

sky, and green for the farther bank, with occasional palm trees looking

like long-handled pickaxes, seemed to satisfy them. At any rate they

looked on, and found no fault in words; which both Tiffles and Patching

took for an auspicious sign. Tiffles kept step with his explanations.

His method was this. When the palm tree came in sight, he would give a

minute account of that noble tropical growth, and the many uses to which

it and its products could be put. When a flock of wild ducks appeared

sailing majestically on the river, he would entertain his auditors with

a circumstantial description of how the natives caught wild ducks. A

boat or hollow log, with a human figure, suggested a reference to the

progress which the African had made in marine architecture and the

science of navigation. In this way, Tiffles thought he was beguiling his

customers. Some low sounds, like suppressed hisses, soon convinced him

of his error.

"I beg your pardon, Professor," said a thick-set voice, which he always

recognized as coming from C. Skimmerhorn, Esq.; "but it seems to me that

this portion of your panorama is a little monotonous. I presume that in

this suggestion, I express the sentiments of my fellow citizens here

assembled." Cries of "Go on, Square!" "That's so!" mingled with a

vigorous stamping of feet and catcalls from the boys in the background,

proved, alas! the truth of the conjecture.

Tiffles coughed twice for the idiot to stop, and was sagaciously obeyed.

"In behalf of Africa," he remarked, "representing her, as I may say, on

this occasion, I would beg leave to apologize to the learned gentleman

for the poverty of her scenery, at this stage of the panorama. If Africa

had been aware of the learned gentleman's preferences, she would,

doubtless, have got up some stunning effects for him in places where now

you see only a river, a sky, and a strip of green bank, all unadorned,

precisely as they are."

The exquisite irony of this retort pleased the audience, and elicited

general though faint applause, and several cries of "Shut up, Skim!"

"Got your match, old boy!" "Oh! let the man go on!" The last remark

issued from the gentlemanly conductor, and fell with peculiar pleasure

on Tiffles's ears.

"One word more, and I am done," resumed the lawyer, who was

professionally calm amid scenes of disturbance. "I only wish to elicit

the truth. Have you, and your artist (Mr. Chicory, I think you call

him), or either of you, actually gone over the scenery here represented.

We wish to understand that point!"

"We have, both of us, gone over this scenery repeatedly." This was true,

as both Tiffles and Patching, anticipating some such question, had

stepped over the canvas back and forth, in rolling and unrolling it,

several times. "Is the eminent counsellor satisfied?"

"Oh! yes," said C. Skimmerhorn, Esq., in a voice which signified that

he knew the panorama was a humbug, but, unfortunately, couldn't

prove it.

One cough, and the panorama started again--but a little too fast.

Tiffles stamped once, and the idiot reduced the speed, until it was too

slow. Two stamps brought it right. The river soon disappeared in a

swamp, where the alligators' heads protruding above the water gave

Tiffles an opportunity to describe several terrific combats which he had

enjoyed with those pugnacious creatures. This entertained the audience

for several minutes.

"Have you no full views of alligators, sir?" asked a voice which Tiffles

presumed, from its solemn inflection, to come from a clergyman.

"None at all, sir. The African alligator persists in keeping out of

sight. You never see anything but his head--except his tail, as

represented here." Tiffles pointed with his wand to something that

looked like the end of a fence rail sticking out of the water. "True

Art, sir, sacrifices effect for Truth."

"Certainly, sir. Truth is what we are all after," replied the clergyman.

But there was an indefinable something in his voice that indicated a

wish for more alligator--much more.

The swamp ended in a dry jungle, interspersed with palm trees,

elephants, lions, tigers, and serpents. Tiffles counted upon interesting

his audience here. Snakes were first on the list. Two heads, with

expanded jaws and forked tongues, were looking at each other above the

jungle, and two tails were interlocked, also above the jungle, a few

feet off. This conveyed the idea of two boa constrictors fighting. Other

heads and other tails--there was always a tail for every head--stuck up

at regular intervals about. He stopped the panorama with a cough,

and said:

"The entire population of this particular jungle are--boa constrictors

of unprecedented size and ferocity."

Tiffles heard a rustle of fans and dresses not far off. It was the

whole female seminary shuddering. There was also a general movement

throughout the audience as of people adjusting themselves to obtain a

good sight.

"These boa constrictors, so admirably delineated here,"--commenced

Tiffles.

"Where?" said the voice of a country gentleman. "I don't see any bore

constructors."

"Nor I." "Nor I." "Trot 'em out!" "Show 'em up!" "Produce your snakes!"

Such were the remarks that resounded through the hall.

"Oh, no!" "Don't!" "Please don't!" emanated from several girlish voices.

"My fair auditors have no cause for alarm. I have no living snakes to

show. I might have captured several hundred, and brought them to this

country and exhibited them, but, in deference to the well-known aversion

cherished toward snakes by cultivated communities, I forbore to do so.

The only boa constrictors that I have, are now before you. These are

their heads. These their tails" (indicating the termini of the snakes).

Now, the spectators--or a large number of them--had suffered fearful

expectations of seeing real snakes. When, therefore, it was announced

that these harmless daubs, resembling, at a distance, some variety of

tropical vegetation, were the only snakes they were to see, there was a

feeling, first, of relief, and then of disappointment.

The disappointment manifested itself in low hisses, and exclamations,

such as "Humbug!" "Gammon!" "Swindle!" Tiffles made several beginnings

of excellent snake stories, of which he was the hero, but was checked by

the tumult. Finding the snakes were not popular, he determined to try

the tigers, lions, and other beasts of prey farther on. He coughed once

emphatically, and the canvas moved like clockwork.

Before it had journeyed five feet, somebody on the front row of seats

coughed twice in precisely the same manner as Tiffles. The idiot,

supposing the signal came from his employer, stopped. Tiffles,

perceiving the mistake, coughed again, and the motion was resumed; when

a double cough resounded from the front seat, and the motion ceased.

Then Tiffles realized that his system of signals was understood by

somebody. What should he do? He could not stop the free, universal right

to cough. Therefore he stepped to the corner of the curtain, raised it,

and said, in a voice loud enough to be heard by the audience, "Stoop,

whenever I want you to 'stop,' or 'go on,' or 'faster,' or 'slower,' I

will say so. You understand?"

"Puffickly," replied the gifted idiot.

"I say, boys, Stoop's in there," shouted the somebody that had coughed.

"Stoop!" "Stoop!" "Bully for Stoop!" "Come out o' that, Stoop!" was

shouted all over the house; but Stoop remained faithful to his post, and

calmly ground away at the crank.

Suddenly it occurred to some boy to yell, "Boo! boo!" whereat the other

boys laughed, and took up the chorus, "Boo! boo!"

The canvas moved less steadily, slackening for a moment, and then

shooting ahead, as if the propelling power were the subject of strange

perturbation. The roguish boys, and the men too, and, chief of them,

that practical humorist of a conductor, observing this, screamed, "Boo!

boo! boo I boo!" all the louder. Tiffles knew that the critical time had

come, and philosophically laughed at the ruin of his last grand project,

as he had laughed at the ruin of forty other grand projects in

their day.

The panorama stopped without a signal this time. A hoarse voice

screamed, "Gorryfus! Gosh thunder! By jimminy!" The curtain was jerked

aside, and Stoop rushed into the hall like a fury. Coming out of a place

partly lighted into one totally dark, his first move was to run blindly

into Tiffles, nearly knocking that gentleman off his legs.

"Hold on, Stoop! Hold on!" shouted Tiffles, with what was left of his

breath. But the idiot only screamed, "Gosh thunder! Gorryfus!" and

darted for the main aisle, intending to run a muck among his

persecutors. There was a general scrambling of the boys to avoid this

incarnated wrath. The whole female seminary, and all the ladies present,

screamed together.

CHAPTER VII.

SCENES NOT IN THE BILLS.

The enraged idiot struck out right and left, without hurting

anybody--the objects of his vengeance contriving to elude him in the

dark. Most of the sturdy blows which he dealt, using his arms like

flails, fell upon the railings of the seats, and only bruised his hands.

Just as he had caught a boy by the collar, and was about to take a twist

in his hair, the door opened, and a light appeared. It came from three

candles borne by three men.

This apparition caused the furious idiot to suspend hostilities on the

instant.

All eyes were turned toward the three men. All voices were hushed. There

was a whisper in the air that something strange was about to happen.

The man who entered first was a stranger, who moved and looked about in

the quick, nervous way born of city life. The other two men were

well-known residents of the village. Some of the audience had had

unpleasant cause to know them.

Having locked the door, and stationed his associates in a position to

command the windows, the stranger walked quickly up the aisle, bearing

his lighted candle, and said, in a loud voice, which fell strangely on

the hushed assemblage:

"Marcus Wilkeson will be kind enough to give himself up. Upon my honor,

he cannot escape." This was said with a charming politeness.

A tall figure arose at the wall end of one of the back seats. "I am

Marcus Wilkeson. What do you want with me, sir?" His voice trembled, and

his face was livid.

"To go with me to New York, Mr. Wilkeson," said the tall stranger,

quickly. "Thank you for your promptness in answering. The only clue that

I had, was the hasty measure I took of you this morning, when I was

watching for an escaped convict at Cortlandt-street ferry. Perhaps you

remember seeing me there, sir?"

