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Round the Block: An American Novel

by John Bell Bouton · English · Gutenberg #12243 · 888,578 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Round the Block: An American Novel

Author: John Bell Bouton


        
Release date: May 1, 2004 [eBook #12243]
                Most recently updated: October 28, 2024

Language: English

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ROUND THE BLOCK

An American Novel

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS

by

JOHN BELL BOUTON

1864






[Illustration: MRS. SLAPMAN AT HOME--(Book First, Chap. IX.)]




CONTENTS.


BOOK FIRST.

NEW YEAR'S DAY.

   I. THE BLOCK.
  II. THREE BACHELORS.
 III. PEEPS.
  IV. QUIGG.
   V. PLEASURE AS BUSINESS.
  VI. SOMETHING HIDDEN.
 VII. THE BOY BOG.
VIII. MALTBOY'S TWENTIETH AFFAIR.
  IX. MRS. SLAPMAN AT HOME.
   X. INFIRMITIES OF GENIUS.


BOOK SECOND.

POLISHING.

   I. THE ENIGMA.
  II. A DELICATE PROPOSITION.
 III. AN AUXILIARY OF MODERN CIVILIZATION.
  IV. MISS PILLBODY.
   V. A FRIEND IN NEED.
  VI. BRANCHING OUT.
 VII. THE LITTLE PUPIL.


BOOK THIRD.

TRAIL OF THE SERPENT.

   I. "ONE--TWO--THREE--FOUR."
  II. THE FALLING BOARD.
 III. SNEAKING JUSTIFIED.
  IV. UP IN THE AIR.
   V. TONGUES OF FIRE.


BOOK FOURTH.

CHILDREN OF THE WORLD.

   I. MENDERT VAN QUINTEM AND SON.
  II. BUYING GOOD BEHAVIOR.
 III. THE YOUNG MONSTER.
  IV. WESLEY TIFFINS.
   V. THE PANORAMA OF AFRICA.


BOOK FIFTH.

MANOEUVRES.

   I. STOLEN--MORE THAN A PURSE.
  II. CONSOLATIONS OF HIGH ART.
 III. LOVING AFAR OFF.
  IV. LEGERDEMAIN.


BOOK SIXTH.

MYSTERIES OF THE NIGHT.

   I. THE UNKNOWN HAND.
  II. IN VAIN--IN VAIN.
 III. THE CLASHING ORBS.
  IV. A VISION OP HORRORS.
   V. WHAT THE MORNING BROUGHT.


BOOK SEVENTH.

JOURNEYINGS AGAINST FATE.

   I. PEA-SHOOTING AS A SCIENCE.
  II. BY STEAM.
 III. PIGWORTH, J.P.
  IV. STOOP.
   V. AN AUDIENCE ANALYZED.
  VI. HUMORS OF THE MANY-HEADED.
 VII. SCENES NOT IN THE BILLS.


BOOK EIGHTH.

A DRAMATIC INTERLUDE.

   I. THE OVERTURE.
  II. CURTAIN UP.
 III. ACT SECOND.
  IV. HOW THE PLAY ENDED.


BOOK NINTH.

THE INQUEST.

   I. CORONER AND JURY.
  II. STATEMENT OF THE PRISONER.
 III. JUSTICE GOES TO DINNER.
  IV. LIGHT IN THE PRISON.
   V. THE SORROW OF WHITE HAIRS.
  VI. WHAT PAPER, TYPES, AND INK CAN DO.
 VII. PET AS A WITNESS.
VIII. THE BENEFICENCE OF FIRE BELLS.
  IX. AN OLD MAN'S OFFERING.


BOOK TENTH.

DONE ON BOTH SIDES.

   I. A FISHER OF MEN.
  II. PLAYING WITH THE LINE.
 III. PULLING IN.
  IV. THE FIRST OF MAY.
   V. DEMOLITION OF CERTAIN AIR CASTLES.
  VI. MR. WHEDELL'S CREDITORS IN CONVENTION ASSEMBLED.
 VII. DEUS EX MACHINA.


BOOK ELEVENTH.

DISCOVERIES.

   I. THE OLD HOUSE REVISITED.
  II. A POSTHUMOUS SECRET.
 III. OVERTOP FINDS A SENSIBLE WOMAN.
  IV. INNOCENCE ON A SLIPPERY ROAD.
   V. BOG'S OPEN SESAME.
  VI. TRACKED.
 VII. FOUND AND LOST.


BOOK TWELFTH.

SPECULATIONS--PECUNIARY AND MATRIMONIAL.

   I. THE "COSMOPOLITAN WINDOW FASTENER."
  II. MIDDLE-AGED CUPID.
 III. SLAPMAN _vs_. SLAPMAN.
  IV. HOW OVERTOP SEALED A CONTRACT IN A WAY UNKNOWN TO CHITTY.
   V. A RETURNED CALIFORNIAN.
  VI. REVELATIONS OF A LAUGH.


BOOK THIRTEENTH.

THE STRANGE LADY.

   I. A STORY OP THE PAST.
  II. POSSIBLE LOVE.
 III. UNCLE AND NIECE.


BOOK FOURTEENTH.

HAPPY DAYS.

   I. OWNERS OF THE BEAUTIFUL.
  II. THE LAST OF A MYSTERY.
 III. LOVE CROWNED.
  IV. FIVE YEARS.




BOOK FIRST.

NEW YEAR'S DAY



CHAPTER I.

THE BLOCK.

On the east side of the block were four brownstone houses, wide, tall,
and roomy. Seen from the street, they had the appearance of not being
inhabited. In the upper stories, all the curtains or blinds were closely
drawn. In the lower story, the heavy lace that hung in carefully
careless folds on each side of the window, seemed never to have been
disturbed since it left the upholsterer's hands. Whatever life and
motion there might have been in the basement, were sheltered from
observation by conical firs or square-clipped box borders, set out on
strictly geometrical principles in each of the four front yards. The
doors were ponderous and tight fitting, as if they were never meant to
be opened; and the vivid polish of their surfaces showed no trace of
human handling. No marks of feet could be detected on the smooth, heavy
flagstones which led up from the sidewalk, or on the great steps flanked
by massive balustrades. The four mansions, in their new, lofty, and
apparently tenantless state, looked, like the occasional residences of
people for some purpose of ceremony, rather than the dear homes of the
small, loving, domestic circles that really lived there.

Such was the outer view of the east side of the block, and it is the
only view that the reader of this book will get; for it is the author's
intention profoundly to respect the select seclusion of the occupants.

Now, the west side of the block was in all respects, exactly opposite to
the east side. The houses were built of bricks, dingy with the whirling
dust of twenty years. Two of the three stories swarmed with women and
children, always visible at all seasons; and the lower story was devoted
to some kind of cheap trade. Wholesale business is gregarious in its
ways; but it is the habit of retail business to scatter, so as to
present, in the same neighborhood, no two people in exactly the same
line. Thus it happened that, on the west side of the block, there was
only one drygoods dealer, whose shop front and awning posts were
festooned with calicoes and other fabrics, ticketed with ingeniously
deformed figures, and bearing some attractive adjective, expressing the
owners private and conscientious opinion of their excellence. There was
one boot-maker, who strung up his products in long branches, like
onions; and, although his business was not at all flourishing, solaced
himself with the reflection that he had a monopoly of it on the block.
There was one apothecary, between whose flashing red and yellow lights
and those of his nearest rival there was a desirable distance. A
solitary coffinmaker, a butcher, a baker, a newspaper vender, a barber,
a confectioner, a hardware merchant, a hatter, and a tailor, each
encroaching rather extensively on the sidewalk with the emblems of his
trade, rejoiced in their exemption from a ruinous competition. The only
people on the block whose interests appeared to clash, were the grocers,
who flanked either corner, and made a large and delusive show of boxes,
barrels, and tea chests; and it was strongly suspected that they were
identical in interests, under different names, and maintained a secret
league to catch all the custom of the vicinity.

The south side was a gradation of buildings, from the two-story brick
grocery on the west corner to the grandest of the stone mansions on the
east. With the exception of two or three houses built in the early
history of the block, and occupied by obstinate old proprietors, it
presented such a regularly ascending line of roofs, that a giant could
have walked up stairs from one end to the other. Although each house was
built upon a plan peculiar to itself, and supposed to reflect the
long-cherished views of the original owner, there were certain
resemblances among them. This was sometimes the effect of a jealous
rivalry; sometimes of imitation. In one dozen houses there was a costly
struggle for supremacy in window curtains. In another dozen, the
harmless contest pertained to Grecian urns crowned with flowers, or dry
dolphins, tritons, or naiads, rising from the bosoms of little gravel
beds in miniature front yards. In a third dozen, there was a perspective
of broad iron balconies elegantly constructed for show, and sometimes
put to hazardous use, on warm summer nights, by venturesome gentlemen
with cigars, or ladies with fans.

About the middle of the block was a colony of doctors, who had
increased, in five years, from two to ten. Their march was eastward, and
it could be calculated to a nicety how long it would be before the small
black, gilt-lettered signs of their profession would press hard upon the
great house at the corner. Why they thus congregated together, unless
with the friendly purpose of relieving each other's patients in each
other's absence, and so saving humanity from sudden suffering and death,
was a mystery to everybody but themselves.

The north side lacked variety. One part of it, comprising twenty lots,
had been built up on speculation by an enterprising landowner. The
houses were precisely alike, from coal cellar to chimney top, with front
railings of exactly the same pattern, crowned with iron pineapples from
the same mould, encompassing little plots of ground laid out in walks
similar to the fraction of a hair; the sole ornaments of which were four
little spruce trees, planted at equal distances apart.

This row of houses was very distracting even to the occupants, with whom
it was a feat of arithmetic to identify their homes in the daytime, and
much more so at night, when the landmarks were shadowy and
indistinguishable. Occasionally, well-meaning tenants found themselves
pulling at wrong doorbells; and there was one man who got tipsy every
Saturday night, and rang himself quite through the row before he tumbled
in on his own hall carpet. It was in counting the spruce trees, he said,
which had a perplexing way of doubling, that he invariably lost
the track.

In nearly every house on this block there was a piano. The piano was the
great equalizer of the block. And, though in the loftier houses the
pianos might have been larger and costlier, and unquestionably noisier,
it did not follow that they were better played or pleasanter to hear
than the humbler instruments which served to swell the tumultuous chorus
in hours of morning practice. With regard to these pianos, it may here
be observed, that a gentleman with a passion for statistics, who chanced
to be well acquainted through the block, made the remarkable discovery
that the players were usually unmarried ladies; and that, when they
acquired husbands (as they occasionally did on that block), they put
aside the piano as something quite incapable of contributing to their
new-found happiness.



CHAPTER II.

THREE BACHELOKS.

Near the centre of the north side of the block stood a house in which
three men, who have much to do in this story, were whiling away an hour
before dinner, at the edge of evening, in the month of December, 185-.
The house had strange stones let in over the windows and door, and was
broad and sturdy, and was entered by steps slightly worn, and was shaded
by a tall and old chestnut tree, and showed many signs of age. It was
because of these evidences of antiquity, although the house was in good
preservation and vastly comfortable, that it had been picked out and
rented by the three men, two weeks previously.

Yet the three men exhibited no marks of age, past or coming, upon them.
The oldest, Mr. Marcus Wilkeson, looked no more than thirty-two; but
frankly owned to thirty-six. Being six feet and two inches high, having
a slim figure, round face, smooth brow, gentle eyes, perfect teeth to
the utmost extent of his laugh, and a head of hair free from the
plague-spot of incipient baldness which haunts the young men of this
generation, his appearance, now that he was confessedly a man, was very
much like that of an overgrown boy. On the contrary, when he was really
a boy, his extraordinary height (six feet at sixteen years) had given
him the outward semblance of a premature man. Probably his long legs and
arms, which were exceedingly supple, and were always swinging about with
a certain juvenile awkwardness, contributed much to the youthfulness of
his appearance.

At the time of his introduction here, his legs were as quiet as in their
nature they could be, having been elevated, for the greater comfort of
the owner, to the top of a pianoforte, and presenting an inclination of
forty-five degrees to Mr. Wilkeson's body, reposing calmly and smoking
an antique pipe in his favorite chair below. One of his long arms was
hanging listlessly by his side, and the other made a sharp projecting
elbow, and terminated in the interior of his vest. This was the attitude
which, of all possible adjustments of the human anatomy, Mr. Wilkeson
preferred; and he always assumed it and his pipe the moment he had put
on his dressing gown and Turkey slippers. He was well aware that popular
treatises on the "Art of Behavior" and the "Code of Politeness" were
extremely hard upon this disposition of the legs. His half-sister,
Philomela Wilkeson, who was high authority, had often visited his legs
with the severest censure, when, upon suddenly entering the room where
he was seated, she found the offending members confronting her from the
top of the piano, or the table, or a chair, or sometimes from the
mantelpiece. While Marcus Wilkeson admitted the full force of her
strictures as applied to legs in general, he claimed an exception for
his legs, which were always in his own or other people's way when they
rested on the floor, or were crossed after the many fashions popular
with the short-legged part of mankind.

Marcus Wilkeson's heretical opinion concerning legs was part of a system
of independent views which he entertained of life generally. He had
given up a profitable broker's shop in Wall street, a year before,
because he had made a fortune ten times larger than he would ever spend.
Having fulfilled the object for which he started in business, and for
which he had toiled like a slave ten years, he conceived that nothing
could be more sensible than to retire from it, make room for other
deserving men, and enjoy his ample earnings in the ways which pleased
him most, before an old age of money getting had deadened his five
senses, his intellect, and his heart.

Persons who knew Marcus Wilkeson well were aware that he was a shy,
self-distrustful fellow, amiable, generous, and that the only faults
which could possibly be alleged against him were an excessive fondness
for old books, old cigars, and profitless meditations, and a catlike
affection for quiet corners. And when his half-sister Philomela--who had
no hypocritical concealment about her, thank heaven! and always told
people what she thought of them--pronounced the first of those luxuries
"trash," the second "disgusting," and the other two "idiotic," he met
her candid criticisms with a pleasant laugh, and said that, at any rate,
they hurt nobody but himself.

To which Philomela invariably retorted: "But suppose every strapping
fellow, at your time of life, should take to novel-reading, and such
fooleries, what would become of the world, I would like to know?"

And her brother, puffing out a long stream of smoke, would respond:
"Suppose, my dear sister, every woman was destined to be an old maid, as
you are, what would become of the world, _I_ would like to know?"

The conversation always terminated at this point, by Philomela declaring
that coarse personality was the refuge of weak-minded people when they
could not answer arguments, and that, for her part, she would never take
the trouble to say another plain, straightforward word for his good;
whereupon there would be a truce, lasting sometimes a whole day.

Fayette Overtop, the second of the three young men--the one looking out
of the window, drumming idly on the glass, and continually tossing back
his head to clear the long black hair from his brow, over which it hung
in an incurable cowlick--was a short, compact, nervous person,
twenty-five years old. Mr. Overtop had been educated for the law, but,
finding the profession uncomfortably crowded when he came into it, had
not yet achieved those brilliant triumphs which he once fondly imagined
within his reach. For three years he had been in regular attendance at
his office from nine A.M. to three P.M. (as per written card on the
door), except in term time, when he was a patient frequenter of the
courts. During these three years he had picked up something less than
enough to pay his half of the rent of two small, dimly lighted, but
expensive rooms on the fourth floor of a labyrinth in the lower part
of the city.

Mr. Overtop, when asked to explain this state of things, about which he
made no concealment, always attributed it to a "lack of clients."

If he had clients enough, and of the right kind, he felt confident that
he could make a figure in the profession. Having few clients, and those
in insignificant cases only, of course he had no opportunities for
distinction. He could not stand in the street and beg for clients, or
drag men forcibly into his chambers and compel them to be clients; and
he would not degrade the dignity of his calling by advertising for
clients, or taking any means whatever to get them, except by
establishing a reputation for professional learning and integrity. The
only inducement which he ever put in the way of clients, was a series of
signs, outside the street door, on the first flight of stairs, at the
head of the first landing, on the second flight of stairs, at the head
of the second landing, and so on to the fourth floor, where the firm
name of "Overtop & Maltboy" confronted the panting climber for the
eighth and last time, painted in large gold letters on black tin, nailed
to the office door.

Mr. Overtop was willing to give clients every facility for finding him,
when they had once started at the bottom of the building; and would, as
it were, lead them gently on, by successive signs; but good luck and a
good name, slowly but surely acquired, must do the rest.

A snug property, of which Mr. Overtop spent less than the income,
fortunately enabled him to indulge in these novel views, and to regard
clients, much as they were desired, as by no means indispensable to his
existence. In his unprofessional hours, Mr. Overtop was everything but a
lawyer. He was chiefly a philosopher, a discoverer, a searcher after
truth, a turner-up of undeveloped beauties in every-day things, which,
he said, were rich in instruction when intelligently examined. He could
trace out lines of beauty in a gridiron, and detect the subtle charm
that lurks in the bootjack.

As not unfrequently happens, in partnerships of business and of other
descriptions, Matthew Maltboy--the young man standing before the blazing
coal fire, and critically surveying his own person--was quite the
opposite of Fayette Overtop. Maltboy was fat and calm. Portraits were in
existence showing Maltboy as a young lad in a jacket and turn-down
collar, having a slim, graceful figure, a delicate face, and a sad but
interesting promise of early decay upon him. Other portraits, of the
same original, taken at later periods of the photographic art,
represented a gradual squaring out of the shoulders, a progressive
puffiness in the cheeks, lips, and hands, incipient folds in the chin,
and a prevalent swollen appearance over all of Matthew Maltboy that the
artist permitted the sun to copy.

Portraits of Maltboy for a series of years would have proved a valuable
contribution to human knowledge, as showing the steady and remarkable
changes through which a man who is doomed to be fat passes onward to his
destiny. But Maltboy stopped sitting for portraits when he reached the
age of twenty, deciding, as many another public character has done, to
transmit only the earlier and more ethereal representations of himself
to posterity.

By some compensating law of Nature, there were given to Maltboy a light
and cheerful heart, a tendency to laugh on the smallest provocation, and
a nice susceptibility to the beautiful. Not the beautiful in rivers,
forests, skies, and other inanimate things, but the beautiful in woman.
And as Overtop was gifted to discover charms in material objects which
were plain in other eyes, so Maltboy possessed the wonderful faculty of
seeing beauty in female faces, where other people saw, perhaps, only a
bad nose, dull eyes, and a pinched-up mouth. This mental endowment might
have been a priceless gift to a portrait painter, who was desirous of
gratifying his sitters; but it was for Matthew Maltboy a fatal
possession. It had led him to love too many women too much at first
sight, and to shift his admiration from one dear object to another with
a suddenness and rapidity destructive to a well-ordered state
of society.

Though these multiplied transfers of affection occasionally caused some
disappointment among the victims of Mr. Maltboy's inconstancy, it was
wisely ordained that he should be the principal sufferer--that every new
passion should involve him in new difficulties, and subject him to a
degree of mental distress which would have reduced the flesh of any man
not hopelessly predisposed to fatness. As Mr. Matthew Maltboy stood by
the fire, he was not taking the profitable retrospective view of his
life which he should have taken, but was glancing with an expression of
concern at the circumference of a showy vest pattern which cut off the
view of his legs.

The apartment in which the three bachelors were keeping a meditative
silence, was large, square, high, on the first floor back, commanding an
ample prospect of neglected rear yards, and all the strange things that
are usually huddled into those strictly private domains. The furniture
of the room was rich and substantial, but not too good to be used. The
chairs were none of those frail, slippery structures of horsehair and
mahogany so inhospitably cold to the touch; but they were oak, high
backed, deep, long armed, softly but stoutly cushioned with leather, and
yawned to receive nodding tenants and send them comfortably to sleep
amid the fragrant clouds of the after-dinner pipe or cigar.

At one end of the room was Marcus Wilkeson's library, consisting of
about five hundred volumes, of poems, novels, travels by land and sea,
histories, and biographies, which the owner dogmatically held to be all
the books in the world worth reading. The admission of a new book to
this select company of standard worthies, Mr. Wilkeson was vain enough
to regard as a high compliment to the author, and as a final settlement
of any disputes which might have been abroad as to its merits.

On another side of the room was a grand piano, open, and covered with
the latest music, and sometimes played on in a surprisingly graceful
manner by the fat fingers of Matthew Maltboy. On the walls hung some
pictures, that were not unpleasant to look at. There were two portraits
of danseuses, with little gauzy wings, and wands tipped with magic
stars; one large, full-faced likeness of a pet actress, taken in just
the right attitude to show the rounding shoulders, the lightly poised
head, and the heavy hair, to the best advantage; some charming French
prints, among them "Niobe and her Daughters" and "Di Vernon;" and a half
dozen pictures of the fine old English stage-coach days. Over the
fireplace were suspended several pairs of boxing gloves, garnishing the
picture of a tall fellow in fighting attitude, whose prodigious muscles
were only a little smaller than those of all the saints and angels of
all the accredited masterpieces of ancient art. A pair of foils and
masks, neatly arranged over each corner of the mantelpiece, completed
the decorations of the room.

The three bachelors had gone into housekeeping by way of experiment, as
a relief from the tedium and oppression of hotels and boarding houses,
and as an escape from female society, which was beginning to pall even
upon the huge appetite of Matthew Maltboy.

But two weeks of this self-imposed exile--with no female society but
Miss Philomela Wilkeson, and Mash, the cook--proved rather too much for
Matthew's fortitude. He yawned audibly.

"I understand you," said Marcus; "you are sick of this."

"Well--hum--it's a little prosy at times." Maltboy yawned again.

"Incorrigible monster!" cried Marcus. "What shall we do with him, Top?"

The person addressed swung back the rebellious cowlick from his
forehead, as if to clear his thinking faculties from a load while he
considered the grave question. "Do with him? Do with him? Oh! I'll tell
you." Here the speaker's eyes flashed with the light of a great
discovery. "Tether him like a horse, with a certain limited area to feed
in. D'ye see? D'ye see?"

"A horse? Can't say that I do," returned Mr. Marcus Wilkeson.

"And I can't say that _I_ do, either," added Mr. Matthew Maltboy. "A
horse! Why not say a donkey? I should see it quite as well."

"As you please," resumed the impetuous Overtop. "A donkey, then. Perhaps
the metaphor will be better. What I mean--what you two are so dull as
not to see--is to put this unreliable Maltboy on a moderate allowance of
flirtation; to keep him, for example, within the limits of this block.
D'ye see? D'ye catch the idea?"

"It begins to dawn on me," said Wilkeson.

"And I catch a ray or two of it," added Maltboy. But--"

"Excuse me," interrupted Overtop, stepping between his two companions,
and gesticulating wildly at each of them in turn, as if he would dart
conviction into them like electricity from the tips of his fingers.
"Here is a block full of people. Their houses are joined together, or
nearly so, all the way round. The inhabitants hear each other's pianos
playing and each other's babies squalling all day long. If a fire breaks
out in the block, it may be all burned down together. If the measles
makes its appearance on the block, it probably runs through it. Is there
not, therefore, a community of dangers among us; and if of dangers, why
not of pleasures? Why should not the inhabitants of a block be regarded
as a distinct settlement, or tribe, whose members owe kindness and
goodwill to each other before the rest of the world? Looking at it in
the light of humanity, is it not our duty to know our neighbors?"

"And Matt would say, To love them too--that is, the young and pretty
ones," observed "Wilkeson.

"Precisely," said Maltboy.

"Excuse me," continued Overtop, deprecating further interruption with
both hands. "That is the point I was just coming to. Since Maltboy
_must_ have female society, and cannot be kept out of it by main force,
why not give him the range of this block? Catch the idea, eh?--in its
full force and bearings?"

"Wilkeson and Maltboy implied, by nods, that they caught it.

"And--ahem--I think I'll take the same range too," added Overtop. "Not
because I care a pin about female society, but just to test my
new theory."

Cries of "Oh! oh!" from Marcus Wilkeson.

Overtop laughed. "You'll be a convert to it yet, my good fellow."

"Never," said Marcus, inflexibly, "so long as books and tobacco hold
out."

"We'll see," replied Overtop. "But let me think how we are to begin." He
rubbed his nose with a forefinger, then tossed back the cowlick, and
said, impetuously: "I have it--I have it! We know Quigg, the grocer, at
the corner below, for we are customers of his. Of course, he has an
immense number of customers on the block, and will make New Year's
calls on all of them, in the way of business. Why can't he take us in
tow? It's as plain as daylight."

"Plain enough, I admit," said Marcus Wilkeson; "but what will Quigg's
customers say?"

"Poor fellow!" returned Overtop. "How feebly you hermits reason about
society! If you had knocked round town on New Year's days, as Matt and I
have often done, you would know that visitors are valued only because
they swell the number of calls, and that it is entirely immaterial who
they are, or who introduces them. The militia general, the banker, the
judge, the D.D., the butcher, the drygoods clerk, are units of equal
value on that day, each adding one more to the score which is privately
kept behind the door. We shall be welcome; never fear for that. You must
come with us, and see for yourself."

"I thank you," said Marcus Wilkeson, laughing. "No such fooleries at my
time of life."

"Very well," said Overtop. "Matt and I will try to represent the new
firm of bachelor housekeepers creditably. Matt will look after the
pretty girls, and I after the sensible ones--that is, if there happen to
be any on this block."

"Agreed," observed Matthew Maltboy, catching a view of himself in a
glass over the fireplace, and not wholly displeased with his appearance.

"Another thought strikes me," said Overtop, explosively. "It's nearly
half an hour to sunset. I am impatient to begin my acquaintance with our
fellow citizens--our future friends, if I may so call them. Let us look
out of the windows, and see what the excellent people are doing. Perhaps
it may interest even a recluse and bookworm like you."

"Nonsense," rejoined Marcus Wilkeson. "There's no curiosity in my
composition."

And yet, when his two companions stood at the window of the little back
parlor, pressing their noses against the glass, and looking out, he
could not resist the temptation to join them, although he thought
proper to punch them in the ribs, and call them a pair of inquisitive
puppies, by way of showing how much he was superior to the great human
infirmity.



CHAPTER III.

PEEPS.

The uniform row of houses on the other side of a dead waste of snow, to
which the attention of the three friends was ardently directed,
promised, at first sight, a poor return of instruction and
entertainment. The rear view presented one dull stretch of bricks
irregularly set even in those houses which displayed imposing fronts of
brown stone. The blinds were of a faded green color, and broken. The
stoops, the doors opening on them, and the steps leading down to the
dirty, sodden snow, had a generic look of cheapness and frailty.
"Whatever the censorious critic might say of the front, he could not
charge the rear with false pretences; for there was apparent, all over
it, an utter indifference to the opinions of mankind. Perhaps because
the owners of the houses did not expect mankind to study their property
from that point of view.

"Say!" was Mr. Fayette Overtop's first remark, after a moment's
observation; "do not those rustic fences on the roofs remind you of the
sweet, fresh country in summer time?" Mr. Overtop alluded to the
barriers which are erected to keep people from getting into each other's
houses, and which are scaled not without difficulty even by cats.

Neither of his friends answering this remark except by a quiet,
incredulous smile, Overtop continued, a little pettishly:

"And you really mean to tell me that that pastoral object, happily
introduced on the roofs of houses, does not recall the green fields,
daisies, babbling brooks, and cloudless skies of early boyhood? Humbug!"
The speaker flattened his nose still more against the glass by way
of emphasis.

"You look for beauties among the chimney pots, while I search for them
in back-parlor windows," said Matthew Maltboy. "Observe where I throw
my eye now."

Mr. Maltboy threw his eye toward a house near the middle of the block.
His companions followed it, and saw a tall girl with prodigious skirts
standing at a window, and looking, as they thought, at them. The view
which she obtained was evidently not satisfactory, for with her
handkerchief she wiped off the moisture from several of the panes; and,
when the glass was clear to her liking, shook out the folds of her
dress, and peered forth again, this time more decidedly, at the window
occupied by the three friends. Her use of the handkerchief was not lost
upon Maltboy, who straightway pulled out his extensive cambric, and
polished up their window too. This improvement of the medium of vision
on both sides, enabled the three friends to form some idea of the tall
girl's personal charms. Her figure was straight; her hair was black; her
eyes were brilliant; her complexion was healthy; she exhibited jewelry
in her ears, on her neck, her bosom, her wrists, and her fingers; her
dress gave her a great deal of trouble, as she leaned forward to
look out.

"Charming, is she not?" said Maltboy.

"Hard to say, at this distance," returned Overtop, who, feeling
neglected in the matter of the rustic fence, was controversially
disposed.

"You may find it so," said Maltboy; "but as for me, the flash of her
eyes--there, now, for instance!--is convincing enough."

"Perhaps you have seen her before," remarked Marcus Wilkeson.

"Perhaps," was that gentleman's answer, implying, by his accent and
accompanying wink, that he had seen her repeatedly.

"And said nothing about her to us, you inveterate humbug," added Marcus.

Mr. Maltboy felt the compliment conveyed in the word "humbug"--as most
people do when that accusation of shrewdness and deep dissembling is
brought against them--and smiled.

"I confess," he replied, as he polished the window simultaneously with
the performance of that process across the way, "I confess I have
noticed her several times; but what was the use of mentioning it to a
pair of woman haters like you?"

His two companions laughed pleasantly, thereby expressing their
gratification at the return compliment involved in the phrase
"woman haters."

"You are such dull fellows now," continued Maltboy, "that perhaps you
will say this fair stranger is not looking at us; that she does not
desire to be seen by us--that is, by me; and that her rubbing of the
window with a handkerchief is not a signal which she expects to be
answered."

"We say nothing," replied the disputatious Overtop. "We only wait for
proof. It is easy to find out whether a signal is meant or not. Rub the
window now."