Marcus, though the sudden shock had almost stunned him, at once recalled

the man who had eyed him narrowly at the ferry that morning.

The two other candle bearers had stepped forward as Marcus declared

himself, and were about to lay hold of him, when the first man smilingly

pushed them back, and said:

"Don't touch him. It's all right. Mr. Wilkeson is a gentleman, and will

go quietly."

To Marcus he said, apologetically:

"Two Jersey constables I got to assist me. They don't do things exactly

in the style of Detective Leffingwell."

Marcus recognized the name; and so terrified was he at the thoughts

which it conjured up, that his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth.

The scene was like a horrid dream.

"Everything is regular, sir," continued the detective. "We have a

requisition for you from the Governor of this State. It was obtained by

telegraph from Trenton. You will excuse my dropping on you in this way;

but I wanted to take you to New York to-night, as the inquest meets

again at ten o'clock to-morrow morning."

"The inquest!--what inquest? Tell me, in God's name!" said Marcus,

finding his voice at last.

"Inquest! There must have been a murder committed." "What is it?" "Tell

us, Mr. Policeman." The question was asked on all sides.

"Now I _didn't_ want a scene," said Detective Leffingwell, politely,

"and I won't have one. Mr. Wilkeson and I understand each other. The

word 'inquest' dropped out of my mouth before I thought."

"As heaven is above us, we do not understand each other!" said Marcus.

"Tell me, pray tell me at once, or I shall go mad."

"Anything to please you," replied the officer; "but I can't bear these

explanations in public. It isn't my way of doing business." He then

leaned forward, and whispered in the ear of Marcus.

"Great God!" was all that Marcus could say. Then he sank to the seat,

and bowed his head in agony.

Tiffles, who had forced his way to his friend's side during the

excitement, threw his arms about him, and said:

"Never mind appearances, Marcus. I'll stake my life you are innocent of

the charge, whatever it is."

"Oh! you're a humbug," remarked C. Skimmerhorn, Esq.

"Call me and my panorama a humbug, if you please; but Mr. Wilkeson is a

gentleman and a man of honor." Tiffles's face beamed with a strange

kindness. He looked up, and saw the idiot standing near him. His small

eyes filled with tears as he gazed with an expression of intelligent

pity at the crushed man. Tiffles could have hugged the idiot, not only

as the most sensible man, but the best-hearted one he had seen in

the village.

C. Skimmerhorn, Esq., would have retorted severely, but his attention,

and that of all the crowd, was drawn, at that moment, to a citizen who

came forward, and, in a state of beathless excitement, said he guessed

he knew what it all meant. He was in New York that afternoon, and read,

in one of the evening papers, an account of a dreadful murder committed

on an old man named Minford. The supposed murderer, the paper said, was

a Mr. Wilkes or Wilkson.

"Now I hope you are satisfied," said Detective Leffingwell, looking

around with contempt at his hearers.

A slight scream was heard from the corner of a seat near by. From the

beginning of this unpleasant affair, it was observed that a plainly

dressed woman--a seamstress accompanying the family of a Mr. Graft--had

become very pale and nervous, and had been seen to move uneasily in her

seat. This woman had fainted away. She it was who had stared so

strangely at Marcus in the car that morning.

Mrs. Graft and her two daughters promptly removed the fainting woman to

the entry, where the fresh air soon restored her, and she was sent home.

"No wonder the women faint away, when you crowd round here so stupidly,"

said the officer, momentarily losing his temper. "Please step back, now,

and let Mr. Wilkeson and me get out. We must leave for New York by the

next train--and that starts in fifteen minutes." The detective referred

to his watch. "Are you ready, sir?" tapping Marcus gently on

the shoulder.

Marcus rose, and displayed a face haggard with grief.

They all whispered, or thought, "He is guilty."

"I am ready," said he; "but I call heaven to witness that I know nothing

of this crime."

The detective bowed courteously, and then said:

"I also have summons for Mr. Tiffles and Mr. Patching, gentlemen

connected with this panorama, as witnesses. They will please

step forward."

"I am Mr. Tiffles," said that person. "Wesley is my panoramic name."

This disclosure caused a small sensation. "I knew the man was a humbug

from the start," whispered C. Skimmerhorn, Esq., to a friend at his

elbow. "I'd like to prosecute him for swindling."

"And I am Mr. Patching," exclaimed the artist, presenting himself.

It should be here stated, that, when the disturbances of the evening

first set in, Patching, in pure disgust at the bad taste of the

audience, had quietly dropped himself out of the second story window at

the rear of the stage, and had been skulking in the back lot ever since.

Having heard, outside, of the arrest of Marcus Wilkeson, on an unknown

charge, he had plucked up courage and friendship enough to reenter the

hall, and tender his aid and consolation to that unhappy man. He came in

just in time to hear his name called.

"So that's the chap they called Chicory, or Checkerberry," whispered C.

Skimmerhorn, Esq. "Anybody can see he is a swindler by his slouched hat,

and beard. _Shouldn't_ I enjoy having a good case against him!"

Pigworth, J. P., landlord of the United States Hotel, and Mr. Boolpin,

proprietor, came forward with their little bills, and demanded immediate

payment. This financial difficulty was arranged in one minute by the

genius of Wesley Tiffles. After paying Stoop one dollar and a half (that

excellent idiot crying, and vowing that he didn't want it), the rest of

the proceeds, deducting enough for fares to New York, were divided

equally between the two other creditors; and the panorama and all the

appurtenances were left as a joint security for remaining obligations.

The panorama was worth twice the debts, to be cut into window shades.

After some grumbling, Messrs. Pigworth and Boolpin accepted the terms.

Five minutes later, the polite detective and his party started for New

York. There was a great number of people at the station to see them off,

but only one to say "good-by." That one was the man-boy Stoop, who cried

as if his great, simple heart would break.

BOOK EIGHTH.

A DRAMATIC INTERLUDE.

CHAPTER I.

THE OVERTURE.

It was the last of a delightful series of dramatic nights at Mrs.

Slapman's; and her house was quite filled with embodied Poetry, Travels,

Dramatic Literature, Music, Art, and the Sciences.

The dramatic arrangements of Mrs. Slapman's house were simple, but

effective. A curtain, with rings, hung across the north end of the

parlor, established the confines of the stage, which was on a level with

the floor, and covered with green baize to represent rural scenes, or a

three-ply carpet to indicate refined interiors. Against the wall were

rollers, from which scenes could be dropped, affording perspectives of

country, or streets, or gilded saloons, as the necessities of the drama

required. There were six of these scenes, all painted by Patching (to

oblige Mrs. Slapman) in his leisure moments, which were numerous; and

they all exhibited evidences of his style. Six sets of flies, or side

scenes, matching with the rear views, had been executed by a

scene-painter's assistant, whom Mrs. Slapman had taken under her

patronage, and were thought, by some persons, superior to Patching's

efforts. Such was the belittling criticism to which that great artist

was constantly subjected. There was a space of about four feet between

the top of the curtain and the high ceiling. The light from the parlor

chandelier directly in front, aided by six gas jets behind the scenes,

made the whole performance and performers as clear as noonday.

This miniature theatre was constructed of portable frames, which could

be put up or taken down in half an hour, and was the ingenious invention

of the scene-painter's assistant. When it was removed, the only traces

of its former presence were two brass-headed spikes in the walls, from

which the side curtains depended.

These spikes imparted anguish to the mind of Mr. Slapman whenever he

gazed upon them. Mrs. S. had heard him say, that "some people would look

well hanging up there." By "some people," he was supposed to mean the

gentlemen who participated in her dramatic entertainments. Mrs. S. bore

the cruel remark meekly, merely replying that perhaps he had better try

the strength of the spikes first, by suspending himself from one

of them.

The audience, usually numbering about fifty, were seated in chairs,

which filled the parlor, with the exception of a space of ten feet in

front of the stage. A fair view of the entire proceedings could be had

from all but the two back rows of chairs, the occupants of which were

compelled to imagine the attachment of feet and ankles to the several

characters of the drama.

From the left wing of the stage a door opened into the hall, affording

communication by the staircase to the ladies' and gentlemen's dressing

rooms on the floor above. On the third floor (it was known to some of

the guests) was the private apartment of Mr. Slapman. A strong smell of

cigar smoke, as of one fumigating sullenly and furiously, was the

unvarying proof of his presence in the house. On this eventful night, he

had been seen, at an early hour, pacing up and down the hall of his

third floor, belching forth clouds of smoke, like Vesuvius just before a

fiery eruption.

People who were in the sad secret of Mrs. Slapman's household sorrows,

looked at each other and smiled, but said nothing; for it was a point of

good breeding not to allude to him in conversation. The newer guests,

unaware of the melancholy facts in the case, supposed that the restless

gentleman on the third floor was some one of Mrs. Slapman's eccentric

friends, working out an idea. Mrs. Slapman paid no attention to her

jealous spouse, imagining that he would smoke away his wrath quietly, as

usual, and not interfere with the evening's amusement. Hitherto, on

occasions, he had done nothing more disagreeable than to open the parlor

door furtively, cast one wild look inside, and then suddenly withdraw

his head, gently slamming the door after him.

The play of the evening was written "expressly for the occasion" by a

gentleman who had produced one melodrama at a Bowery theatre, and failed

to produce a large number of melodramas at all the theatres in Broadway.

Mrs. Slapman, a true patroness of genius, kindly permitted this

gentleman to prepare all her charades, and gratified him, on several

occasions by bringing out some of the minor plays from his stuffed

portfolio.

By eight o'clock all the chairs were filled, and the actors and

actresses were still lingering over their toilet. After waiting ten

minutes longer, and crossing and uncrossing their legs repeatedly, the

audience stamped and whistled very much in the manner of an impatient

crowd at a real theatre. Mrs. Slapman relished these little ebullitions

of natural feeling, because it made the illusion of her "Thespian

parlor" (as she called it) more complete.

At eight and a quarter o'clock, the orchestra, consisting of two flutes

and a violin, issued from behind the curtain, and seated itself before

some music stands ranged against the wall. The performers were amateurs

(two bookkeepers, and a cashier in private life), and could not have

been hired to play for any amount of money, though they were always

willing to favor a few friends. Mrs. Slapman humored them in this whim,

and they played regularly at her private theatricals.

After a few nods and facetious remarks to their friends in the audience

(familiarities from which a paid orchestra would have been totally cut

off), the musicians dashed into a new overture, composed by Signor

Mancussi, also "expressly for the occasion."

This musical composition had been rehearsed the week previous in the

presence of a select party of amateurs and critics, and had been

pronounced, by the sub-editor of a weekly paper, "remarkable for its

breadth and color." Under these circumstances, the overture was listened

to with much interest at first, which abated as the music progressed.

Touching the merits of "color" and "breadth" there might be some grounds

of doubt, but none whatever concerning its "length."

It lasted until twenty minutes of nine; and, toward the close, faint

scrapings of dissatisfaction were heard, which would have been more

audible had Signor Mancussi not been present. As the last twang of the

fiddle died on the air, M. Bartin was heard by several persons to say,

"Bah! a bad hash from Rossini and Auber." The remark was reported to

Signor Mancussi, and did not tend to enhance his friendly regards for

the other gentleman.

CHAPTER II.

CURTAIN UP.

At eight and three quarters P.M. the curtain was rung up, and discovered

a rustic scene, in the midst of which Mrs. Slapman (Fidelia) was seated.

She was dressed in a white frock with low neck, and a flat hat, and was

trimmed out with red ribbons in all directions. She looked young and

pretty. Only an anxious knitting of her eyebrows revealed the cares and

troubles of intellect. Mrs. Slapman was applauded by a unanimous

clapping of hands. She was seated in a red-velvet rocking chair, at a

small but costly table, on which stood an expensive vase filled with

flowers. These properties, though few, were intended to signify

boundless affluence and luxury. Fidelia languidly waved a jewelled fan,

and sighed. "Will he never come?" said she.

She had hardly made this remark, when, by a singular coincidence,

Alberto (Overtop) entered from the left wing, and threw himself, with as

much grace as his tights would permit, at her feet. She emitted a small

shriek, and gave him her hand to kiss, which he did with ecstasy.

Alberto was habited like an Italian gentleman in good circumstances; and

no one would have suspected his poverty, if he had not commenced the

dialogue by an affecting allusion to his last _scudi_, which brought

tears to the eyes of the fair Fidelia.

Such trifling questions as lovers alone can ask and answer then passed

between them; and at last came the solemn interrogatory from the

kneeling Alberto: "And will you always love me, dearest?"

Fidelia turned her meek orbs toward the ceiling, raised her hand, said

"_Forever!_" and was about to add, "I swear," when Bidette (Miss Wick)

rushed upon the scene with the intelligence, "He comes."

"Who?" asked Alberto.

"My father!" shrieked Fidelia. "Go--that way." She pointed with her

small alabaster hand to the left wing.

Alberto vanished as per request, while Fidelia, with well-affected

calmness, commenced humming an opera air, and fanning herself. Bidette,

the favorite maid, pretended to readjust a flower in her mistress's

hair. These feminine artifices were to throw the coming father off

his scent.

But the father (Mr. Johnsone, the junior of a small book-publishing

house) was sharp eyed, though he lacked spectacles. As he emerged from

the right wing, he caught a distinct view of a pair of soles

disappearing in the distance, and benignantly asked: "Who is that,

my child?"

The child answered: "Only the postman, pa."

"Where is the letter?" he asked.

"Please, sir," interrupted Bidette, observing her mistress's confusion,

"there wasn't no letter. He mistook the house for another, sir."

The father nodded his head to express his complete satisfaction with

this explanation, and then told Bidette to leave the spot, as he had

something of the utmost importance to tell his daughter. Bidette pouted,

and withdrew, giving a bewitching shake of her striped calico dress, to

signify her hatred of brutal fathers. This touch of nature drew plaudits

from those among the audience who were but slightly acquainted with Miss

Wick. The others looked on with critical indifference.

The father took a chair, thrust out his legs like a reigning prince, and

proceeded, in a story of unnecessary length, to tell his daughter that

he owed one hundred and seventy thousand florins to Signor Rodicaso, and

would be a ruined man in forty-eight hours if that sum were not paid.

Life, in that event, would be simply insupportable. He had procured a

pistol to blow out his brains, but had subsequently concluded to make

one more effort to save himself. He would, therefore, appeal to his

daughter, _as_ a father, and ask her to marry Signor Rodicaso, and so

liquidate the debt, to-morrow. He did not wish to influence her

choice--far from it--but, if she did not consent, he should feel under

the painful necessity of shooting himself on the spot.

The father produced a pistol, and held it to his left ear.

Fidelia, looking like a marble statue of grief, said, in a low but

perfectly audible voice: "Stay! I will wed him." This was enunciated

with the calmness of despair. Not a gesture, nor a twinge of the

features, nor an accent to indicate emotion of any kind. It was in quiet

efforts like these that Mrs. Slapman excelled.

When the applause elicited by this stroke of genius had ceased, Mr.

Chickson (Signor Rodicaso) came rather awkwardly upon the stage. His

eyes (and, it might be added, his legs) rolled absently about, as if he

were endeavoring to recall his part, or were in the inward act of

composing a poem.

"Your future husband, Fidelia," said the father.

Fidelia rose from her seat--still imperturbable.

Chickson advanced with a sliding motion, and then paused, as if he had

forgotten what to do. Mrs. Slapman was heard to whisper something

(probably the cue), but he only rolled his eyes heavily in response. A

look of displeasure marred her serene features, and, instead of fainting

away in Signor Rodicaso's arms, as she should have done, she dropped

into the embrace of her father, taking that personage quite

unexpectedly, and nearly knocking him off his chair.

Chickson projected himself forward at the same time to catch her, and,

in so doing, lost his balance, and just escaped, by an effort, from

sprawling on the floor.

Then he looked helplessly at the audience; and there was no longer any

doubt entertained that Chickson was slightly intoxicated. Getting drunk,

now and then, was an infirmity of Chickson's genius.

The stage manager had the good sense to ring down the curtain on this

painful scene, and, the next moment, there was a dull sound, as of

somebody falling on the floor behind the green baize.

After an interval of fifteen minutes--protracted by the "unexpected

indisposition" of the poet, and the consequent necessity of intrusting

Signor Rodicaso to other hands--the curtain rises again, and discloses

Alberto in a humble cot, surrounded by three-legged stools, and other

evidences of extreme poverty. He is seated on a rickety table (in

preference to the greater uncertainty of the stools), his arms are

folded, and his head droops upon his breast.

In this attitude, he begins to soliloquize, and informs the audience

(what they did not know before) that, from a clump of shrubbery, he had

seen fully as much as they of the preceding scene. He does not blame

Fidelia. Oh! no. In her cruel dilemma, she could do no less. But he

curses--and curses again--and continues to curse for some time--that

Fate which deprives him of the "paltry means" (one hundred and seventy

thousand florins) to buy off the "heartless monster" (Rodicaso). Having

wreaked himself upon Destiny to his own satisfaction, he suddenly

remembers that he has not eaten anything for thirty-six hours. He feels

in all his pockets successively, but finds nothing. He then draws from

his bosom a portrait of his father, set with antique gems. He gazes upon

it reverently, kisses it, and says: "Shall I part with this sacred

memento for vulgar bread? Never! Let me die!" He restores the portrait

to his bosom, folds his arms again, inclines his head, and shuts his

eyes, as if preparing to expire comfortably.

All this time, a fat red face, belonging to a corpulent body, has been

watching the depressed lover from the right wing. As Alberto utters the

last sad ejaculation, a thick hand attached to a short arm raises a

kerchief to a pair of small eyes in this fat red face, and wipes them.

Then the stout gentleman reflects a moment, nods his head approvingly,

draws forth a wallet, opens it slowly, takes out some paper that rustles

like bank notes, produces a memorandum book, writes a few lines on one

of the leaves hastily with a pencil, tears out the leaf, encloses the

leaf and the bank notes in an envelope, emerges with his entire figure

into the full light of the stage, walks stealthily toward Alberto with a

pair of creaking shoes that would have waked the soundest sleeper,

places the note on the table by his side, raises his hands to heaven,

murmuring, "God bless the boy!" and retires in the same feline but

tumultuous manner.