Maltboy did so, concluding the act with an unmistakable flourish of the
handkerchief. Whereupon the tall girl averted her face, pulled down the
curtain, and eclipsed herself.

Wilkeson and Overtop laughed, and, with a common impulse, punched
Maltboy triumphantly in the ribs--a friendly salute that was always
vastly amusing to that gentleman.

"Be it understood, at this stage of affairs," said Marcus, solemnly,
"that I reject the Overtop theory, and wash my hands of all
responsibility for Maltboy's misdeeds.--Hallo! There he is again."

"Who? Where?" exclaimed his two friends.

"In the house nearly opposite--the one with the grape arbor. Isn't he a
fine old fellow?"

Overtop and Maltboy looked, and there saw, sitting at a window, and
placidly gazing out of it, an old gentleman with long and thick white
hair, a ruddy face, a white neckcloth, and a large projecting shirt
frill--which were all the peculiarities of person and dress that could
be distinctly made out. He was smoking a long pipe, and placidly rocking
himself to and fro. His appearance, through the two windows, was that
of a finely preserved relic of a past generation,

"He always has a long pipe in his mouth, and looks benignantly into the
open air," said Wilkeson,

"So even _you_ are not wholly devoid of curiosity, and do take some
interest in the people on our block," remarked Matthew Maltboy,

"I have noticed the old gentleman often, when I have been reading near
the window; and own that I should like to know him. I think, too, from
certain signs, that he would not object to knowing me. Unless I am much
mistaken, he has bowed to me several times. But fearing that the
supposed bow might have been nothing more than a sleepy nod, I have
never ventured to answer it. Step back a moment, and see if he
observes me."

Maltboy and Overtop retired a few paces. A moment afterward, the old
gentleman looked over to Wilkeson, and made a bow at him about which
there could be no mistake.

"Answer him." "Answer him," said his two friends. Acting upon this
advice, Marcus Wilkeson, blushing, returned a courtly salute, which was
immediately reciprocated by a still lower bow, and a pleasant smile from
the old gentleman. Wilkeson bowed again, and added a smile. The old
gentleman did the same; and this odd exchange of civilities was
beginning to get awkward for Wilkeson, when the old gentleman's
attention was suddenly called off.

A slender young man, whose broad black mustache contrasted unpleasantly
with the sallow whiteness of his face, dressed in the jauntiest costume
of the period, and bearing in one hand a black cane with a large ivory
handle, which looked, even in the distance, like a human leg, stood by
the old gentleman's side. The old gentleman put down his pipe, seized
the young man's disengaged hand, and gazed affectionately at him (so the
three observers thought). Some conversation then took place between
them, during which the old gentleman repeatedly pressed the young man's
hand, and sometimes reached up and softly patted him on the shoulder.
The young man appeared to receive the words and caresses of the old
gentleman with a sullen indifference. Several times he pettishly drew
his hand away, and at last shook his head fiercely, folded his arms, and
seemed (though the spectators could only conjecture that) to stamp the
floor with his foot. At this, the old gentleman bowed his head in his
hands. The young man held his defiant attitude unmoved, until, glancing
out of the window, he saw for the first time that he was watched. "With
a jerk, he pulled down the curtain, and cut off a scene which the three
observers had begun to find profoundly interesting.

"Well," said Marcus Wilkeson, "though I have given up making calls as a
business, I shall certainly take the New-Year's privilege of dropping in
on the venerable unknown over the way."

"Two things are plain," said Fayette Overtop. "One is, that the pale,
rascally looking young man is the old man's son. Now, I don't suppose
either of you will dispute that?" (Overtop paused a moment to receive
and dispose of objections, but none were made.) "The other is, that the
old fellow is immensely rich--worth a million or two, maybe. Perhaps you
_would_ like to argue that point." Overtop smiled, as if nothing would
give him greater pleasure than to annihilate a few dozen opinions to
the contrary.

"To save argument, as usual, we admit everything," responded Wilkeson.
"But, pray condescend to tell us how you know this fine old boy to be
superlatively rich."

Overtop smiled upon his ignorant friends, and answered:

"Because he wears a white cravat. The man isn't a clergyman, is he? Do
clergymen smoke pipes? He isn't a Quaker, is he? Do Quakers, or those of
them who indulge in white cravats, wear their coat collars turned down?
Consult your own experience, now, and tell me whether you ever saw
anybody but a very rich man (with the exceptions already stated) wearing
a white cravat. I leave it to your candor."

Wilkeson and Maltboy nodded their heads, as if stricken dumb with
conviction.

Overtop, gratified with this ready acquiescence, modestly went on to say
that he would not undertake to explain the phenomenon; that task he left
to some more philosophical mind. He contented himself with making a
humble record of facts.

"And now that each of you have made a discovery in the row of houses,
let me try my luck." Overtop rubbed the window, looked out, and
carefully surveyed the row from end to end, and back again. "Ah, I have
it!" he said. "A real mystery, too. Look at that four-story house near
the western end of the block, the one a trifle shabbier than its
neighbors. Do you see, in the open window, a man with a pale,
intellectual face, gray hair, and arms bare to the elbows, filing away
at something held in a vise before him? Now he stops to examine a
paper--a plan, probably--which he holds in his hand. Now he wipes the
perspiration from his forehead. Can't you see him?"

"Distinctly," was the joint reply.

"What do you suppose he is doing?" asked Overtop.

"No idea," said Wilkeson. "Perhaps mending a teakettle."

"Or repairing an umbrella," suggested Maltboy.

Overtop smiled, and said:

"A person with the slightest powers of observation, would see that that
man has genius in his face; that his thin arm is not used to hard
mechanical labor; that his brain is so heated with great ideas, that he
tries to cool it by opening the window. The tinkering of an umbrella or
teakettle would not make a man sweat in midwinter. You won't deny the
force of that suggestion."

As he spoke, a young girl advanced from the back part of the room, and
stood by the pale workman's side. She wore a bonnet, and a shawl
tightly wrapped around her. Though the features of her face could not be
distinguished in the distance, it was not hard to detect a pleasant
expression in her eyes, a smile on her lips, and a high color on her
cheeks, as if she had just come in from the street. She held up a little
basket for the workman's inspection.

He paused in his labor, took the girl's head between his hands, and
kissed her fondly on the brow. Then he opened the little basket, and
drew from it a loaf of bread and a piece of cheese, which he began
eating hurriedly. He also seemed, by signs, to press the girl to eat;
but she shook her head, smiled more than before, and looked up
affectionately into his face. Having bolted a few mouthfuls, the workman
placed the remains of the repast on the bench or table before him,
kissed the young girl, and resumed his work. She watched every motion of
his hand with eager eyes. Once she moved as if to close the window, but
he shook his head, and again wiped the sweat from his brow.

He had consulted the paper, and attacked his task with fresh energy for
the third or fourth time, when his eyes happened to rest upon the window
full of scrutinizing faces. His lips moved in some sudden exclamation,
and then he shut the window with vehemence, and drew the curtain which
obscured the lower half of it.

"Not a very kind reception of your theory, so far," said Marcus.

"Prejudice--nothing more," said Overtop. "When they see that we have no
wish to pry into their private affairs, but are animated with a
neighborly regard for them, they will not repel our advances. It isn't
human nature."



CHAPTER IV.

QIGG.

During the following two weeks, up to New Year's day, the three friends
made little progress in their observations. The tall girl in the immense
skirts appeared rarely to reward Matthew Maltboy's ardent gaze, and even
then seemed to look down at the dingy snow beneath, or the clouds
overhead, or to something or somebody across the way, but never to the
fluttering Maltboy.

Nothing more was seen of the pale and grayhaired workman; for he kept
the lower curtain of his window jealously drawn. But at night his
shadow, strongly projected on the curtain, was in incessant motion; and
far into the morning hours a gigantic head and arms shifted and blended
upon it in grotesque forms. At the other window of the workman's
apartment the young girl often sat, book in hand, and moved her lips as
if she were reading aloud. Her eyes were never seen to wander to the
outer world with those longings for freedom and fresh air which are
natural to the youthful heart, but were always fixed upon the book, or
upon some object within the room. She was entirely unconscious of the
distant and imperfect scrutiny to which her form and movements were
subjected by Marcus Wilkeson, who had begun to take a strange interest
in her, and in the shadow on the curtain, since the healthy and amiable
old gentleman directly opposite had ceased to smoke his pipe and indulge
in his tranquil meditation daily.

Twice only had he shown himself, and then, after a grave bow to Marcus
Wilkeson, who returned it with more than the usual inclination of head,
the old gentleman had taken a few whiffs at his pipe, looked out of the
window with a troubled air, and vanished from the sight of his
sympathizing observer, as if the quiet old sitting place had lost its
charm for him. The young man--the disturbing element of the old
gentleman's life, as Marcus Wilkeson regarded him--was not again seen
in the room where he had made his first appearance, but was discovered,
several days after that event, sitting at a table near a window in the
second story, and writing industriously. His labors were evidently not
disagreeable; for, after an hour's engagement with his pen, he would sit
back in his chair, laugh, take a long drink from a black bottle which
stood at his elbow, and light a fresh cigar. Whatever his occupation, he
was completely absorbed in it, and did not notice the pair of keen eyes
peering at him from behind a book in the house opposite. Every
afternoon, about three o'clock, the young man sat at the table with his
bottle, cigars, and writing materials, and pursued his pleasant labors.

Marcus Wilkeson would never have pretended that it was not highly
improper to watch one's neighbors. He would have denounced it as
deserving of the severest reprobation. But he would have said, that if,
while he was sitting, according to his invariable custom, at his own
window, for the sole purpose of reading a book, people chose to bring
themselves within the range of his vision, he was not therefore under
obligations to vacate his seat. He would have insisted that any glances
which he might have directed at his neighbors, were so levelled in fits
of mental abstraction, or in the exercise of a friendly regard for them.
The Overtop theory he discarded as fallacious, and likely to get its
talented founder into trouble.

That founder and his only follower, Maltboy, were determined, however,
to put the new social system into practice on New Year's day, and had
secured the ready services of Quigg, the grocer, as originally proposed
by the sagacious Overtop. Marcus Wilkeson obstinately refused to
participate in this projected grand tour; which refusal was too bad,
said Overtop, because the fourth seat in the double sleigh that had been
hired for the occasion would be left vacant.

At last came New Year's day; and the sky was cloudless, and the sun was
bright, and the weather was just cold enough to make the blood tingle
pleasantly, and the snow was a foot deep, and well beaten down in the
side streets. The elements themselves had conspired to give the Overtop
theory every chance of success.

J.M. Quigg, grocer, was elaborately attiring himself in the snug
sleeping room behind his store, at ten o'clock on the morning of the
eventful day. He little knew the tremendous importance of the part which
he was about to perform. He looked upon Overtop and Maltboy, not as the
expounders of a new social philosophy, but as cash customers to a
considerable extent, and as partners in defraying the heavy expenses of
a large double team. Mr. Quigg exercised the virtue of prudence even in
his dissipations, and derived pleasure from the reflection that he would
make his annual round of complimentary calls in an elegant turnout at a
moderate cost.

Therefore Mr. Quigg hummed pleasantly as he dressed himself, by the aid
of a large mirror which he had taken for a bad debt, and which was the
only ornament of the plainly furnished little room. Mr. Quigg was a man
of business, and never fretted with cravats, nor made himself unhappy on
the subject of hair. Three turns and a pull adjusted the former; and a
half dozen well-directed dabs with a stiff brush regulated the latter.
Fifteen minutes after he began his toilet, he took a comprehensive view
of himself in the large mirror, and mentally expressed the conviction
that, for a man of thirty-seven, he was not bad looking.

Quigg was right; and his just opinion of himself was shared by the young
widows and unmarried ladies of his acquaintance. He was about six feet
high, with a graceful figure, and the head of a statesman. A more
intellectual face, and a broader or more massive brow, assisted,
perhaps, in its general effect, by a slight baldness, were rarely if
ever seen. A distinguished professor of phrenology had picked out
Quigg's head from among half an acre of heads at a lecture upon that
subject in the city, and had pronounced it the "model head," greatly to
the disgust of all the other large-skulled men in the hall. The
professor had also assured Quigg, upon learning who and what he was,
that it was a solemn duty he owed to society to abandon the grocery
business, and devote himself to "philosophical culture, the development
of the humanities, and the true expansion of his interior
individuality." Notwithstanding this flattering opinion, Quigg still
sanded his sugar, and reduced his whiskey, and found his delight as well
as his-profit in those gross material pursuits.

The interior Quigg, of whom the professor had spoken so hopefully, was
still undeveloped. The professor's views of Quigg's head had, however,
made a deep impression upon the owner of it, and had given to Quigg's
ordinary observations on the weather, the state of his health, and the
other familiar topics to which his remarks were principally addressed,
an oracular importance in his own opinion. Such were the deceptive
effects produced by his large, polished brow, and slow, imposing speech,
that he always seemed to be on the point of uttering vital truths. But
the listener's ear ached in vain for them.

Quigg put on his overcoat, took a small glass of bitters from a bottle
kept behind the large mirror, locked up the store, proceeded to the
nearest restaurant, hastily despatched a lean, unsatisfactory chop and a
cup of weak tea, gave a half dime to the waiter who bade him, in a loud
and significant voice, "Happy New Year, sir," and then returning found
the double sleigh punctual to appointment.

It was a swan-shaped vehicle, brightly painted, thickly covered with
buffalo robes, and drawn by two high-stepping horses, which tossed their
heads and shook their bells merrily as if they shared in the prevailing
jovialty of the day.

On the front seat, and nearly filling up the whole width of the sleigh,
sat the driver. His shoulders were broad enough for two men; his legs
and arms were of twice the common size, and he had two well-defined
chins. He seemed to be double in all his dimensions, like the sleigh.

"Hallo, Quigg!" said the driver, in a voice of double strength, snapping
his whip playfully at that gentleman as he approached.

"Hallo to _you_, Cap," returned Quigg, pleasantly. "It is a very fine
day. I guess there will be a great many calls made." Quigg uttered these
words slowly, as if they were precious, and he hated to part with them.

"Shouldn't wonder," answered Cap, which was a short name for Captain
(nobody knew of what), and added, without any apparent sequence of
ideas: "I s'pose you're goin' to take some brandy along, old fellow?
It's hardly fair for me to be sittin' into the cold outside, with
nothin' to drink, while you chaps are drinkin' your champagne punch
before a warm fire."

Mr. Quigg reflected a moment, as one who reckons up profit and loss. He
then said:

"A good idea, Cap. Brandy is not a bad thing on a cold day." He spoke
with impressive solemnity.

"Or any other day," added the driver. "Partickley 'lection day.
Leastways, such was the 'pinion of the voters into my ward, last
December, when I run for School Inspector, you know. Unfortunately, I
didn't know the ropes then; and thought, when I got the nomination, I
was sure to be 'lected. My 'ponent issued tickets for free drinks at all
the rum mills into the ward. I didn't find out his game till about two
o'clock in the afternoon, and then I tried it myself. But I was too
late. He had six hours' start of me, and beat me by five hundred
drinks--I mean votes."