This mysterious visitor was Bignolio (Matthew Maltboy), a rich money

lender, uncle of Alberto, and commonly reported to be the "tightest old

skinflint in Venice."

After a pause, scarcely long enough to allow his uncle's heavy footsteps

to die away in the distance, Alberto came out of his revery. His first

act was to look at the ceiling, then at the floor, then all about

him--everywhere but at the note on the table. At last, when nothing else

remained to be scrutinized, his eyes naturally fell upon this valuable

communication.

"What is this?" he asked. Then he answered his own question by opening

the letter, and reading it, as follows:

Venice, Oct. 16,----.

Dear Nephew:

I have watched you, and know all. You are indeed the son of

your father, and, I am proud to add, the nephew of your

uncle. Enclosed are sixty thousand florins. Go to Jinkerini

Bros., on the Rialto, and buy up judgments that they hold

against Rodicaso for three times that amount, and offset them

against old Corpetto's debts. Rodicaso conceals his property

so well, that none has ever been found to satisfy these

judgments. Drive a sharp bargain, and show yourself a chip of

the old block. Keep the balance for your wedding gift.

Farewell--till we meet again.

Bignolio.

"Dear, dear uncle!" exclaimed Alberto, carefully buttoning up his pocket

over the funds, and kissing the letter in transports of joy. "And only

yesterday he would not lend me a _scudi_ to get my dinner. Generous man!

how have I wronged him! Now, Fate, I will floor thee and Rodicaso

together."

[Exit Alberto, rapidly, by shortest land route to the Rialto.]

Overtop's acting, throughout this difficult scene, was of a superior

order. Nothing could be more natural, for instance, than the buttoning

up of his pocket over his uncle's gift. But neither that, nor the other

strong point, where he exulted in the finest tragedy tones over the

anticipated downfall of Fate and Rodicaso, produced the slightest

sensation among his hearers. Matthew Maltboy paid the penalty of his

intimate relations with Overtop, by an equal unpopularity. His fine

rendition of the character of Bignolio might as well have been played to

a select company of gravestones.

There was a necessary interval of twenty minutes for the fitting out of

the stage--during which time the amateur orchestra performed selections

from "Semiramide," but, happily, not loud enough to interfere with the

easy flow of conversation all over the room. The second flutist, while

looking over his shoulder angrily at the garrulous audience, executed a

false note, which almost threw the first (and only) violinist into fits.

In turning round to rebuke the errant performer, the violinist struck

his elbow against a similar projection of the other flutist, and knocked

a false note out of that gentleman too, besides momentarily ruffling his

temper. This little episode diffused unhappiness over the entire music.

CHAPTER III.

ACT SECOND.

The spectators had been told that there were imposing stage effects in

the second and last act; and they were not disappointed. The entire

front was filled with furniture, real mahogany and brocade, leaving

barely room for human beings to walk about. The background was a

perspective of pillars, conveying the idea of unlimited saloons, all

opening into each other. Three Bohemian vases, filled with natural

flowers, were placed on pedestals in places where they would be least in

the way, if it were possible to make such a discrimination. But the

great feature of the scene was a magnificent paper chandelier of nine

candles, which hung from the centre of the framework, and made every

spectator, while he admired, tremble with fear that it would set the

house on fire.

At a small table in front, covered by a rich cloth, sat the heroine,

dressed in a gorgeousness of apparel that mocked her misery. Beneath the

gems that studded her bosom, there was supposed to be unappeasable

wretchedness; and the white brow, covered with a spangled wreath, was

presumed to ache with mental agony. She was pale and beautiful. Murmurs

of applause ran round the apartment.

By her side was the faithful Bidette, armed with a bottle of salts. She

bent affectionately over her mistress, and asked if she wanted anything.

"Nothing, my child--but death," was the thrilling reply.

Bidette was taken somewhat aback. She made a respectful pause. Then she

said:

"But, my dear mistress, though you do not love Signor Rodicaso--"

"In Heaven's name, stop, child! You are piercing my heart with a hot

iron. Name not love to me. Henceforth I erase it from the tablets of my

brain. Now go on" (with tranquil despair).

"I was about to say, dear mistress, please, that Signor Rodicaso has a

splendid town house, and a beautiful country seat (they say), and

thousands of acres of land, which will all be yours--"

The eloquent grief of her mistress's face checked the maid.

"Bidette," she said, "I shall want but a small portion of all his

lands."

"What do you mean, dear mistress?" asked the frightened maid.

"Only enough for--a grave," was the harrowing reply.

This dreary dialogue was here interrupted by the appearance of the

father in tights, knee buckles, velvet coat, ruffles, a powdered wig,

and a general air of having been got up for a great occasion. He

carefully picked his way through the furniture to his daughter, and

kissed her on the forehead.

"Are you happy, my dear daughter?" he asked.

"Happy? Oh! yes, father, I am _so_ happy! See how I smile." So saying,

she made a feeble attempt to smile, which was a most artistic failure,

and brought out another tribute of applause.

The father, not detecting the sad irony of the smile, replied:

"It is indeed fortunate that you are enabled not only to achieve your

own happiness by this marriage, but also to redeem what is dearer to me

than all else in this world--my mercantile credit. But here they come."

"Here they come," was the cue which was to bring in Signor Rodicaso and

party; but the Signor was momentarily delayed by the giving way of two

buttons in his doublet. When he had repaired damages with pins as well

as he could, he emerged into view, accompanied by a notary and a pair of

friendly witnesses. The Signor, this time, proved to be the author of

the play, who had kindly consented, at five minutes' notice, to take the

part in which the hapless Chickson had broken down. Stealing behind, in

the shadow of the others, was distinctly seen (by all except the people

on the stage) the burly form of Uncle Bignolio.

To satisfy the conventional idea of dramatic concealment, his left leg

was plunged in obscurity behind the scenes, while the rest of his figure

stood out in bold relief. He was observed, by those who watched him

narrowly, to send a pleasant wink and nod to Bidette, who responded with

a scarcely perceptible pout.

On the entrance of Signor Rodicaso and friends, Fidelia rose, turned

toward them, and made a profound courtesy, as if to signify her abject

submission. Signor Rodicaso bowed with equal profundity, and straightway

proceeded to make a speech to the lady, in which he spoke of the wild

idolatry that he had long felt for her, and alluded most disparagingly

to his own merits. If the Signor's statements could be relied on, he was

totally unworthy of an alliance with the beautiful Fidelia; in fact, was

a "dog who would be proud only but to bask in the sunshine of

her smile."

This singular address, extending over "one length," or forty-five lines,

excited little less astonishment on the stage than in the audience. For

it was not set down in the acting copy, but had been improvised by the

author, to better the part of the Signor, which, as originally written,

was destitute of Long and effective orations.

Fidelia smiled, and could only reply to this unpremeditated effusion by

several modest inclinations of the head. The other actors and actress

turned aside to conceal their grins. Uncle Bignolio alone fulfilled the

requirements of his part, by casting Mephistophelean leers at the

Signor, and now and then stealthily shaking his fists at him.

The father, not being apt at off-hand oratory, did not attempt any

response to this speech, but merely bowed, to express his perfect

agreement in everything that had been said, and waved his hand toward a

table in the rear of the stage, as if to say, "Let us proceed to

business."

The notary, taking the hint, seated himself at the table, opened his

black bag, drew forth a document from it, and spread it out. Then he

dipped a pen into an inkstand, and said:

"We now await the signing of the contract of marriage between Signor

Alessandro Arturo Rodicaso, gentleman, and Signorina Giulia Innocenza

Fidelia Corpetto, only daughter of Signor Francesco Corpetto, merchant."

In the absence of any definite information on the Venetian formula

adopted in such cases, the author had selected this style of

announcement as being sufficiently stiff and imposing.

Signor Rodicaso sprang forward with joyful alacrity to sign the

contract, dashing off his name in two strokes, as is the invariable

custom on the stage.

The climax of the drama had now arrived, and everybody stood aside for

the wretched Fidelia. Mrs. Slapman proved equal to the great occasion.

Directing one look to heaven, as if for strength, and pressing a hand

over the jewelled bodice which covered her bursting heart, she walked

with firm steps toward the fatal table. Never in her life had she been

more grandly simple. It was sublime!

As Fidelia came up to the little table, she faltered, and leaned upon it

to support herself; then, with a nervous motion, grasped the pen.

Several times she dipped the pen in the empty inkstand, and each time

her face assumed a look of more settled anguish. Then, bracing all her

nerves for the decisive act of woman's life, she put down the pen

boldly on the paper, and made one up stroke. Before she could make the

other down stroke which was necessary to complete her signature, a wild

figure, with hair dishevelled, and other evidences of hasty purpose,

burst upon the stage.

Fidelia paused; all stood back; and gentlemen who had swords laid hands

on them.

"Who is this?" asked the Father, with mercantile calmness.

"Who dares thus break in upon my happiness?" inquired Signor Rodicaso.

"Know you not, young man, that you are committing a breach of the

peace?" remarked the notary, regarding the intrusion with the eye of

a lawyer.

The wild figure answered them all at once: "I am Alberto, and I come to

rend this impious contract--thus--thus--thus!" (snatching the parchment

from the table, tearing it to pieces, and trampling on it).

Fidelia, astonished at the turn events were taking, leaned back in her

chair, and looked on silently. Her time for fainting had not yet come.

"Draw and defend yourself, caitiff!" exclaimed Signor Rodicaso,

brandishing his sword.

"Anywhere but in the presence of a lady," was the sarcastic reply.

"Besides, I have claims on you, which, perhaps may teach you to

respect me."

"Claims! Thou liest! What claims?"

"These! Hast seen them before? Ha! ha!" shouted Alberto, shaking a

bundle of papers in the face of his rival.

"Allow me to examine them, if you please?" asked Signor Rodicaso, with

forced calmness.

"No, you don't," was the response. "But I'll tell you what they are.

They are judgments to the extent of one hundred and seventy thousand

florins--dost hear? one hundred and seventy thousand florins--against

you, which I have bought for less than quarter price from Jinkerini

Bros, No. 124 Rialto. With them I offset the sum which this unhappy but

excellent merchant" (pointing to the father) "owes you. Here, sir; now

you are released from yon monster's clutches." (Hands package of

judgments to the father, who, overpowered by the scene, takes and holds

them in dumb amazement.)

An expression of silent joy begins to steal over the face of Fidelia.

But her time for fainting had not yet come!

"Boy!" said Signor Rodicaso, with a composure that was perfectly

wonderful, "there is another hand than thine in all this work. Thou art

but the poor tool and I despise thee!"

"Here is the hand!" exclaimed the uncle Bignolio, drawing out his leg

from its seclusion, and bringing his whole body into full view. "Dost

know it?" He held up his right hand, to carry out the idea of

the author.

"It is the hand of Bignolio the usurer," said Signor Rodicaso,

despondingly, seeing now that the game was clearly against him.

"Bignolio the usurer!" exclaimed the father, still wrapped in amazement.

"Bignolio the usurer!" murmured Fidelia, whose woman's wit divined the

mystery of his appearance. But her time to faint had not _yet_ come.

"Bignolio the usurer!" cried the notary, witnesses, and Bidette in

chorus.

"Yes," returned that gentleman; "Bignolio the _usurer,_ who now is proud

to claim the dearer title of 'own uncle' to his nephew Alberto. That

nephew he this day receives into his partnership, and proclaims his only

heir. Come to my arms, adopted son!"

Alberto flew to his uncle, and was silently embraced. Even at this

moment, sacred to the interchange of the noblest affections, several

persons in the audience distinctly saw the uncle's left eye wink over

Alberto's shoulder to Bidette, who responded to the unwelcome

familiarity, this time, with an indignant frown.

The nephew gently uncoiled his uncle, and addressed himself to the

father:

"Respected sir, I have long loved your daughter, and am not totally

unprepared to believe that she may, in some slight measure, reciprocate

my affections. I humbly solicit her hand in marriage."

The father, with the characteristic decision of an old man of business,

had already made up his mind. Alberto, the young partner and heir of the

rich usurer of Venice, would be a more manageable son-in-law than the

middle-aged though wealthy Rodicaso. The father said words to this

effect in an "aside," and then replied aloud:

"Her hand is yours; and may your union be crowned with felicity. Come,

children, and receive a parent's blessing."

"My bitter curse be on you all! Boy, we shall meet again!" shouted

Rodicaso, striding off the stage, and followed by the notary for his

pay, and by the laughter and scorn of the rest of the company.

Fidelia's little cup of earthly happiness was now full. Her time for

fainting had arrived at last. Everybody moved to clear a space for her.

She rose, and walked with an unfaltering step toward Alberto. There was

no overdone rapture in her gait; no exaggerated ecstasy in her face. As

a practised critic remarked, "her calmness was the truest expression of

her agony of joy."

Alberto advanced halfway with a lover's ardor, and extended his arms.

Then was her time to faint; and she fainted with a slight scream,

sinking gently upon a faithful breast.

The father raised his hands above the couple, and blessed them in the

correct way, never seen off the stage. Uncle Bignolio wiped his eyes,

and murmured, "Dear boy! How much he looks like his father now!"--a

remark somewhat out of place, considering that Alberto's back was turned

to the uncle. Bidette hovered near the happy group, and danced for joy.

It was a touching tableau, and the spectators applauded it In a way

that tickled the heart of the author, who was watching the effect

through an eyehole of the left wing.

CHAPTER IV.

HOW THE PLAY ENDED.

Just as the curtain was to be rung down on the end of the play, a mad

clatter of boots was heard behind the scenes. Then a man, dressed in

complete black, and excessively pale, jumped upon the stage. His black

hair was tossed all over his head, and his black eyes were rolling

wildly. Thus much all the spectators saw at a glance.

The strange man's first intention appeared to be to dash at the happy

couple; but, if so, he checked himself, and, standing at a distance of

four feet from them, uttered these words: "Scoundrel! what are you doing

with my wife there?" The man's whole figure could be seen to tremble.

Many of the spectators, supposing this was a part of the play--though

they did not see its precise connection with the plot--applauded what

was apparently a fine piece of acting.

"Good!" "Capital!" "Bravo!" were heard from all parts of the room,

mingled with stamping and clapping.

The man darted looks of concentrated hate at the audience.

"Who is he?" "How well he does it!" "What splendid tragedy powers!" were

some of the audible remarks that this called forth.

It was also observed that a wonderfully natural style of acting was

instantly developed among the other _dramatis personae_. Fidelia sprang

from the arms of Alberto, and put on a lifelike expression of insulted

dignity, mingled with astonishment. Alberto took a step away from the

ghastly intruder, and was evidently at a loss what to do. His face was

eloquent with bewilderment and mortification. The father looked confused

and sheepish, and put his hands into his pockets. Bidette screamed a

little, and fled to the opposite scenes. Uncle Bignolio whistled and

smiled, and was evidently amused at the occurrence.

All this, done in five seconds, so delighted the spectators, that they

cheered, and cheered again. "As good as a theatre!" ejaculated a new

friend of Mrs. Slapman's, on the front row.

The strange, disorderly man plunged forward with one leg toward Alberto,

and then drew himself back suddenly, as if in a state of harassing

indecision. (Applause.) Then he cast a diabolical look (worthy of the

elder Booth in Richard III) at the young lover, and shrieked, "Wretch!

villain! I will--I will--" He hesitated to add what he would do, but

shook his fists in a highly natural manner at the object of his hate.

(Great applause.)

"Sir!" said Fidelia, stretching her proud young form erect, like a

tragedy queen, "How dare you, sir!" (Boisterous applause, and this

remark from an elderly gentleman: "The picture of Mrs. Siddons!")

The singular individual in black was seen to tremble with increased

violence. His eyes rolled more wildly, while his face took on a chalkier

hue. He stepped back, as if to insure his retreat. Then, mustering all

his resolution, he said:

"M-Mrs. M-Mrs. Slapman, you--you ought to be a-ashamed of yourself!"

The real character of the strange actor was now made evident, and the

whole house was hushed in awe and expectation. There was not a man or

woman present but knew too well the folly of mingling in a family

quarrel. So they held their tongues, and enjoyed the scene.

Mrs. Slapman turned to the audience. She was pale, but perfectly

composed. She said:

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is my husband, a very quiet and well-behaved

man, whose only fault is excessive nervousness. This fault, I am sorry

to say, he encourages, by constantly smoking cigars and drinking strong

black tea. He has been indulging in both of these stimulants to-night,

till he is quite beside himself. I trust you will excuse and pity him.

He has no other vices that I know of."

Then, turning to her husband, whose hands had now dropped listlessly by

his side, she added:

"My dear, bathe your head, and go to bed immediately."

He struggled to say something in the presence of this calm embodiment of

satire, but could not. Hanging down his head, and looking very silly, he

slinked off the stage.

"Now, ladies and gentlemen," said Mrs. Slapman, "after an interval of

fifteen minutes, we will proceed with the comedietta of 'A Morning

Call,' as if nothing had happened."

When she had said this, Mrs. Slapman fainted--this time in earnest. She

was caught in the arms of Fayette Overtop, who immediately, and with the

utmost delicacy, resigned her to the arms of Miss Wick (Bidette), and of

several other ladies, who came upon the stage and proffered salts,

cologne, and other restoratives.

The gentlemen present, actors and audience, unanimously decided that the

best thing for them to do, under all the circumstances, was to leave

the premises.

This they did as soon as they could, reserving all discussion of the

painful event of the evening for the free air of the street.

As Overtop, very serious, and Maltboy, very jovial, were about to

descend the steps to the sidewalk, they were met by a messenger, who

desired them to go with him immediately to the station house to see some

friends (names forgotten) who had been arrested, and had sent for them.

Thither they went, and experienced the greatest surprise of the evening.

BOOK NINTH.

THE INQUEST.

CHAPTER I.

Coroner and Jury.

The post-mortem examination had been held; and three doctors had sworn

that deceased came to his death from a great variety of Greek and Latin

troubles, all caused by a learned something which signified, in plain

English, a blow on the head. Coroner Bullfast was so struck with the

clear and explicit nature of the medical evidence, that he had it

reduced to writing for his private regalement.