Mr. Quigg nodded, and said, "Of course," as if he had often heard of
such instances, and there was nothing surprising in them. He then
abruptly cut off the Captain's political reminiscences, by unlocking the
store and entering it. After a few minutes' absence, he returned with a
half-gallon jug and a tin dipper.

"A nice, fat little feller," rapturously exclaimed Captain Tonkins,
taking the proffered jug. Placing it in the bottom of the sleigh, where
such of the public as were stirring in that vicinity could not see the
operation, he half filled the tin dipper, and, raising it suddenly to
his mouth, drank the contents with a double gulp. "Prime stuff, that,"
said the Captain, smacking his lips. "A hogshead of it would make a
school commissioner, an alderman, mebbe a major of you, Quigg."

"I dare say," said Quigg. "But what would a dull, practical fellow like
me be good for in public life?" This was Quigg's habitual way of
depreciating himself, and it always impressed the hearer with a sense of
Quigg's eminent ability.

Quigg then drew a pair of yellow gloves on his large, hairy hands,
slightly ripping the two thumbs and most of the fingers in the
operation, took a seat in the double sleigh, and proclaimed himself
ready to start.



CHAPTER V.

PLEASURE AS BUSINESS.

Captain Tonkins cracked his whip with professional sonority over the
heads of his lively horses, and they started off at a slapping pace,
which brought them to the house of the three friends before the bells
had fairly begun to jingle in unison. The door was instantly opened, and
Overtop and Maltboy presented themselves, dressed in the most elaborate
and captivating style. Marcus Wilkeson appeared just behind them, in his
dressing gown and slippers, calmly smoking his well-browned Meerschaum.

After the salutations of the day, both Overtop and Maltboy addressed a
last appeal to Marcus to give up his ridiculous prejudices, and join the
party; but he obstinately refused, saying that he should make only one
call, and that was upon the old gentleman over the way.

The arrangements for the day had already been made. The party were to
call on a few dozen of Quigg's customers (selected from a carefully
prepared list of one hundred) within range of a mile or two; also on a
few friends of Overtop and Maltboy, who could not well be slighted, and
then come back to the block.

Quigg looked upon the day as one of business, and not of pleasure, and
had methodized a system of callmaking, which was submitted to his
companions, and highly approved by them. The order of exercises was as
follows: First, a jerk at the doorbell; second, precipitate entrance,
hat in hand; third, "Happy New Year," remark on fine weather, and
introduction of friends; fourth, a second remark on fine weather, or any
other one remark which might occur to friends on inspiration of moment;
fifth, acceptance of one sip of wine, and one bite of cake, if any
offered, with compliments on excellence of both; sixth, reference to
list in hand, observation on the necessity of retiring, and regret for
the same; seventh, precipitate retreat.

The system did not work smoothly at first, in consequence of Overtop's
and Maltboy's strained, excessive efforts to make themselves agreeable.
It happened that, at the first two or three houses visited, Maltboy
discovered charming young ladies, and could not resist the temptation to
linger beyond the prescribed minutes, and talk trifles to them. It also
fell out, that Overtop found a number of those sensible women for whom
his heart ever longed, and whose starving souls, as he called them, were
not to be satisfied with the dry crust of ordinary compliment. To them,
therefore, he addressed observations on the inner or spiritual
significance of the New Year's call; on the reminiscences of childhood
suggested by sleigh bells; on the typical meaning of snow as the shroud
of death, and, at the same time, the warming garment of coming life; on
wine or lemonade (as the case might be), as an emblem of hospitality;
and on many other little things as expressive of the loftiest truths.

It was only after earnest remonstrances from Quigg, that the discursive
Overtop brought himself down to the rules of the day. In deference to
Quigg, Mr. Maltboy also steeled his too susceptible heart against the
attractions which he was perpetually encountering, and kept strictly to
the weather. He, as well as Overtop, was surprised to find that the
single stereotyped observation, "It's a fine day," was, after all, more
acceptable than a longer and more strikingly original remark for it
imposed no tax upon the conversational resources of the ladies, and left
them unfatigued to succeeding scores of visitors.

About this time, it was observed of Captain Tonkins that he began to
show signs of fatigue, rocking heavily in his seat with every
oscillation of the sleigh, and talking thick like a jaded man. These
phenomena seeming to require some explanation, the Captain stated that
he had been up late the past three nights, and could keep himself awake
only by taking occasional draughts of Quigg's brandy. The Captain then
proceeded to indulge in random recollections of his political career,
and withering denunciations of one Larry Mulcahy, his successful rival
for the office of School Inspector, whom the Captain did not hesitate to
brand as a jailbird.

When the party returned to the block where the Overtop theory was to be
tested, Mr. Quigg's services were found invaluable. He had not only been
the principal grocer in the vicinity for five years, but he had served
on Ward Committees for the relief of the poor at other people's expense,
and had participated largely in those admirable institutions for the
promotion of matrimony known as Sociables. Therefore, Quigg knew about
everybody on the block worth knowing. There were a few persons in that
old house near the corner, who sent in for herrings, cheap butter, and
pounds of flour, and whom, of course, he did not know. There was a queer
old Dutchman in that square, old-fashioned house in the middle of the
block, whom neither he nor anybody else knew.

They went through half of the south side of the block, and found only
plain and commonplace people. Overtop and Maltboy began to be weary. The
former was gradually discovering that his theory was a bore. The latter
wondered whether Quigg knew the tall girl, concerning the identity of
the front part of whose residence Maltboy was at fault, although he knew
every brick of the rear.

"In this 'ere house," said Quigg, "I shall be treated rudely, because
they owe me fifty dollars for groceries. It's a curious fact, but I have
noticed that debtors always act kind o' cold to creditors, as if it was
the creditors that owed the money."

Mr. Quigg spoke with an important air, as if he had made an original
discovery in human nature.



CHAPTER VI.

SOMETHING HIDDEN.

While this exploring party were going through the block, Mr. Marcus
Wilkeson dressed himself with more than usual care, preparatory to a
call upon the unknown old gentleman over the way, who that very morning
had appeared at his window, the first time in three days, and tendered
the compliments of the season in two low bows and a smile. Having
carefully adjusted his necktie, and smoothed the creases of his gloves,
Mr. Wilkeson grasped his old friend, a hickory cane, by its sturdy
elbow, and marched forth to make his solitary visit.

As 'he turned the corner of the street upon which the unknown old
gentleman's residence was situated, thinking of the oddity of the call
he was about to make, and half inclined to abandon it, he saw, in a
doorway a few yards in front of him, a little girl who bore a striking
resemblance to the patient creature that he had often noticed sitting at
a window in the room of the pale mechanic. A single glance at the
cracked and dirty front of the building established its connection with
the weather-stained and shaky rear premises in which the worker toiled
at his strange task from morning to night, and far into the
morning again.

The little girl was earnestly talking with a rough, hungry-looking
fellow in a greasy cap and tattered blue overalls. As Marcus approached,
he heard the following fragment of conversation:

"Yer can't fool this child again, now, I tell yer. Why don't he pay me?
_that's_ what I want to know. I _will_ go up." The man stepped forward,
as if to ascend the stairs.

"Please don't, Mr. Gilsum," said the girl, in a sweet, pleading tone,
laying a red and toilworn little hand softly on his arm. "Papa will pay
you next week. He will, believe me, sir."

"So you told me last week," growled Mr. Gilsum, "and the week before
that. It's all humbug. Why don't he pay me now? _that's_ what I want to
know." Again he put a foot forward, and was again restrained by the hand
of the little girl.

"I have tried very hard to earn money, Mr. Gilsum," said the musical and
plaintive voice, _but_ have been disappointed. Next week I am sure I
will have some for you."

"Pshaw!" ejaculated the man, pulling the greasy cap over his eyes in a
spirit of savage determination. "I can't waste time talking. I _will_
find out why he don't pay me now."

The inexorable Mr. Gilsum pushed aside the feeble hand of the little
girl, and was about to go up the stairs in good earnest, when Marcus
Wilkeson, who had lingered near the door to catch the exact purport of
the conversation, called out to him:

"Hallo, my friend! what's the row?"

Mr. Gilsum stopped, and, turning, said snappishly:

"None of yer business. Unless," he prudently added, "yer a friend of the
comical old chap up stairs, and want to pay his debts."

"I am a friend, and I will pay them," rejoined Marcus, speaking from the
impulse of the moment. Since he had become rich, and could afford the
luxury, he frequently spoke and acted upon impulse, without regard to
consequences.

Mr. Gilsum's face suddenly changed from an aspect of moroseness to one
of bewitching amiability. He stood in the doorway, and said:

"It's only a matter of ten shillings, sir, for brass and screws, and
little odds and ends from my shop--the locksmith's shop over in the next
street--you may remember it, sir. I'm sure I don't want to be hard on
the gentleman."

To cut short explanations, which he hated, Marcus paid the locksmith his
ten shillings, and suggested that he need not wait longer. The
locksmith, having received the money, thought it incumbent upon him to
apologize and explain still further, till Marcus took hold of the door,
as if to close it, when he accepted the hint, and departed, mumbling an
apology as he went.

The young girl, who had looked on in amazement, turned a pair of soft
blue eyes toward the face of the stranger, and said:

"Papa will thank you very much, sir."

Marcus now had an opportunity to observe her more closely. Her figure
was slightly formed, and undersized for her apparent age of seventeen
years. Her face would have been plain, but for one peculiarity which
made it charming, in his practised judgment. This rare excellence was
her complexion, which showed a perfect pink and white, without
roughness, spot, or blemish, under the strong light of a noonday sun,
made more dazzling by its reflection from the snow. Marcus had never
seen but one such complexion, and that was many years ago. He looked at
it in silent wonder, until the delicate bloom in the centre of her
cheeks began to invade the neighboring white, and the large blue eyes
drooped in confusion.

"Pardon me, my child," said Marcus, in a gentle, reassuring voice.

She looked up, much embarrassed, and said:

"Will you be so good as to walk up and see my poor father, sir? He will
be delighted to meet a friend, for he is very much in want of one, sir."

"I do not know him, my child; but I should be happy to make his
acquaintance."

The girl was surprised to learn that her father's benefactor was a
stranger to him, and looked doubtingly at him for a moment--but only a
moment--and then ran briskly up the stairs, asking him to follow.

The stairs were uncarpeted, and had little feet-worn hollows in the
middle of them. The banisters were rickety, and had been notched by the
knives of reckless tenants. The first and second floors were occupied by
different families (so Marcus inferred from the distinct set of baby
cries issuing from each), and the halls were dirty, and flavored with a
decided odor of washing day. But on the third story he saw a clean,
white floor, and drew breaths of pure air from an open rear window, and
heard no noise save the dull sound of filing.

The little girl paused a second at a door bearing the inscription,
"Private," asked the visitor to please wait, and opened the door just
wide enough to admit her body, and entered, nearly closing it behind
her. In the one glance which Marcus then obtained of the interior of the
room, he saw the pale mechanic hastily rise from a jumble of cog wheels
before him, and put up a screen to shelter his work from observation,
after which he stepped forward, or rather sprang, to meet his child.

Mr. Wilkeson heard a few words of hurried conversation between the
father and daughter, and then the door was thrown wide open, and the
mechanic stood in full view. He was a man of medium height, of a spare
build, and attired in faded, seedy black. His head seemed altogether too
large for his body; and his almost livid complexion, hollow cheeks, and
gleaming eyes, told a story of constant and consuming thought. The
strange, fixed glitter of his eyes was unpleasant to behold. Marcus had
noticed the same thing in insane persons.

"My name is Minford," said the mechanic, in a deep and solemn voice,
"and I thank you for saving me from the annoying visits of that
impertinent fellow. I beg, sir, that you will give me your address, and
assure you that the sum shall positively be repaid to you next week."

"Never mind the repayment," said Marcus, kindly. "The sum was a trifle
for me."

The mechanic's eyes flashed with new fire, and his lower lip curved
with pride, as he answered:

"But I shall insist on returning it, sir. We are temporarily poor, sir;
but we are not beggars yet, I trust that, some day, we shall be in a
position to confer benefits, instead of receiving them."

Marcus knew that the man was turning over in his mind the troublesome
question of "MOTIVE," with which so many people like to make themselves
unhappy; and he therefore said:

"I took the liberty of assisting you, sir, because I am a neighbor of
yours, living on the other side of the block, in a house which can be
plainly seen from your window; and I think it is the duty of neighbors
to be neighborly, on New Year's day at least. My name is Marcus
Wilkeson."

The mechanic's face assumed a pleasanter expression. "Perhaps," said he,
"you are the gentleman that I have sometimes seen sitting with a book,
in a window covered with grape vines?"

"I am," returned Marcus.

"As a scholar, then--as one who is superior to mean motives and vulgar
curiosity--you are welcome to my poor home. Pray, walk in, sir. Pet,
give the gentleman a chair."

The girl, whose face had been clouded during the first part of this
conversation, brightened up at its close, and obeyed her father with
alacrity, brushing the clean chair with her handkerchief, to make it the
more acceptable to their visitor. She also took his hat and cane, and
placed them carefully away.

The room was simply but neatly furnished, and very clean. The hand of
taste and order was everywhere visible. Snow-white curtains festooned
the two small windows, and concealed all of a turn-up bedstead but two
of its legs. A small array of white crockery shone from an open closet;
and a squat-looking stove, which made the apartment agreeably warm, was
smartly polished, and was evaporating cheerful music out of a bright
teakettle. Through a door partly ajar could be seen another room,
covered with a rag carpet, and the companion of the first in simplicity
and neatness.

Marcus had not intended to look at the mechanic's corner, which was
almost completely screened from view, being desirous to justify the high
opinion which Mr. Minford had expressed of him; but his eyes were
irresistibly attracted to the mysterious spot, and obtained a clearer
glimpse, through an open space between the two screens, of a something
composed of cogwheels, springs, bands, and levers. His host, observing
this casual glance, much to the guest's mortification, rose, and placed
the screens close together at right angles, thus shutting out a view of
the corner.

Mr. Minford opened his lips as if to offer some explanation of the act,
but did not offer it. A moment afterward, he said:

"I have not always been a poor man, Mr. Wilkeson. Six years ago I
possessed a handsome fortune, which enabled me to pursue certain
philosophical experiments, in which I had taken great interest, at
leisure. An unfortunate speculation in real estate, year before last,
nearly ruined me. I converted the remains of my property into cash, and
went on with my experiments, undiscouraged. Like all laborers in the
cause of science--which is the cause of humanity--I have met with many
obstacles. Several times, when I have been on the point of perfecting my
great invention, some small, unforeseen difficulty has occurred,
compelling me to reconstruct large portions of the machinery. Eighteen
months passed away, and I found myself penniless. I tried to borrow
money, but without success. Now, who do you suppose has supported us the
last three months?"

"Some benevolent relative, perhaps," said Mr. Wilkeson, hazarding a wild
guess.