The post-mortem examination, and the testimony of the three doctors, and

of all the people in the house (except Patty Minford, daughter of the

deceased)--whose joint knowledge upon the subject amounted to nothing

more than hearing somebody with heavy boots come down stairs about

midnight--occupied the whole of the first day. Patty, or Pet, was so

thoroughly unnerved by the events of that horrible night, that the

coroner found it impossible to take her evidence on that day. She had

fainted twice before she could make Coroner Bullfast clearly understand

that Marcus Wilkeson, her benefactor, and her father's best friend, was

THE MURDERER. Having learned thus much, the coroner had put the police

on the track of Marcus Wilkeson, and had postponed the further

examination of the chief witness.

Mrs. Crull, on learning of the tragic affair, had gone in person to the

house of death, and taken Patty to her own home.

The remains of the unfortunate inventor had been removed to the nearest

undertaker's for interment, at the expense of Mrs. Crull. The apartments

had been diligently searched, and the personal effects of the deceased

examined, under the direction of the coroner. A number of documents had

been discovered, which, in the coroner's opinion, threw a flood of light

on the motives that led to the crime. A few dollars and a bull's-eye

silver watch, found on the dead body, precluded the idea that the murder

was done for plunder. With that quickness of perception for which

Coroner Bullfast, like most of his official kind, was celebrated, he had

formed his theory of the murder, and tremendously strong must be the

future testimony that could shake it.

On the morning of the second day, Coroner Bullfast and the jury

reassembled, about ten o'clock, in the room where the murder was

committed.

The coroner was a jovial man, with a bulging forehead, a ruddy nose, a

large diamond breastpin (a real diamond, of that superlative style only

seen in its perfection on the shirt fronts of aldermen, contractors, and

Washington Market butchers), and the native New York manner of speaking,

which is sharp and mandatory. The coroner began life as a stone mason,

gained early distinction as a fireman, controlled several hundred votes

in his ward, became a member of a political committee, and got a

coronership as his share of the spoils. He had aspired to be a police

justice, or city inspector, or commissioner of the Croton Board. To

either of these positions, or, for that matter, to any position

indefinitely higher, he felt himself perfectly equal. But other members

of the committee (which was a kind of joint-stock company for the

distribution of offices) had prior and stronger claims than Harry

Bullfast, and so he was put off with a coronership. He felt the slight

acutely, but, like a prudent man, determined to so keep himself before

the public in his performance of the office, as to make it a stepping

stone to something much higher--the city comptrollership, or a seat in

the State Senate, or in Congress, or (who could tell?) the governorship

of the commonwealth--that grand possibility which every ward politician

carries in his hat.

The coroner was seated in the inventor's private armchair, with one leg

thrown over the side of it, and the other stretched on the floor. He was

chewing tobacco with manly vigor, and cracking jokes with a facetious

juryman, who was assistant foreman of the Bully Boy Hose, of which the

coroner was an exempt and honorary member.

The jury was composed of six men whom the coroner had picked from the

large number of idle spectators found by him at the scene of the murder

when he was first summoned. Two of them chanced to be acquaintances of

his. As to the rest, the coroner had not the remotest idea. They might

have been beggars or pickpockets, for aught that he cared. They looked

stupid, and he liked stupid jurors.

"Them sharp fellers that thinks they knows more'n the cor'ner, is a

cussed nuisance," he often had occasion to remark.

The jury sat near one of the windows, in a semicircle of chairs which

had been borrowed from the first and second floors. Pending the

resumption of their melancholy work, such of them as could read were

reading newspapers containing reports of the first day's proceedings,

from two to ten columns long, wherein the scene of the "Mysterious

Midnight Tragedy," as one paper called it, was represented in the most

ingenious manner by printers' rules cut to show the dimensions of the

rooms on the third floor, the position of the fireplace, bed, washstand,

chest of drawers, unknown machine in the corner, and other things which

had no bearing whatever on the affair. The other jurors, who could not

read at all, or had an insuperable aversion to that laborious

occupation, were rolling their quids in silence, and looking wise.

At a long table in the centre of the room were seated several young

gentlemen, dressed with singular independence of style. From one point

of view they looked like actors, bearing about them signs of fatigue, as

if from heavy night work. Observed again, they resembled young lawyers

of indolent habits and scanty practice, who had just dropped in to

watch the case.

From their conversation, no clue to their professional identity could be

gathered. They were cracking jokes, propounding conundrums, and telling

stories humorously broad to each other. Everything was to them a

legitimate amusement. The proceedings of the day before were peculiarly

rich in funny reminiscences; and one tall, bright, curly-haired fellow

was evoking roars of suppressed laughter by his capital mimicry of two

of the dullest witnesses. Another was drawing comic profiles of a sleepy

juryman on a scrap of paper. He had previously dashed off a very happy

sketch of the coroner, and shown it to that functionary, who had

"haw-hawed," and pronounced it "devilish good," and, in turn, presented

the young artist with a fine Havana cigar, which he playfully put in his

mouth and chewed the end of. Yet there were, about these young

gentlemen, signs of business, which an intelligent observer might have

easily interpreted. From the outside breast pockets of each of them

protruded a number of pencils; and, from their lower side pockets, thick

memorandum books with gray covers, or stiffly folded quires of foolscap.

They were the reporters of the press--the gamins and good fellows of

literature;--fellows of inexhaustible resources, who carry their wits

literally at their fingers' ends;--who can do more than extract sunbeams

from cucumbers; for they can make up thrilling facts out of

nothing;--who can thread their way through a crowd where a tapeworm

would be squeezed to death;--whose writing desk is usually another man's

back; and who sketch out a much better speech between an orator's

shoulder blades than he is making in front;--whose written language is

a perplexity compared with which Greek is a relaxation and Sanscrit a

positive amusement;--who deal in adjectives, and know their precise

value, and how to administer them, as an apothecary knows the drugs that

are boxed and bottled on his shelves;--who are less men than parts of an

enormous mill grinding out grist to be branned and bolted in the

editorial rooms, made into food in the printing office and press vault,

and served up hot for the public's breakfast next morning.

Clever, witty, insatiable fellows they, for whom a planet ought to be

set apart, where all the murders are wrapped in impenetrable mystery,

and the smallest railroad accidents are frightful catastrophes.

The east side of the room, where the dead body had been found, was

preserved inviolate from the broom, mop, and other touch, until the

inquest was over. The strange machine stood in its accustomed place,

flanked by the screen. It had been extensively handled and looked at,

and passed for a new kind of clock. Two large weights (which had fallen

to the floor) and the interplaying cogwheels gave force to that

conjecture.

A large purple spot on the floor showed where the old man's life had

ebbed away. Close by this spot, precisely where it had been picked up,

lay the long oaken club with the iron tip, which, it was supposed, had

done the dreadful deed. There were small splashes and spots on it too.

The fun of the reporters, the chat of the coroner and his friends, the

readings and airy meditations of the jurors, were all suddenly checked

by the appearance of Marcus Wilkeson, escorted by two police officers,

and Messrs. Overtop and Maltboy, Patching and Tiffles. All five had

passed the night in the station house--Messrs. Patching and Tiffles from

compulsion, as witnesses, and possible accomplices, and Overtop and

Maltboy as guides, philosophers, and friends. All looked seedy and

criminal, as if there were something in the atmosphere of station houses

to give a man the semblance of a vagabond and an outcast. Marcus

Wilkeson was very pale, and, when he looked across the room, as he did

upon his entrance, by a singular impulse, and saw the great blood mark

and the club on the floor, he trembled with emotion.

The keen eyes of the coroner caught these signs, and he immediately

brought in a mental verdict of "guilty." Some of the jury observed the

same signs, and thought them suspicious. The reporters looked upon

Marcus Wilkeson without emotion or prejudgment. They were so accustomed

to seeing murderers, that they regarded them simply as a part of the

business community--a little vicious, perhaps, but not so much worse

than other people, after all. One reporter, attached to an illustrated

paper, dashed off the profile of Marcus Wilkeson, under the cover of his

hat, and caught the dejected expression of his face to a nicety.

CHAPTER II.

STATEMENT OF THE PRISONER.

The coroner received Marcus with that air of consideration which

magistrates instinctively bestow upon persons charged with great crimes,

and informed him, with some respect, that he was brought there to make

any explanation that he saw fit, touching his connection with "this

'ere murder."

The party were then accommodated with seats near the jury, and facing

the reporters. As Marcus looked up, and saw those practised scribes

sharpening their pencils, his heart sank deeper within him. The vision

which had troubled him all night, of a broadside notoriety in all the

city papers, rose before his mind, clothed with fresh horror. The dull

sound of sharpening those pencils was like the whetting of the

executioner's knife.

The proper course was to have accepted an unsworn statement from the

prisoner; but the coroner always administered oaths when prisoners were

willing to take them. The repetition of that jargon with a profane

conclusion (for so it seemed, in the slipshod way that it was said),

which the coroner called an oath, was a positive pleasure to that

official. As Marcus desired to take the oath, the coroner rattled off

the unintelligible something, and handed him a Bible, which the prisoner

pressed reverentially to his lips. Marcus, being now supposed to be

sworn, proceeded, with what firmness he could muster, to answer the

numerous interrogatories of the coroner. That official chewed hard, and,

as it were, spit out his questions.