"You are right, sir. And a near and dear relative it is--no other than
my little Pet here." Mr. Minford placed his right hand fondly on the
shining head of the young girl, who sat on a low stool by his side,
looking into his face.

She blushed deeply, and said:

"You forget the unknown good friend who sent the letters with money to
you, papa."

"No, no, I don't, Pet," continued Mr. Minford, patting her playfully on
the cheeks; "but you were the dearest and sweetest of my guardian
angels. You know you were, you rogue. Why, sir, you will hardly believe
it, but this little creature, when she knew our money was nearly gone,
taught herself the art of embroidery, with the aid of some illustrations
from an old magazine, and in less than a fortnight could work so
beautifully, that she was able to earn from three to four dollars a
week. When she first told me that she was going out to look for work, I
opposed it fiercely; but the obstinate little Pet would have her way.
She was lucky enough to get a job from a milliner, and pleased her
employer so well, that steady work was given to her, until last week,
when the kind-hearted lady died, and now little Pet has nothing to do.
Some people think, because she is young--"

"Please don't talk about me any more, papa," said Pet, who had been
blushing deeply, and looking very beautiful in the visitor's eyes. "You
forget what the postman used to bring you every Saturday."

"No, I don't, you little, troublesome, impertinent Pet. I was just about
to speak of it, when you interrupted me. You must know, Mr. Wilkeson,
that every Saturday the postman, on his first morning round, delivered
to me a letter, marked 'New York City,' containing two dollars, without
a word of writing inside, and addressed to me in large capitals, each
nearly half an inch long. The object of this singular style of address
was either to make it so plain that the postman could not mistake, or to
disguise some handwriting which otherwise I might recognize. Now, as I
have no relatives living, and no friends that I know of, who would lend
me a dollar except on the best security, I am greatly puzzled, as you
may suppose, to guess the name of my unknown benefactor. Generous man!
For aught I know, he may now be dead, or himself reduced to poverty;
for, last Saturday, the regular weekly remittance failed to come."

"Then I see that I am just in season to help you," said Marcus Wilkeson,
who, during the recital of this brief history, had decided upon his
course of action.

"I thank you most gratefully," returned Mr. Minford, "and fully
appreciate the noble motives of your conduct. Your appearance convinces
me that you are entirely disinterested. But I should feel ashamed to
take money from you, without giving some security for its repayment. I
shall therefore insist upon making over to you a certain interest in the
invention, the most valuable of modern times, which lies almost finished
behind those screens. Let me give you some idea of it, and you can then
decide how much money you will advance, merely as a matter of business.
I cannot consent to put our negotiations upon any other ground. The
invention, then, is--" The speaker looked at the corner as he spoke,
and paused.

Marcus Wilkeson knew that the inventor was about to part with his secret
unwillingly, and that he would regret it forever after. To save him from
unpleasant feelings on that score, and to maintain friendly relations
between them for the future, Marcus put a stop to the reluctant
disclosure. He said:

"Never mind it, Mr. Minford. I know nothing of mechanical matters, and
take no interest in them. Your explanation would only be wasted on me.
Besides, it is entirely uncalled for, as I am willing to take your own
opinion of the invention, and will pay you five hundred dollars for a
one-tenth interest in it, if those terms will suit." Marcus took a keen
delight in acting upon this singular impulse, and was sorry he had not
said a "thousand," when he saw the glow of happiness that irradiated the
sweet face of Pet, still sitting on the stool by her father's side.

[Illustration: THE BOY BOG]

"Heaven bless you, sir!" said Mr. Minford. "You will be the means not
only of relieving me and my dear child, but also of conferring the boon
of a great discovery upon mankind. But your terms are too liberal,
sir. I shall insist upon assigning one fifth of my right to you, which,
mark my prediction, will prove of itself a fortune. Furthermore, I feel
that I ought, if only to show my complete confidence in you, to tell you
what it is. It is--" Mr. Minford hesitated for a word.

"Now I beg, as a particular favor, that you won't tell me," said Marcus,
goodhumoredly. "If you bore me with any of those dull details,
I'll--I'll take back my offer. As to the proportion of the invention
which I am to have, I will accept one fifth, since you insist on it, not
because I want it, but that we may not say another word about
the matter."

"As you please, sir. But how shall I sufficiently thank you?"

Marcus, who was already overcome with the gratitude which shone from the
large, soft eyes of the young girl, answered, with a laugh and a blush
(he had not outgrown the habit of reddening on occasions):

"By changing the subject."

Mr. Minford was about to protest against this extraordinary method of
thanking a benefactor, when a rap was heard at the door.



CHAPTER VII.

THE BOY BOG.

In reply to the invitation, "Come in," a tall boy opened the door, and
started back on seeing a stranger.

"Do come in, Bog," said Mr. Minford. "I have good news to tell you. This
is a friend of ours, Mr. Wilkeson. What with his running of errands, and
doing little jobs for us, we really couldn't get along without him. Oh,
walk in, Bog; you're always welcome here."

"Now _do_ come in, Bog," added the little girl, in a winning tone,
rising from her stool, stepping to the door, and placing a hand on
his shoulder.

The new comer, after a few shuffles on the threshold, and an
unintelligible murmur of words, walked in with painful awkwardness, and
took a seat upon a corner of the chair which Pet offered him, as if the
whole chair were more of a favor than he could conscientiously accept;
He was a bony, strongly built stripling, with a record of anywhere from
seventeen to nineteen years written in his red, resolute, honest face.
He wore a coarse but neat suit of boy's clothes, one inch too small in
every dimension, a white turn-down collar, and a black neckerchief
fastidiously tied; and carried a slouched cloth cap in his hand, with
which he slapped his knees alternately, after he had taken a seat, and
continued to do so without cessation.

"Well, Bog," said Mr. Minford, kindly, but condescendingly, "you are
just in time to hear good news. This gentleman has taken a partnership
in my invention (Mr. Minford thought it best to state the case that
way), and, with his assistance, I shall be able to complete it and bring
it before the public immediately."

"Glad to hear it, sir," answered the boy Bog, blushing hard, lifting his
eyes from the floor long enough to glance at Mr. Minford and his
daughter, and all the while slapping his knees vigorously.

"He is in the bill-posting business," said Mr. Minford to Marcus. "You
may have seen him at the head of his company of walking advertisers.
Ha! ha!"

Marcus remembered having seen that honest face, that thick head of hair,
and that identical cap, sticking out of the top of a portable wooden
frame covered with placards, setting forth the virtues of quack
medicines, the excellencies of dry goods, or the unequalled attractions
of concert saloons. He also remembered that this wooden frame was much
taller than any of the long procession of frames which followed it, and
that, from a hole in the right side thereof, protruded a fist about the
size of the boy Bog's, clutching a broomstick, with which the inmate
kept a semblance of order among the wilful and eccentric occupants of
the frames behind him. "Oh, yes; I have seen you very often, Bog. How
do you like the business?" said Marcus, pleasantly.

"Very well, sir, thank you," replied Bog, with his eyes still on the
floor, "'cept when the boys poke fun at us; 'cos we can't run after 'em
in them boxes, and wollop 'em. 'S rather hard, that." Bog caught Miss
Minford's eye as he concluded these remarks, and blushed till he
perspired, to think that he should have dropped such a brutal
observation in presence of that young lady.

Mr. Minford noticed the confusion of his young friend, and
unintentionally added to it, by saying:

"Bog is a good boy. By his industry, he earns eight or ten dollars a
week, not only supporting himself, but his aunt."

"Not this week, nor last week neither, Mr. Minford," said Bog, mopping
the modest sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his coat. "The
adv'tisin' line a'n't as good as't used to be. I only got three jobs
with my company the last fortnight, and nary cent of pay from any of
'em. Of course, all my boys had to be paid just the same."

"And you paid them?" asked Marcus.

"Certainly," said Bog.

"Then be good enough to accept five dollars from me, as a reward for
your honesty," said Marcus, acting upon another of his impulses.

"No, thank you, sir. No, thank you," returned Bog, quickly, to prevent
Marcus from pulling the money out of his pocket. "I sha'n't take it,
sir; I won't have it anyway. I'm goin' into the reg'lar bill-postin'
business, as Jack Fink's assistant, to-morrow, and can earn all I want."
Bog blushed, but this time with honest pride, though he was flustered to
look up and see that Miss Minford nodded in approval of his
independent spirit.

Bog then slapped each knee about a dozen times with his cap, and
betrayed many symptoms of fever heat and great mental distress. After
which, he said that he had only called to see if he could do
anything for them.

"Now do you mean to tell us that it is not a regular New Year's call,"
said Mr. Minford, playfully, "and that you have not a dozen more
to make?"

Bog looked guilty of an enormous fraud, dropped his cap, in his
confusion, twice, murmured something inaudible, rose to his feet, and
backed out of the room, making one comprehensive bow to everybody, and
saying "Good-night" before it was two P.M.

As Bog shut the door, everybody laughed, but not so loud as to be heard
by the boy; and, under the cover of the general good humor, Marcus rose,
and said that he must go. He was afraid he had made his visit too long
for a first one. He would call again on the following day, if agreeable,
and complete the proposed arrangement. In conclusion, he placed his card
in Mr. Minford's hand, with the names of a few references pencilled on
the margin.

Mr. Minford was very sorry that their pleasant acquaintance should take
his leave so abruptly, and hoped that they would enjoy many visits from
him, not merely as a business partner (Mr. Minford laid emphasis on
this), but as a friend.

Pet repeated her father's regrets and hopes in the more impressive
language of her sweet eyes, and, for the twentieth time that day,
conjured up, in the memory of Marcus Wilkeson, a vague reminiscence of
the distant past.



CHAPTER VIII.

MALTBOY'S TWENTIETH AFFAIR.

The house which had elicited Quigg's last sagacious remark, was a
three-story brownstone front, and was one of the finest looking on the
south side. The heavy mahogany door was opened by a slovenly girl, who
ushered the callers into the front parlor, which was carefully darkened,
according to the custom of the day. The only objects plainly visible
were two female figures, each seated near a front window, under the
rosy shade of damask curtains artfully disposed. One of the ladies, whom
Matthew Maltboy was not slow to recognize, looked like a fountain of
pink silk, gushing out with great vehemence in high, curving jets on
every side; from which fountain a slim, graceful figure had risen, as
far as the waist, like a modern Arethusa. The gleam of a shapely neck,
of a pearl necklace and diamond cross, of diamond earrings, of an
enormous gold brooch, of golden gyves an inch broad on each wrist, as
the rose-tinted rays fell on those natural and artificial charms,
produced a dazzling effect in the shady corner. On plainer persons, this
display might have seemed, in Maltboy's eyes, a glaring instance of bad
taste. But, looking at that small, oval face, those large, flashing
black eyes, complexion of red and white, so beautifully blended that it
hardly seemed a work of nature, pouting lips, even, white teeth, and
heavily braided hair, Maltboy thought that no decorations could be-too
gaudy for a creature of such radiant loveliness.

At the same instant (as their feet passed the parlor threshold) that
Maltboy made these comprehensive observations, the quick eyes of Fayette
Overtop were scanning the lady that basked in the subdued light of the
other window. She rose from a smaller fountain of silk to a less height
than her companion. She was fat to such a degree, that the bodice of her
dress seemed ready to burst with the excessive pressure beneath,
immediately suggesting to every beholder the obvious humanity of
enlarging it, by taking only a small portion from the superfluous silk
below. She was quite pretty, and very healthy, and had a smile lurking
on her lips, and in the corners of her small blue eyes, and in the
dimples of her round, red cheeks, and in the curved crease which was
beginning to show under her apple of a chin. She wore plain colors, and
exhibited no ornaments save a large brooch with braided hair in it. The
lean Overtop immediately felt a tender inclination toward this fat
young lady.

Mr. Quigg paid the compliments of the season in his neat, settled
style, to Miss Whedell--the tall young lady--who received them with
marked coldness, and then begged leave to introduce Messrs. Overtop and
Maltboy, to whom she smiled graciously, rising slightly from her chair,
and sinking back again, without disturbing the symmetrical flow of the
silken fountain. With a wave of her jewelled right hand she performed
the ceremony of introduction between the three callers and Mrs.
Frump--the fat young lady--who also carefully raised herself about two
inches from her chair, and lowered herself again, without disarranging
a ripple.

In compliance with an invitation from Miss Whedell, the three callers
sat down. Mr. Maltboy gravitated by a natural instinct to the side of
his charmer. Mr. Overtop was drawn by an irresistible impulse into the
vicinity of Mrs. Frump, having detected in her general appearance
certain indications of what he called "a sensible woman." Mr. Quigg,
feeling that he was one too many, took a "seat equally removed from the
two ladies, and commenced playing soft tunes on his hat, and looking
vacantly about the room.

"I had begun to wonder, Mr. Maltboy," said Miss Whedell, "what makes our
friends so backward to-day. I do declare, we have not had a caller for
more than--how long is it, Gusty, since Colonel Bigford dropped in?"

Maltboy thought her voice had a sweet, metallic ring.

"About half an hour," replied Mrs. Frump, after a brief mental
calculation.

"Why, Gusty!" exclaimed Miss Whedell; "how can you sit there and tell
such stories? You know it is not five minutes."

"Just as you please, dear," said Mrs. Frump, leaving on the minds of her
hearers the impression that her estimate was the correct one.

"I never saw anything so slow," pursued Miss Whedell. "Would you believe
it, Mr. Maltboy--here are two hours gone, and we have not had more
than--how many callers have we had, Gusty? You keep account of them."

Mrs. Frump drew out a little memorandum book from one of her pockets,
and consulted. "Exactly eleven, Clemmy," said she.

"Gusty Frump," returned Miss Whedell, with some warmth, "you ought to be
ashamed of yourself! We have had fifty callers, to my certain
knowledge."

"I presume you are right," said Mrs. Frump, with a smile that irradiated
the whole of her fat face, and again imparted the idea that Miss Whedell
was wrong.

"For one," said Matthew Maltboy, improving the opportunity to put in a
word, "I should not be surprised to learn that you had a hundred."

Miss Whedell appreciated the delicate compliment, and beamed fascination
upon him.

"It has been a horrid, dreary winter, has it not, Mr. Maltboy?" said
she, in a tone that invited sympathy and confidence.

Mr. Maltboy, supposing that she alluded to the prevalent snow and ice of
the season, said that it certainly had.

"No balls, no opera--or none to speak of--no parties, no anything. You
will hardly believe it, Mr. Maltboy, but I declare I haven't been to
twenty parties this winter--have I, Gusty?"

"To only two that I know of," responded Mrs. Frump, in a winning voice.

"You provoking creature," said Miss Whedell, "to talk so, when you know
that I have been to at least eighteen parties!" Miss Whedell scowled
charmingly as she spoke, and then added, with a pleasant smile, for the
benefit of Mr. Maltboy: "She's a gay young widow; and you know what
widows are."

Mr. Maltboy's knowledge of that species of the human family was
extensive and exact. He nodded, to signify that he knew something of
them, and felt forearmed, from that moment, against the charms of
Mrs. Frump.

Mrs. Frump told Miss Whedell that she thanked her very much for the
compliment, and laughed so prettily, that Fayette Overtop determined to
apply some of his grand tests for the discovery of sensible women.

Abandoning the vein of commonplace conversation which he had worked
during the five minutes since his arrival, he remarked:

"It really makes us feel young again--does it not, Mrs. Frump?--to renew
this charming custom of receiving and making calls."

Mr. Overtop spoke in general terms, like a philosopher; whereas Mrs.
Frump made a personal application of the remark to herself, and replied,
rather coldly: "I have no doubt that it makes _old_ persons feel
younger," and then she looked at Matthew Maltboy, and seemed to be
listening to the conversation between him and Miss Whedell.

Mr. Overtop paused a moment, and tried again: "Is it not pleasant,
though sad, Mrs. Frump, to think of the friends whom we knew many, many
years ago, who no longer live to greet us on this festal day?" The
speaker alluded to mankind at large.

Mrs. Frump responded tartly, that she could not speak from experience,
of course, but she presumed that Mr. Overtop's opinion was correct. And
again she glanced at Maltboy.

Mr. Overtop briefly rested, and then remarked:

"It may be merely a poetical conceit of mine, but it seems to me that
the horses prance higher, and shake their bells more merrily on New
Year's than any other day, as if they partook in our enjoyment of the
occasion. May not the horse, by some mysterious instinct, know that it
is the beginning of the year?"

Mrs. Frump smiled, and answered: "Not being a horse, of course I can't
say. But I would suggest, whether ostlers do not give their animals an
extra quantity of oats on New Year's day, to make their action
more stylish?"

Mr. Overtop marked a quizzical expression in the widow's left eye, and
was disgusted.

For the third time she looked intently at Matthew Maltboy, who was
putting in a few words with great animation; and then turned her face
toward Mr. Quigg, who was taking his third mental inventory of the
furniture, and executing "Hail Columbia," with variations, on his hat.

"It's a finer New Year's day than the last one, is it not, Mr. Quigg?"

Mr. Quigg, who had an astonishing memory for dates and conditions of the
weather, replied, after a second's reflection:

"It is a much finer day, Mrs. Frump. It rained last New Year's. Perhaps
you may remember my leaving an umbrella at the house where you were then
stopping, in Sixteenth street, and my calling for it again, on which
occasion you said I reminded you of Paul Pry, in the play, who was
always forgetting his umbrella."

The widow laughed, and said that she distinctly remembered the
circumstances.

Mr. Quigg, thus encouraged, went on:

"New Year's days differ very much. The one before the last was very
snowy in the forenoon, with hail in the afternoon; and the one before
that was so mild, that I found an overcoat really uncomfortable. The
one before--"

"Excuse me for the interruption," said Mrs. Frump, suddenly, "but I
can't help saying how much Mr. Maltboy looks like Dr. Warts. Doesn't
he, Clemmy?"

"Like Dr. Warts!" exclaimed Miss Whedell. "Who's he?"

"Why, don't you remember, Clemmy, the doctor that you consulted about
your hair?" The widow looked the picture of guilelessness as she asked
the question.

Miss Whedell turned slightly red in parts of her face that were not red
before, and involuntarily raised her hands to two heavy braids of hair
which fronted each ear, and adjusted them. Then she said, sarcastically:

"Mr. Maltboy must feel much flattered at being compared with a notorious
quack."

Mrs. Frump, with a laugh spreading all over her gentle face, replied:

"Oh! of course you call him a quack, because he could not save your--"

"You are rude, madam," said Miss Whedell, with emotion.

"And you are silly, miss," retorted Mrs. Frump, still smiling, "to take
offence at nothing."

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, madam."

Greatly to the relief of the three callers, who were seized with a
desire to laugh aloud during this short, snapping dialogue, a bell rang,
and a new figure entered upon the scene. The two ladies rose about three
inches, and greeted him as Mr. Chiffield. Mr. Chiffield bowed stiffly,
smiled mechanically, and cast a sweeping glance at the three men
present. This glance, and the looks with which it was met, called up a
singular train of associations.

Maltboy remembered the new comer as a fellow who had trod on his corns
getting into an Amity street stage. Overtop remembered him as an
eccentric individual, who always carried, without the slightest
reference to existing weather, an umbrella under his arm, with the point
rearward, and held at just the angle to pierce the eye of a person
walking incautiously after him. Overtop had frequently felt a strong
inclination to pull the umbrella out from behind, and ask the bearer to
carry it in a less threatening manner.

Mr. Chiffield, on the other hand, readily recalled Matthew Maltboy as a
suspicious person whom he had seen hanging around an up-town hotel,
about a year and a half before (when Maltboy was paying his ineffectual
addresses to a cruel Cuban beauty who passed the summer months at that
house). Mr. Chiffield had always supposed him to be a confidence man of
superior abilities.

Of Overtop, Mr. Chiffield was vaguely reminiscent. Unless he was
mistaken, that person was the one who wore an entire suit of pepper and
salt, including a felt hat, necktie, and gaiters, two summers before.

Mr. Quigg was a novelty in Mr. Chiffield's eyes; but Mr. Chiffield was
well known by sight to Mr. Quigg, who also remembered to have heard that
he was a partner in the great drygoods house of Upjack, Chiffield & Co.

Mr. Chiffield was about forty years of age, and had a bald head, a
square, heavy face, scanty whiskers, small, shrewd eyes, and a bilious
complexion. He dressed in profound black, wore his necktie negligently,
exhibited neither ring nor breastpin nor gold chain, spoke as if he were
always thinking inwardly of his private business, and never laughed.
These peculiarities indicated, beyond any doubt, that Mr. Chiffield was
a wealthy man; though it might be difficult to trace the exact processes
of reasoning by which this conclusion was reached. Any unprejudiced
stranger, seeing Mr. Chiffield, and being told that he was a partner in
a large drygoods house, would instantly think, "That drygoods house will
stand in the midst of fires, earthquakes, and financial revulsions."

With that fine instinct peculiar to lovers, Matthew Maltboy immediately
recognized in Mr. Chiffield a rival--and a dangerous one. Having seen
much of society, Maltboy was well aware that Mr. Chiffield's mature age,
his grim appearance, his sparse whiskers, and even the bald spot on the
top of his head, were eminent advantages with which youth and bloom, and
a full head of hair could not cope--unless with the aid of that
fascination which Matthew flattered himself that he possessed, and
which, he thought, he had used to some purpose during his hurried
conversation with his twentieth enslaver, Miss Whedell. The usages of
New Year's day, as well as frequent impatient nods from Quigg, and
suggestive coughs from Overtop, would not permit of his staying longer.
He therefore, rose to take his leave, his fellow pilgrims doing
likewise, when Miss Whedell remarked that they were in a great hurry,
and regretted that they could not remain a few minutes more.

The captivated Maltboy toyed, with his hat in an uncertain way, and was
half disposed to sit down again, when Quigg hastily produced his
visiting list, and said, with his best business smile:

"We Should certainly be very happy, Miss Whedell; but we have
seventy-five calls still to make, and it is now (consulting his watch)
two o'clock."'

As the three visitors withdrew (declining, at every step, a pressing
invitation to taste the refreshments which were piled in mountainous
form on a table in an adjoining alcove), Maltboy exchanged a look of
deep, sentimental meaning with Miss Whedell, who rose at least six
inches from her chair, and followed it with a slight hostile glare at
Mr. Chiffield, upon whose equable face it fell harmless. Overtop bowed
coldly to everybody, as if he were disappointed in the human species;
and Quigg gave a parting grin at the room in general, and at nobody or
nothing in particular,

"We're all right, Top," whispered Maltboy, as they descended the steps
to the sidewalk. "She smiled slightly when I mentioned having seen her
from our back parlor window. I have obtained permission to call again."

"You'll have to do it without me, my dear fellow," returned Overtop,
tossing back his head from force of habit, the offensive cowlick being
then suppressed by his hat. "Nothing on earth could induce me to speak
to that dull widow again."

"She doesn't live there," said Quigg. "She is some connection, I
believe, of the queer old Dutchman that I spoke of, and is probably only
helping Miss Whedell to receive callers. I should think, from the way
they abuse each other, that they were old and dear friends."



CHAPTER IX.

MRS. SLAPMAN AT HOME.

Full of new and pleasant thoughts, Marcus Wilkeson walked on toward the
half-antique house which contained the strange old gentleman. Just as he
was about to swing back the iron gate of the front yard, he saw, at a
distance, the two friends of his bosom and Mr. Quigg descending a flight
of steps to the sidewalk. They saw him at the same time; and both
Overtop and Maltboy violently beckoned him to approach. Mr. Quigg added
his solicitations in a calmer and more dignified manner, moving his arm
like an automaton three times from the elbow. Even the driver, Captain
Tonkins, in the spirit of invitation peculiar to his mental state,
steadied himself on the seat, poked his right arm and his long whip
toward Marcus, and said: "Hu-hullo there--come along?" Having done this,
Captain Tonkins furtively poured a gill of brandy into the tin cup, and
drank it under cover of the buffalo robe.

In compliance with this general request, Marcus forbore to open the gate
of the old gentleman's house, and joined his friends.

"How many people have you called on, you old humbug?" asked Overtop, as
Marcus drew near.

Marcus was on the point of alluding to the chance acquaintances that he
had made that morning; but a moment's reflection stopped him.

"I told you," said he, "that my only visit was to be to our odd old
neighbor. I was at his gate, when you called. And now, what do
you want?"

"I want to tell you," said Matthew Maltboy, "that Miss Whedell--the
Juno-like young lady with the handkerchief, you know--is--"

"All your fancy painted her," interrupted Marcus.

"She's lovely--she's divine," said Maltboy, rapturously finishing the
quotation. "I have made an impression. Congratulate me, old boy!"

"I do," said Marcus, laughing, "and only hope that you will find it as
easy getting out of the scrape as into it. And what have you
discovered, Top?"

"That there isn't a sensible woman or an original idea, so far, on the
block. I wouldn't budge an inch farther, but for Quigg's promise to
introduce me to a young widow who lives next door--a regular prodigy of
science and art, according to his story. I think you said she was a
widow, Quigg?"

"I suppose so," said Quigg, "as I never saw nor heard of her husband;
and she's lived on this block five years last May."

The three besieged Marcus to lay aside his scruples for once, and join
them in visiting this accomplished lady. Marcus fought them until his
patience was exhausted, and then gave in.

The door to which they climbed, bore, on a large and shining plate, the
name "Slapman." This door was opened to them by a tall negro in livery,
which, like the wearer, had a borrowed appearance. As they entered, they
saw a little wiry man, with a pale face full of wrinkles and crowsfeet,
bounding up the first flight of stairs, two steps at a time. When the
little man reached the first landing he looked back, and directed a
strange, suspicious glance at the callers.

The opening of the parlor door discovered a room full of men, who were
sipping wine, eating cold fowl and confections, talking and laughing
loudly with each other, or exchanging repartees with a lady who stood in
the centre of the apartment and shed her light upon all. This lady was
Mrs. Grazella Jigbee Slapman.

Previous to her marriage, she had been not altogether unknown to the
corners of several weekly newspapers, under the name of "Grazella." She
had also cultivated a natural talent for painting, so assiduously, that
a little cabinet piece of hers, representing a cat, a lobster, and a
plate of fruit, was considered good enough to exhibit in the window of a
Broadway print shop, in which her uncle was a silent partner, and was
approvingly paragraphed in a paper partly owned by her first cousin. To
gifts capable of producing results like these, she added a great
aptitude for music; although an incurable indolence, she gracefully
said, had always prevented her from learning the piano. While yet
sustaining the name of Jigbee, she had achieved a high reputation in
private circles as a merciless judge of music. But her conversation had
been, from earliest girlhood, her chief attraction. She possessed the
extraordinary faculty of talking with a dozen persons upon a dozen
different subjects at the same time.

Unlike many people similarly endowed, she did not exercise this
wonderful gift for the brutal purpose of putting down feebler
intellects, but only to elicit TRUTH, which she often declared to be the
sole object of her existence. When, by her alliance with Mr. Slapman, a
thrifty speculator in real estate, she was installed as mistress of a
fine house and furniture, and a few thousand a year, the lady naturally
gathered about her a still larger circle of admirers. Her researches for
TRUTH were met halfway by people that were supposed to deal in that
article, abstractly considered; such as poets, painters, sculptors,
reformers, inventors. Anybody with a new idea was sure to be understood
and encouraged by her. Her fondness for new ideas was as keen as an
entomologist's for new bugs or butterflies.

Mrs. Slapman had not made the mistake of neglecting her physical and
perishable charms in deference to her intellectual and immortal nature.
She was twenty-four years old, and had clear, sparkling eyes, a fresh
complexion, good teeth, rich, heavy hair, and a substantial figure. The
pursuit of TRUTH did not disagree with her health.

Mrs. Slapman bustled out of the little knot of persons about her, and
advanced in a frank, hearty way to meet her visitors. To Mr. Quigg she
nodded patronizingly, as to one whom she had long known to be guiltless
of new ideas; but to the strangers who sought her society, she addressed
a cordial smile.

Mr. Quigg, having performed his office, judiciously stepped aside, and
left the honors and burdens of conversation with the three friends.

Matthew Maltboy, with the rashness of youth, opened the verbal
engagement, by remarking that it was a fine day.

This wretched conventionalism was met by a "Very," so obviously
sarcastic, that Marcus Wilkeson decided not to utter a remark which was
at that moment on his lips.

At this embarrassing juncture, Fayette Overtop came to the rescue. "As
we alighted from our sleigh, Mrs. Slapman, I noticed how firmly the snow
at the edge of the street was pressed down by the feet of the hundreds
who have called on you; and I could not but think how truly that white
surface, upon which the prints of so many boots were beautifully
blended, typified the purity of the motives which brought the owners of
those boots to your door."

"A most original and charming remark!" said Mrs. Slapman. "I must repeat
it to Chickson. The author of 'A Snowflake's Lament' will appreciate
that felicitous observation. You have heard of Chickson?"

Mr. Overtop read new books, magazines, literary papers, in considerable
quantities, but did not remember to have ever met with the name.
Speaking upon impulse, and to avoid explanation, however, he said:

"Oh, yes--certainly, but have not the pleasure of his acquaintance."

"You should know each other," said Mrs. Slapman. "Excuse me a minute."
She ran with girlish haste to the other end of the parlors, and brought
back an undersized young man. When he had been introduced to Overtop,
and shaken hands with him, the enthusiastic hostess quoted, somewhat
imperfectly, the beautiful conceit which Overtop had just uttered, and
remarked that it would be a capital subject for a poem.

Mr. Chickson turned his eyes upward to the ceiling, and then downward to
the floor, as if he were committing what he had heard to memory, and
then said it was very curious, but he had thought of the same theme
before, and was intending to write a poem on it next week.

"Now, that's just like you, you provoking creature!" said Mrs. Slapman,
tapping the poet playfully with her fan. "It's really selfish of you to
keep all your poetical thoughts for your poems."