His testimony, in substance, was this:

That he was a friend of the deceased, and had loaned him one thousand

dollars to complete a machine upon which he was engaged--pointing to the

unfinished pile in the corner. That his relations with the deceased and

his family (Marcus did not like to mention Pet's name) were entirely

agreeable, until an anonymous letter, charging him with improper motives

in visiting the house, had poisoned the mind of the deceased against

him. [The giving up of this letter to the coroner, who read it to the

jury, and then tossed it over to the reporters for copying, was a hard

trial, but Marcus had resolved upon meeting all the troubles of the

case halfway.]

The coroner here produced the second anonymous letter, which had been

found on the person of the deceased, showed it to Marcus for

identification, and then threw it to the reporters, as one would throw a

choice bone to a cage full of hungry animals.

Marcus explained that he had made every effort to discover the

authorship of the letters, without success; whereupon the coroner shut

his eyes knowingly, rolled his quid from right to left, and said that he

was "investigatin' 'em" himself.

QUESTION BY A JUROR. "Wos the letters postpaid?"

ANSWER. "They were."

The juror took the reply into his profoundest consideration.

Marcus, resuming, stated that, on his last visit--the night of the

supposed murder--he had found Mr. Minford very much disturbed in mind by

the unjust suspicions aroused by these letters. He had accused witness

of the vile intentions referred to in them. Witness had denied the

imputations with emphasis. The discussion was becoming quite warm, when

the daughter of the deceased entered the room, and, being worn out with

watching by the side of a sick friend, retired to bed in the adjoining

chamber. The conversation, broken off by her entrance, was then

continued, much in the same vein. Mr. Minford was in a distressing state

of nervous excitement that evening, and talked loud and wild. Witness

made an effort to keep his temper, and did so, though the peculiar

injustice of the accusations were enough to arouse any man's anger. He

reserved his show of wrath for the author of the anonymous letters, if

he could ever catch him. He would not say that he had not replied to the

deceased with some warmth of manner. But as to threatening him, or

hurting one hair of his head, witness had not done it--so help him God!

QUESTION BY A JUROR. "Was the key of the door in the keyhole that

night?"

ANSWER. "I don't know."

COMMENT BY FACETIOUS JUROR. "Be me sowl, I thinks that whishkay had more

to do with it than the doorkay. Don't you, Harry?"

CORONER. "Bully for you!"

Clothing himself again with dignity, the coroner asked:

"Der yer mean to say, Mr. Wilkingson, that yer didn't kill this man?

Remember, now, yer on yer oath!"

The horrible bluntness of the question nearly felled Marcus to the

floor. He placed his hand on his brow, now pale with the acutest

anguish. Then he rose, and, looking upward said:

"As God is my judge, and as I hope for heaven, I am innocent of this

murder, or of any part in it."

"If you please, Mr. Coroner, this gentleman and myself are counsel for

the accused," said Overtop.

"Oh! you're his counsel. Then the other two are the chaps arrested as

'complices?"

Patching writhed at this. Nor were his feelings relieved by observing,

with an oblique glance, that the artist of the illustrated paper was in

the act of taking him.

"I protest," said Wesley Tiffles, rising to his full height, and

throwing out both arms for a comprehensive gesture, "I protest against

this arrest and detention as illegal. If the coroner will give me but a

short hour of his valuable time, I can--"

CORONER _(puffing up_). "The gentleman will be good enough to shut up

for the present. When we are ready, we will hear what he has to say."

TIFFLES. "I protest, sir. I wish the gentlemanly and intelligent

reporters to note that I protest--"

CORONER. "Are you, or me, boss here, hey?"

TIFFLES. "Oh! you, of course, sir." The protestant then sank into his

seat, not wholly disappointed, for he had gained his object of making a

little newspaper capital by tickling the reporters. He had also

remarked, with pleasure, that, while he stood erect, with both arms

outstretched, the artist had secured his full length. Tiffles was fond

of notoriety, however achieved; and he saw a good opening for it in

this case.

Overtop here suggested that it would be easy to prove their client's

innocence. He would respectfully request his Honor to procure the

testimony of Miss Patty Minford, if she could be found. As she went to

bed in the adjoining room early that evening, she must have heard some

noise in connection with the murder--if, indeed, a murder had been

committed. Overtop's legal education taught him to doubt everything.

Coroner Bullfast was touched with the title of Honor, so skilfully

applied by Overtop; and he answered, with uncommon sweetness:

"I am expecting Miss Minford every minute, sir. She will speak for

herself. For the present, sir, I am sorry to say that it was on her

testimony alone that Mr. Wilkingson was 'rested."

A look of new surprise and horror passed over the pale face of Marcus,

and Overtop and Maltboy exchanged glances of astonishment.

"Now, Mr. Wilkingson," continued the coroner, taking a fresh chew,

"please drive ahead with yer statement--if yer choose to. Yer not bound

to say anythink, yer know."

AN INTELLIGENT JUROR. "Will Mr. Wilkeson tell us about what time he left

this house that night, and where he went?"

Marcus raised his sunken head, and shook it, as if to dispel a

stupefaction. Then, in a faint and trembling voice, he replied that he

looked at his watch just before bidding Mr. Minford "good-night,"

and-observed that it was fifteen minutes past eleven o'clock.

QUESTION BY A JUROR. "What kind o' watch do you carry?"

ANSWER (_exhibiting the watch_). "An English hunter--- lever

escapement--- full jewelled."

At any other time, Marcus would have smiled at the impertinence of the

question, but he answered it gravely.

He then went on to say, that Mr. Minford had not replied to his

"good-night." That he repeated the salutation, and extended his hand as

a token of unbroken friendship. That Mr. Minford refused to take it, and

said that he had one last favor to ask of him (Marcus), and that was,

never to cross his threshold again. That he (Marcus) responded, "I

forgive you, sir. When, on reflection, you think that you have done me

injustice--as you will, at last--send for me, and I will still be your

friend." That he received no answer to this, save a shake of the head,

and immediately went down stairs into the street. He was feverish, and

his brain was in a whirl. Hardly knowing what he did, he walked the

streets hither and thither. He could not tell what streets he traversed,

but he kept up the exercise till he was tired. Then he became calmer,

returned home, entered the house with a latch key, and went to bed

without waking any of the inmates. On going to bed, he observed that his

watch marked one o'clock.

An intelligent juror. "You must have passed a large number of people in

the streets between eleven and one o'clock. Did you see no one whom

you knew?"

"No one; but at a corner some distance from here,--I could not say what

corner,--I noticed a policeman sitting on a barrel in front of a

grocery, smoking. He was a short, fat man, and his legs hardly reached

to the pavement. I remember him the more particularly, because I stopped

and lighted a cigar at his pipe. Just at that moment, the City Hall bell

commenced striking a fire alarm."

"What was the district?" asked the juror who was assistant foreman of

the Bully Boy Hose.

"The Seventh. I counted the strokes. I walked on rapidly, and soon came

up with another policeman, who was leaning against a grocery store. I

said to him, 'A cold night, Mr. Policeman,' and I think he would

remember that circumstance, if he could be found. Just after I had

passed him, the alarm bells struck the last round. Three or four rounds

had been struck."

The assistant foreman of the Bully Boy Hose, having referred to a

memorandum book which he drew from a breast pocket, here exclaimed:

"The alarm was at twenty-five minutes of twelve. Nothing but a chimney

in Whitehall street. We run into Twenty's fellers, comin' back, and had

a nice little row. Ever belong to the department, sir?"

Marcus answered "No;" and the pyrophilist looked compassionately upon

him, as upon one who had never known true happiness.

"If you never run with the mersheen," observed the coroner, "you do'

'no' wot life is. As for me, sir, it's my boast and pride that I have

been a member of the New York Fire Department for more'n twenty years.

It wos the backin' of the boys that made me a coroner; and, thank God!

I'm never ashamed to tell 'em so."

The coroner spoke truly. So far from being ashamed to "tell 'em so," he

was always "telling 'em so," never missing an opportunity, at political

meetings, to inform the firemen that he was "one of 'em," and that no

mark of honor, even from the President of the United States, was equal

to his fireman's badge. The continual "telling of 'em so" had aided in

procuring for him his present official distinction, and was destined to

earn higher honors for him at a future day.

The coroner tore off a fresh chew from a half hand of Cavendish which

had been well gnawed at all the edges, and told Marcus that he might

"fire away" again.

Marcus then proceeded to state that, on the morning after the eventful

night, he woke up early. His dreams had been horrible, and his waking

reflections were no less distressing. The thought that Mr. Minford

should have suspected him, thus unjustly, of the basest of crimes, and

that they, who had been such good friends, should have parted in a way

that effectually cut off reconciliation; and the other thought, that

this mischief had been wrought by some unscrupulous enemy, when he had

always fondly believed that he never could have a foe in the

world--these thoughts, occurring with great force to a nervous and

sensitive man, nearly maddened him. He felt that if he remained in the

house that day, as usual, and brooded over his troubles, he would grow

crazy. While he was pondering what to do, his eyes chanced to fall on an

invitation which he had received from Mr. Wesley Tiffles, to meet him at

the Cortlandt street ferry at seven and a quarter o'clock that morning,

and accompany him and his panorama of Africa to New Jersey. The day

before, when this invitation came to hand, he had determined not to

accept it; but it now seemed to offer him a capital chance to see some

excitement and ran. As these remedies were precisely what his mental

malady required, he jumped to dress himself, and hurried out of the

house, seeing nobody as he made his exit, and leaving no word of

explanation. He took no luggage, except a clean collar, as he intended

to return the following day. He was even so careless and forgetful as to

leave his purse behind him, and found, on reaching the ferry, that he

had barely two dollars in his pocket.