Mr. Chickson smiled pleasantly, but said nothing; and when Mrs.
Slapman's attention was momentarily attracted by a passing remark from
another person, the poet improved the opportunity to slip away and take
another glass of champagne in the corner.

"Ah! gone, is he?" said Mrs. Slapman, remarking his disappearance.
"Though one of the most promising of our young poets, he is dull enough
in conversation. It may be said of him, as of Goldsmith, 'He writes like
an angel, but talks like poor Poll.' You may have read his poem, 'Echoes
of the Empyrean,' published in the _Weekly Lotus_."

Mr. Overtop was wicked enough to say that he had read and admired it.

"It is a curious fact in the history of the poem, that the subtle
thoughts which it evolves were the topic of discussion at one of my
_conversazioni_; and on that very night Chickson told me he had
forty-five lines written on the subject. The knowledge of that trifling
circumstance lends additional interest to the poem."

"That is, if anything could lend additional interest to it," observed
Overtop.

"You are right," said Mrs. Slapman. "TRUTH, like that which animates
every line of the 'Empyrean,' needs no factitious attractions. You have
read the 'Empyrean?'"--turning to Wilkeson and Maltboy, who had stood
hard by during this conversation, calm patterns of politeness.

Mr. Wilkeson, not understanding the question (his thoughts wandering
back to the pale mechanic and his child), nodded "Yes," and was
immediately put down on Mrs. Slapman's mental tablet as a quiet
gentleman of good taste. But Matthew Maltboy, distinctly understanding
it, was candid enough to say "No," and from that moment was as nothing
in the eyes of the lady.

Overtop proceeded to deepen the favorable impression which he had made
upon this charming patroness of intellect.

"Did it ever occur to you how many subjects for the highest order of
poetry lie unnoticed all about us? Take that chandelier, for example,
the prismatic drops of which are dull in the shade, but sparkle with
all the colors of the rainbow in the gaslight. Might not those hidden
splendors be compared to that genius whose brilliancy is alone evoked by
Beauty's radiant smile?"

Marcus Wilkeson squirmed, and Matthew Maltboy felt uneasy, while their
friend was delivering this elaborate idea, and felt easier when he
reached the end in safety. Mr. Overtop himself shared in the sensation
of relief.

"Beautiful! beautiful!" cried Mrs. Slapman, in a species of rapture. "I
must repeat that delicious thought to Chickson. But not now." And she
looked inquiringly at Overtop, as if in expectation that he would utter
another new TRUTH immediately. That gentleman not happening to have one
on his tongue's end, Mrs. Slapman was kind enough to give him time for
reflection.



CHAPTER X.

INFIRMITIES OF GENIUS.

"Allow me to point out some of my friends, Mr. Overtop. Among them are
faces which you may have seen. If not, you will at least recognize
several of the names."

"But I must protest that I am monopolizing too much of your time,
madam," interposed Overtop, conscious that his neglected friends were
looking on awkwardly, and waiting for him.

"And I protest against your protesting," said Mrs. Slapman, with a merry
laugh. So saying, she motioned him to one of the front windows, and,
under the shade of heavy blue and gold curtains, commenced to point out
notable guests.

Mr. Overtop observed, first with regret and then with pride, that their
withdrawal into a corner elicited looks of surprise and curiosity, not
unmingled with envy, from the little group that hovered about the
refreshment table, and drank Mrs. Slapman's fine wines, and laughed and
joked together. He was glad to see that his two friends sauntered
through the parlors, examining the pictures and articles of taste which
caught the eye on every side; and that Mr. Quigg was engrossed in the
examination of some books on a centre table, opening them, and smoothing
their fair pages with his hand as if they were ledgers.

"You see that stout man with the double chin--the one drinking
champagne, to the left of the table? That is Mr. Scrymser, a gentleman
who has made several aeronautic excursions, and talked about a balloon
voyage to Europe last year. You may remember his portrait, and plans of
his air ship, in the illustrated papers."

"I do," said Overtop; "and also that he didn't go." "Precisely. Some
trouble about the currents, I believe. You note that small man, with the
sharp face--the one sipping a glass, to the right of the table? That is
Mr. Boskirk, inventor of the _'Submarine Summer House,'_ a species of
diving bell, which is to be owned and managed by a Joint-Stock Company.
I have promised to take a few shares in the concern."

"Excuse the digression, madam," said Overtop, "but ought not these two
gentlemen to change places in life? Is not the heavy one peculiarly
adapted to the diving bell, and the light one to the balloon?"

Mrs. Slapman smiled, and looked faintly surprised, as if the remark were
unworthy of her guest. "Probably you know that gentleman under the
picture of a landscape, talking very earnestly to another gentleman, who
seems to want to be getting away."

"The man with the long, curly, red hair? I know his face well, and,
though I have no further knowledge of him, am morally certain that he is
a social reformer."

"Why?" asked Mrs. Slapman.

"Because I never saw a man with long, curly, red hair, who was not a
social reformer. Men with red hair--the true carrot tint, I mean--have a
natural propensity for reform. Some of them repress it, but others give
rein to their inclinations, go into the reform business, and hang out
their curls as a sign to all mankind. And all mankind interpret it as
readily as they do the striped pole in front of a barber's shop."

"A striking thought, truly, and full of TRUTH," said Mrs. Slapman. "I
will mention it to Mr. Gormit. On reflection, however, I won't. I might
wound his feelings, for he is an exquisitely sensitive creature. As you
have ingeniously discovered, he _is_ a social reformer. At present he is
only known to the public as the editor of the 'Humanitarian Harbinger;'
but his select circle of friends are well aware that he is devoting his
ripened genius to the production of a work called the 'Progressional
Principia,' which will be in four volumes, and exhaust the whole subject
of social science. This immense undertaking is a favorite subject of his
ordinary conversation. He is probably, at this very moment, giving a
general outline of the book to that gentleman on his right.

"That slender young man with the Vandyke beard, cutting into a cake, you
may not need to be told, is Patching, the painter of those delicious
interiors which have been seen every year by those who had eyes to find
them, in obscure corners at the rooms of the National Academy of Design.
In short, Patching is the subject of a conspiracy in which the Hanging
Committee is implicated. But though professional envy may place his
works in the worst possible light, and for some time cast a shadow over
his prospects, an independent public taste will ultimately appreciate
his genius. Mark the melancholy that overspreads his features, as he
tastes that glass of sherry. Next to TRUTH, melancholy is the chief
characteristic of his style. In a miniature portrait which he painted of
me, last year, and which is regarded as a capital likeness, he
introduced a shade of sadness, which is, at least, not habitual
with me."

Mr. Overtop hastened to say, that of _that_ fact he needed no assurance.

"Without giving a minute account of all my guests, I may say generally,
that they include novelists, dramatists, actors, and musicians. Some
you may know by sight. The acquaintance of all you may make at a
future time."

At this strong hint, Mr. Overtop replied, that he should be only too
happy. He had by this time come to the conclusion that there never was a
more candid and delightful widow than Mrs. Slapman; and, furthermore,
that she was that rarity--a sensible woman--of which he had been so long
in search. Mr. Overtop mentally hugged himself.

"By the way, sir--you will pardon the impertinence of the question--but
to what profession do you belong?"

"I am a lawyer, madam," said he, fearful that the announcement would not
be well received. "Fayette Overtop, firm of Overtop & Maltboy."

Mrs. Slapman mused a moment, and said:

"It is a little singular, that, among my large collection--I mean
circle--of friends, there shouldn't be a single lawyer."

"As I am a _single_ lawyer, Mrs. Slapman, it is within my power to
supply that deficiency among those who are honored with your
friendship." Mr. Overtop thought, with some reason, as he finished this
remark, that he had never said a better thing in his life.

Mrs. Slapman's severe taste rejected Overtop's pun, but not himself, and
she was about to say that she should put him on the list for her next
_conversazione_, when another awkward interruption occurred, in
this wise:

Signor Mancussi was a gentleman with an Italian name and a perfect
knowledge of English, who sang bass parts in a church up town, and
enjoyed the reputation of having personated the chief Druid in Norma, at
an early period of the New York opera. M. Bartin played one of numerous
violins at the Academy of Music, and was believed to be kept down only
by a powerful combination. Three months before this New Year's day, both
of these gentlemen had volunteered their services, in company with many
other musical people, to give a grand concert in aid of a benevolent
enterprise. To M. Bartin, as a man supposed to know something of sharp
management, from his connection with the opera, was intrusted the
supreme control of the whole affair. It is due to M. Bartin to say, that
he tried to perform his laborious duties faithfully and with perfect
justice to his associates.

When, therefore, in ordering the printing of the gigantic posters which
heralded the concert, he directed his own name to be placed at the head
of the "eminent artists who had offered their services for the
occasion," and in type half as large again as any of the rest, he only
expressed a conscientious opinion of his superiority over all of them.
In this opinion his associates happened to disagree with him, each one
claiming that himself, and nobody else, was entitled to typographical
precedence.

Most keenly was the alleged injustice felt by Signer Mancussi, who stood
at the foot of the sloping list in letters less than an inch long; and
he had made a solemn vow to revenge himself on M. Bartin the first time
that they met after the concert. Their simultaneous appearance at Mrs.
Slapman's was that time. M. Bartin had been privately informed of the
Signer's intentions, and regretted that that gentleman's ridiculous
vanity should get the better of his judgment. Seeing him at Mrs.
Slapman's, M. Bartin avoided the Signer's presence, fearing they might
come into a collision disgraceful to the time and the place. The Signer,
for the same considerate reasons, kept shy of M. Bartin. After dodging
each other for a long time, they were at last brought, by accident, face
to face. M. Bartin was calm. Signor Mancussi tried to be tranquil, but
those small, lean black letters at the foot of the list rose vividly to
his mind; and, before he could check himself, he had whispered, or
hissed, between his set teeth, the word,

"SCOUNDREL!"

M. Bartin was taken unawares, but had sufficient presence of mind to
reply, "You're another," in a whisper, low, but freighted with meaning.

Whereupon the Signor responded, also under his breath, "You're no
gentleman." To this assertion, M. Bartin answered, with masterly irony,
"And you _are_ a gentleman, now, a'n't you?"

Up to this point the controversy had been pleasantly conducted in
whispers, and was unnoticed by the bystanders; but M. Bartin's last
insinuation had the strange effect of maddening the Signor still more.
He lost his self-control, and said, in an audible voice:

"You're only a scraper of catgut, anyhow."

M. Bartin, also oblivious of the proprieties, retorted, louder still:

"And what are you but an infernal screech owl?"

Cries of "Hallo!" "What's the row?" "Hush!" and "For shame!" rose from
all parts of the room, and the two musical gentlemen, conscious that
they had grossly misconducted themselves, stepped back a yard from each
other, and were immediately surrounded by several friends, and kindly
told that they were a pair of fools.

Mrs. Slapman and Overtop rushed to the spot. The latter measured the two
combatants with his eye, to see if he could safely undertake to pitch
both, or either of them, out of the room, if requested so to do by the
widow, and concluded that he could not.

Mrs. Slapman was much embarrassed by this painful outbreak. It was only
three weeks ago that M. Bartin had dedicated a new quadrille to her; and
but a fortnight since Signor Mancussi had sung four operatic airs
gratuitously at one of her musical and dramatic _soirées_. But respect
for herself and for her guests--especially for Mr. Overtop, of whose
talents she had formed an exalted opinion--pointed out her path of duty,
and she followed it. She stepped between the two disputants, and cast a
look of surprise and regret at each.

"I was hasty," said Signor Mancussi.

"And I was too impulsive," said M. Bartin.

"Then, gentlemen, if you would merit my continued friendship, please
make up your little difference, by shaking hands."

They recoiled from the proposition a moment, but, being pushed together
by their respective friends from behind, took each other's right hand,
shook it once feebly, and said distinctly, with their eyes, "We shall
meet again!"

"Very well done," said Mrs. Slapman, with the air of an empress,
tempered by a charming smile. "And let us hope that is the end of it.
Now, Mr. Overtop, allow me to offer you some refreshment."

Mrs. Slapman was in the act of handing a glass of champagne to the
favored Overtop, when an unearthly shriek was heard, which startled the
steadiest nerves. This shriek was repeated three times in quick
succession, and seemed to come from the sidewalk in front of the house.
There was a general rush to the window; but Wilkeson, Overtop, Maltboy,
and Quigg ran for the street at once, surmising the source of the cry.

There stood Captain Tonkins, in the sleigh, leaning against the
dashboard, holding in one hand an empty jug, and in the other his whip.
Around the sleigh were a dozen men and boys, who had been convoked by
the cry of "FELL' CITIZENS!" More men and more boys were seen coming in
the distance.

As the four lessees of the sleigh approached him, the Captain again
yelled, "FELL' CITIZENS!"

"For heaven's sake, stop, Captain!" cried Quigg.

A smile of contempt played upon the Captain's large lips, as, shaking
his whip defiantly at the agitated group, he shouted:

"I--I know ye. Don' think I doknowye. You're Mulcahy men, ev' moth's
sonofye; and you've come to this 'ere meet'n' to put down free-ee-dom of
speech. But yer carndoit. 'Peat it, yer ca-arn-doit. I d'fy ye. I
d'fy ye."

The Captain was a powerful man; and Quigg, as well as his companions,
singly and collectively, shrank from trying physical persuasion on him.
Besides, a crowd of people had gathered, who were greatly enjoying the
scene, and desiring its continuance for an indefinite period.

"FELL' CITIZENS!" continued the Captain, "now these vile tools o'
Mulca-a-hy silenced, warntellye I'm can'date School 'Spector in this
ward. Fuss place, I'm only reg'l can'date. Secun' place, I feel great
int'st mor'l wants of all your chi-i-ld'n, Masay they are my own
child'n, Go'bless'em. Third place, my dear FELL' CIT'Z'NS, if yer'll
jess step in ter Phil Rooney's 'fore ye vote, yer'll find some whi-i-sky
there; and that--that's bess arg'ment, after all."

Having reached the logical end of the first and last speech ever made in
public by Captain Tonkins, the Captain tumbled out of his sleigh, and
sprawled upon the snow; whereat the bystanders shouted for joy, and the
widow Slapman and two large windows full of guests shook with laughter.

"'S pla-at-form fall'n'?" asked the Captain.

"Yes," replied one of the citizens, humoring the idea; "the platform
gave way, and you tumbled to the ground."

"I--I'no' who di't," resumed the Captain. "Them Mulca'men. They saw-awed
posts." Here the Captain descried two widow Slapmans smiling on him from
a window, and gallantly kissed his hand at them.

His heavy body was tumbled into the rear of the sleigh, a buffalo robe
thrown over it, and Captain Tonkins was then unconsciously borne toward
the bosom of his family, in Minetta lane (a friend officiating as
driver), amid the cheers of his late audience.