QUESTION BY A JUROR. "Wos they bank bills; and, if so, what bank wos

they on?"

Marcus answered the question to the best of his knowledge, and the juror

sagely nodded, and took the reply under treatment.

"I say, Tubbs," cried the coroner, "wot's the use of askin' them kind o'

questions?"

Tubbs looked up from his ruminations, somewhat confused. The politic

Overtop--that model of a rising lawyer--here put in a word for Tubbs,

and said that the question, in his opinion, was a very pertinent one,

for it went to test the memory of his client. If Mr. Wilkeson had just

committed murder, he would hardly be in that calm frame of mind which is

necessary to the recollection of small facts. He hoped that the

ingenious gentleman would ask many more such questions. By these

judicious remarks, Overtop gained one fast friend for his client on

the jury.

CHAPTER III.

JUSTICE GOES TO DINNER.

Wesley Tiffles was then examined. He commenced with an eloquent

dissertation on the rights of man, and his own rights in particular, but

stopped when he saw that the reporters tucked their pencils behind their

ears, and waited for facts. The moment he began to talk facts--which are

to reporters what corn is to crows--down came the pencils from their

perches again, and went tripping over the paper.

Mr. Tiffles's testimony would have consumed two hours, or two days,

perhaps, if he had been allowed to go on unchecked. But the coroner had

been invited to dine at a Broadway restaurant, with a few political

friends, at three P.M. So he concluded, after Tiffles had talked five

minutes, that he knew nothing about the murder, and could throw no

light on it, and told Tiffles that he was not wanted further.

"And you mean to tell me, sir, that I am not to be locked up in the

station house to-night," said Tiffles.

"No, unless yer want ter be."

"Of course not--of course not." But the interior Tiffles was

disappointed at this sudden and unromantic termination of his case. A

few more nights in the station house, or in the Tombs, would have given

him capital material for a book, of which he had already projected the

first chapter. He sat down, and execrated his ill luck.

Patching, the artist, was then interrogated, to the extent of two

minutes, and corroborated Tiffles's testimony as to the sad and strange

appearance of Mr. Wilkeson on the day after the supposed murder.

Patching was then informed by the coroner that his further attendance at

the inquest would not be required.

Patching, on rising, had assumed the attitude of Paul before Felix, as

set forth in some ancient cartoon; and in that position of mingled

innocence, dignity, and defiance, the artist of the illustrated paper

got a spirited sketch of him. Had Patching dreamed how capitally his

long hair, peaked beard, thin nose, and bony forehead would be taken

off, in a rough but faithful character portrait, he would have sunk in

confusion. Happily, the newspaper artist was sitting almost behind his

more pretentious brother of the canvas, and the latter knew not what had

been done, until, the following week, he saw a striking intensification

of himself staring into the street from numerous bulletin boards and

shop windows.

Before sitting down, Mr. Patching begged to explain to the jury, and to

the public through the reporters (who did not take down a word of the

explanation), that he had painted the panorama of Africa to oblige his

friend, "Wesley Tiffles. It was hardly necessary for him to say, in this

community, that he was more at home among higher walks of Art.

"Are you a sign painter, Mr. Patching?" asked the coroner. "No, sir; I

am not," said Patching, with dignified contempt.

"Perhaps you're a carriage painter, then? Them's the fellers for

picturin'. The woman and flowers on the Bully Boys' hose carriage wos

well done. Hey, Jack?"

"That it wos, Harry," returned the assistant foreman of the Bully Boys.

"If Patching can do that sort o' thing, he'll pass."

Patching fixed looks of professional indignation on the coroner and the

assistant foreman, and sat down gloomily, amid the suppressed laughter

of the irreverent reporters.

The coroner then looked at his watch, and, finding that the time was

within half an hour of dinner, said that the inquest would be adjourned

till the following morning, at ten o'clock.

"But, your Honor," said Overtop, "--that is, if you will allow me to

make the suggestion--couldn't you give us an hour longer? Nothing has

yet been heard from Miss Minford, who, you said, was expected to be in

attendance to-day. Will you be good enough to send to Mrs. Crull's

house for her?"

"Really, I can't wait," replied the coroner. "The young lady must be

sick, or she would have been here before now."

"But--pardon me, your Honor--we are anxious to have Miss Minford brought

on the stand this afternoon, believing, that her testimony alone will

acquit our client."

"You believe so, because you do' 'no' what it is. But, as I said before,

it wos on Miss Minford's statement that Mr. Wilkingson there was

'rested. And the best advice I can give him is to take a good night's

rest, and get his nerves ready for the young woman's testimony

to-morrow, for it'll be a staggerer." The coroner consulted his watch

again, with evident impatience, and rose from his seat.

Overtop essayed to speak again; but the coroner interrupted him with,

"The inquest is 'journed till to-morrer, at ten o'clock. Mr. Policeman,

you will take the prisoner back to the station house."

This speech was torture to Overtop and Maltboy, who, believing firmly

in their friend's innocence, were convinced that a full investigation of

the case that day would procure his acquittal. They turned eyes of

exhaustless friendship and sympathy toward him.

Marcus was in that half-comatose state which is the stupid reaction from

an intense and painful excitation of the nerves. He was morbidly calm.

The opinion of the coroner, that Miss Minford's testimony would be a

"staggerer," had no more effect on him than it would have had on the

most phlegmatic reader of the case in next morning's paper.

"Then, your Honor, we must ask you to take bail," said Overtop.

"Can't take bail! Can't take anything but my dinner, to-day! For the

third time, I say, the inquest is adjourned." The coroner hastily put on

his spring overcoat.

Overtop was tempted to make a fierce reply; but the legal discretion in

which he was educated restrained him.

The word had gone forth. The jurors rose, yawned, and grasped their

hats. The reporters jammed their notes into their pockets, and

precipitately fled from the room. The policeman escorted Marcus Wilkeson

and his counsel, and Tiffles and Patching, to the carriage which brought

them, and which still stood in front of the house, an object of tragic

interest to a large crowd of men, women, and children, who had remained

about the doorway during the inquest, and could not be dispersed by the

policemen.

"Which is he?" "Who's the murderer?" whispered twenty voices, as the

party emerged from the stairs upon the sidewalk.

"That's him! That chap with the big hat and long hair. You could pick

him out of a million," said a shrewd observer.

"What ugly eyes he's got! They're sharp enough to stab ye," added a shop

girl.

"I seen some pirates hung, when I was a little gal," remarked an old

woman, "and they were pooty compared to him."

The object of these and other remarks was the unhappy Patching, who had

not yet got over his wrath at the coroner, and was scowling and

compressing his lips very like a murderer.

The policeman and his companions, all but the spell-bound Marcus, could

not help laughing at these ridiculous mistakes. But Patching turned upon

the crowd, and delivered among them one withering look of scorn, which

fully confirmed them in the belief that he was a murderer of the deepest

dye. And when the carriage rolled away, it was followed by a volley of

groans, mixed with a few pebbles, handfuls of mud, and other missiles

which happened to be lying around loose.

"Here, boys, don't act that way," said the coroner, who had just made

his appearance on the sidewalk. "Let the poor devil go. It's a case of

murder, clear, enough; and he won't slip through my hands easy, I can

tell ye, if he _is_ rich." The coroner spoke good-naturedly, for he saw

several of his political adherents among the throng.

"That's the talk!" "Good boy!" "You're the feller for us!" were some of

the warm responses.

The coroner smiled, as he stopped to light a cigar from the pipe of a

dirty admirer, and then, bowing obsequiously to the group, he stalked

off in a rowdy way in the direction of his expected dinner.

CHAPTER IV.

LIGHT IN THE PRISON.

On the return of the prisoner and friends to the station house, Marcus

was gratified to find a number of old business acquaintances waiting for

him in the ante-room. They were men whom he had known in his Wall-street

epoch, and had always set down as good-enough friends in prosperity, but

cold-shouldered creatures in an hour of trial. He was mistaken, as many

men are mistaken, in judging the hearts of business men from their

white and careworn faces. They came with warm hands, sympathetic words,

and offers of bail money and other aid, if wanted. There were short

notes from two or three other old fellows whom he had not seen for

years, telling him that they were at his command.

These expressions of good will touched Marcus to the heart. He learned

that, in the self-conceit of his retired and studious life, he had done

injustice to these citizens of the whirling world. With a thousand

thanks for the kindness of his callers, he told them that their friendly

services were not needed; that his innocence would surely be made to

appear; and that, to the day of his death, he should never forget them.

Upon this assurance, repeated two or three times, his business friends

withdrew with characteristic business impetuosity, wishing him a speedy

release from his disagreeable position--which is the roundabout phrase

for prison.