The three bachelors were satiated with their day's experiences. They
raised their hats to Mrs. Slapman, still laughing at the window, and
walked smartly home. Mr. Quigg, deriving much comfort from the thought
that Captain Tonkins had not been paid for his sleigh, and would not be,
hastened to a neighboring stable, hired the only remaining team, and
continued his round of calls, giving one minute to each.



BOOK SECOND.

POLISHING.



CHAPTER I.

THE ENIGMA.

Marcus Wilkeson's new acquaintance throve rapidly. Mr. Minford's
dealings with the world had made him shy and suspicious, and he was at
first disposed to keep his benevolent visitor at a safe business
distance. But the heart of the thoughtful mechanic could not long resist
the kind and earnest sympathy of the man who sought to be his friend.

With a caution born of experience, however, Mr. Minford, before
admitting the new guest to his full confidence, called upon a number of
Wall street brokers and South street merchants, to whom Marcus had
referred him, and learned from them that that gentleman bore a
reputation of the rarest honor and purity of character. While giving
this united testimony, however, they all agreed in condemning Mr.
Wilkeson's eccentricity--insanity, one broker called it--in retiring
from business at the very moment when he was most successful, and had a
great fortune within easy reach. The fact that he had retired with one
hundred and fifty thousand dollars, instead of mitigating his offence in
the eyes of those critics, increased it. "Why," said a noted bear, "with
that amount of capital, and Wilkeson's first-rate talents--when he chose
to use them--he might have become the king of Wall street. It's a pity
so smart a fellow should make a wreck of himself." And the bear heaved a
sigh of commiseration; which was by no means echoed by Mr. Minford, who
gathered, from all this evidence, an increased esteem for his
benefactor.

From the time when he first crossed the threshold of the house on his
mission of mercy, Pet had looked upon him with the deepest reverence.
She had read, in story books, of mysterious gentlemen who went about
doing good merely for the pleasure of it, and who always reached the
scene of distress with fairy-like certainty, when everybody and
everything would have gone to ruin without them. Such a strange,
supernatural embodiment of goodness seemed Marcus Wilkeson to her
childish fancy. When he entered the room--and he was an every-day caller
now--she looked around with great anxiety to see that all the chairs
were in their proper places; that there was no dirt or dust visible
anywhere; that everything was in a state of order and cleanliness worthy
so exalted a guest.

She would run to take his overcoat and hat and cane, and place them as
carefully in the clothes press as if they had been the robe, crown, and
sceptre of a king. Then she would sit in her little chair, and take her
sewing, or knitting, or embroidery, and pretend to be all absorbed in
it, while she was listening eagerly to every word that Marcus addressed
to her father, and occasionally looked up at the face of their guest,
and thought how noble it was, and how proud she should be to call
him uncle.

When he spoke to her, as he often did, and asked her about her work, or
her companions, or her studies (upon the latter subject he had grown
quite curious, of late), she would feel that she was blushing, and
answer, with downcast eyes, and be half glad and half sorry when he
ceased to question her, and would then sit and torment herself by
recalling what she had said, and thinking how much it might have
been improved.

A sharp-eyed observer, had such been present, accustomed to studying
the human face and weighing motives, would have been puzzled to guess
the exact nature of the feelings which Marcus entertained for the
pretty, innocent young creature who sat there, always plying her little
fingers at some useful work. The puzzle would have been a still greater
one for Mr. Wilkeson himself. He felt a profound interest in Pet; and
she it was, and not the pale mechanic or his novel machine, that led him
daily up those three flights of rickety stairs to that humble room. He
said to himself, and he would have said to anybody who was entitled to
call upon him for an explanation, that he had always loved children, and
that the beauty and goodness of this child had deeply interested him. If
there was any other motive at the bottom of his heart, he studiously
concealed it from himself, as he would have concealed it from all
the world.

During these visits, Mr. Minford pursued his work without interruption.
The screens, which were at first jealously closed, were now thrown open,
and the inventor sat there in full sight of his visitor, laboring at his
great mechanical problem. Repeatedly he had begged of Marcus the
privilege of explaining to him the principles of the machine; but that
gentleman had always resolutely declined, for the reasons before stated.
And he had always observed that, a few moments after such refusal, the
face of the inventor would brighten up, as if with joy that he had not
parted with his secret even to one who held a fifth interest in it.

Of the wonderful results which the machine was sure to accomplish, Mr.
Minford was never tired of talking, nor Mr. Wilkeson of hearing,
although, at these times, his eyes followed the flying motions of Pet's
fingers, as if they were a part of the wonder of which the inventor
discoursed so glowingly.

Precisely what the machine was to effect, when completed, Marcus
Wilkeson would never have known, if he had been the most attentive of
listeners. Mr. Minford spoke in vague, general terms, that afforded no
clue to the mystery. He talked of old philosophers and mechanicians, who
had failed to discover an unnamed secret of Nature, because they had no
faith in its existence. Complete faith in the existence of the thing to
be discovered, as well as in the ability of the searcher to find it, he
regarded as indispensable conditions of an inventor's success.

The fact that the natural law which he was trying to demonstrate had
been pronounced an impossibility by professors of science, should weigh
as nothing in the mind of any man who remembered how every great
invention of the age had in turn been stamped "impossible" by those
dogmatizers in their academical chairs, their books, and their reviews.
Latterly (Mr. Minford confessed), the scientific theorists had been more
tolerant toward other people's inventions (they never invent anything
themselves); but with regard to the one upon which he was now engaged,
they had, with complete unanimity, decided that the thing could not be
done, and charitably called every man an idiot or a lunatic who
attempted to do it.

"The world has at last fallen into this belief," Mr. Minford would say,
bitterly, "and the few people with whom I am acquainted would all agree
in echoing these scientific opinions, if they knew what I am working at.
But no one shall know--excepting you, Mr. Wilkeson, to whom I should be
most happy to explain everything, if you would only let me. This
prejudice is too deep rooted to be readily pulled up. Even when my
invention is perfected, and has entered upon its boundless career of
usefulness, I know that it will be called a humbug; that people will
look at it, and see it in operation, and still say it is a lie. Yet the
time will come when the professors of science will feel proud to
expound, by formulas, the very invention which they have shown, by
formulas, to be an absolute contradiction of all the laws of Nature. As
for the rabble who make up the world (the inventor's lips curled as he
said this), they will be glad to atone for the mad hue-and-cry with
which they will follow me at first, by giving me, at last, limitless
wealth and immortal fame."

Mr. Minford's eyes flashed; and Marcus Wilkeson, looking up at them from
Pet's volant fingers, saw in their sudden glare what he took to be the
evidence of genius; but what, in an ordinary man, he would have called a
decided symptom of insanity.



CHAPTER II.

A DELICATE PROPOSITION.

One afternoon--when Mr. Minford was in excellent humor, having made a
great discovery in the course of his experiments the previous
night--Marcus thought it a good opportunity to propose something that
had been on his mind for a week past.

"Mr. Minford," he said, "will you excuse me for meddling a little in
your household affairs?"

"Not if you offer me any more kindness," returned the inventor, smiling
gratefully at his guest. "I am too much in your debt already."

"But you forget that I hold an interest in your invention, which you
would make me take. I consider that more than payment in full."

"So you have confidence in my success?"

"You have begun to inspire me with it, I confess," replied Marcus,
indulging in a little unavoidable flattery. "But--but it was not to
_you_ that I was about to offer any kindness," he continued, emphasizing
the personal pronoun, and looking hard at Pet, who bent patiently over
her work, and began to blush in anticipation that her name would be
mentioned, Mr. Minford raised his eyes from a ratchet which he was
finishing in a vice, and glanced with curiosity at the speaker.

"Do you not think, sir, that your daughter might profitably spare a few
hours every day toward the completion of her education? You have told
me that her studies were interrupted by a change in your circumstances,
some years ago."

"Certainly she might," answered the inventor, "and I thank you for the
suggestion. This machine has so completely engaged my thoughts, that I
had quite lost sight of the dear girl's education. I should say,
however, that I have been expecting at any moment to put the finishing
touch on my invention, the very first profits of which I shall spend in
employing a dozen teachers, if need be, for my little Pet. She shall be
an educated lady, if money can make her so. Sha'n't you, Pet?"

The young girl's fingers twinkled faster at her work. "I hope so,
father," said she.

"But, Mr. Minford, it is possible--barely possible, you know--that your
invention may not be completed, nor money be realized from it, for many
months; perhaps one or two years. Suppose--only suppose, of course--your
triumph to be postponed for even one year; your daughter will then be
one year older, and less fitted to acquire the accomplishments which you
desire her to possess, than she now is. Pardon the suggestion, if it is
an obtrusive one. I plead the sincere interest which I take in you and
her as my only excuse."

"No apology is needed, my dear sir," replied the inventor "I know and
appreciate your thoughtful kindness toward us; and I consider your
advice most excellent, especially as I intend to travel in Europe, and
take out patents for my invention there. It would be desirable to have
my Pet learn French, and also to improve her knowledge of music. You
understand the English branches pretty well, I believe, my dear. Let me
see--how long is it since you left school?"

"Three years, pa."

"True! true!" said the inventor, sadly. "It was when our troubles first
began, and I found it necessary to economize. But I did very wrong to
take you from school at that time."

"You forget, pa," replied his daughter, in a sweet, chiding voice. "You
wanted me to go on with my studies, but I said that you must save the
tuition money, and let me learn to keep house. Don't you remember, pa?"

"Yes, child; I remember. And I was selfish enough to allow you to make
the sacrifice. But you shall have schooling to your heart's content now,
whether you will or not. I agree with our dear friend, that no time
should be lost in resuming your education. I shall insist upon setting
apart two hundred dollars for that purpose. Enough money will still be
left to perfect my invention; and that, too, within a month,
notwithstanding" (he added, playfully) "Mr. Wilkeson's discouraging
remarks a moment ago."

"And I shall insist upon not taking the money, pa," said Pet, laughing,
but shaking her head, and patting her feet on the floor in the most
decisive manner.

"And I shall insist on furnishing the money," said Marcus Wilkeson,
folding his arms, and looking very much in earnest. "Let us see who can
be obstinate the longest."

"Then _I_ shall insist on your taking another fifth interest in the
invention. Upon that point I am immovable." Mr. Minford folded his arms
likewise, to imply that nothing could shake his granitic determination.

"Ah, now I see some prospect of a friendly arrangement. I will pay five
hundred dollars for another fifth, and esteem it a good bargain,
provided your daughter consents to let one half of it be spent on her
education. What do you say to that, Pet?"

"That I thank you very much for your kind offer," said the young girl,
whose eyes sparkled with gratitude; "but I must not accept it. Pa will
need all the money he can get to finish his work. I know it."

Marcus and the father exchanged pleasant looks, and the former said,
with an ill-assumed sternness:

"Then I don't advance another cent to him. I have named my conditions,
and they must be accepted. You have no idea, Pet, what a tremendously
obstinate fellow I am when I'm roused."

Nobody could have gathered the idea from his intensely amiable face at
that moment.

"I see, my dear, that we must yield to this determined man," said Mr.
Minford, winking at Marcus. "We shall never have any peace with him
until we do."

"You know best, pa," returned his daughter, who shrank timidly from any
further discussion with their guest.

Marcus Wilkeson was delighted with the perfect confidence which father
and child reposed in him. "Now that this little matter is happily
settled," said he, "I must tell you that I have already taken the
liberty of selecting a school for her."

"How can we ever repay your goodness?" said Mr. Minford.

"It is situated only two blocks away," pursued Marcus.

"Capital!" cried Mr. Minford; "for then she will never be far from
home."

"And if you want me at any time, pa, you can send for me, and I can be
here in a moment," said Pet. "It will be so delightful!"

"It is a private school, and, if your daughter prefers, she can be
taught separately from the other pupils. Miss Pillbody, the teacher,
tells me that she can give her an hour and a half in the morning, before
ten o'clock, and half an hour in the afternoon, after four o'clock."

"That will suit me exactly, pa," cried Pet, clapping her hands with
glee; "because then I can get your breakfast, dinner, and supper, and do
all the housework, without any interruption in my studies."

"Miss Pillbody thought the arrangement would suit you. She is a
perfectly competent teacher of French, Italian, the English branches,
music, drawing, the dead languages, and higher mathematics--quite a
prodigy, I assure you, for a lady not yet twenty-two years old." (Marcus
was addressing the father.) "I have been particular in my inquiries, and
all who know her speak in the highest terms of her remarkable
attainments, her ability to teach others, and her goodness of heart.
Your daughter will like her, without doubt."

"I know I shall," said Pet, with enthusiasm. "There are so many things
that I will learn, pa. First, music--"

"She has a fine piano, and plays splendidly," remarked the guest. "I
heard her."

"And French and Italian, to please you, pa--that is, if I can learn
them--and everything else that the lady will teach me. I shall be so
happy, sir."

The father and the guest smiled at the zeal with which this young
beginner proposed to grapple with the difficulties of human knowledge.
It was fortunate for her that a long series of hard and injudicious
teachers had not already sickened her of learning, and that she brought
a fresh and uncorrupted taste to the work.

Pet was thinking which one of her two dresses (equally faded) she should
wear to school, and what bit of ribbon or trimming she could introduce
in her old bonnet, to improve its general effect. Marcus Wilkeson was
marvelling at the confidence which the inventor and his daughter placed
in him, and at what there was about him to inspire it. Mr. Minford was
congratulating himself on having met with a man so generous and sincere
as this Mr. Wilkeson, and so entirely disinterested, too: "For,"
reasoned the inventor, "he cannot appreciate, as I do, the enormous
value of my discovery, and does not dream that his portion of it will
compensate him for his outlay more than a hundred times over."

The silence was broken by a sound as of heavy boots trying to move
softly on the stairs, and a subsequent modest rap at the door.



CHAPTER III.

AN AUXILIARY OF MODERN CIVILIZATION.

The boy Bog rapped, and entered. He was more neatly dressed than when
Marcus saw him on the occasion of his first visit. His patched and
threadbare coat was replaced by a neat roundabout jacket; his greasy,
visorless cap, by a flat felt hat, of which the brim was symmetrically
turned up; his tattered shoes by great cowhide boots. The boy was of
that age when the human frame grows with vegetable-like rapidity; and he
seemed to hare increased a little all around within three weeks.

The boy looked distressingly awkward in his new articles of attire. Had
he stolen them, he could not have appeared more guilty in presence of
the rightful owner.

"Why, Bog!" said Mr. Minford, reproachfully; "where have you been these
three weeks? Not called to see us once!"

The boy's confusion increased at this unexpected salutation, and he hung
down his head at the threshold of the door. Mr. Minford partly reassured
his bashful visitor, by springing forward, shaking him heartily by the
hand, and saying, with earnestness, "My good lad, I am always glad to
see you." Pet was also by his side in an instant, and warmly shaking the
other hand. "You look real nice, Bog," said she. Mr. Wilkeson also came
forward, and said, "Don't you remember me, Bog?" and clasped him by the
right hand when the inventor had relinquished It.

Bog bowed and scraped and blushed, and murmured "Thank you, very well,"
several times, confusedly, and at last settled down into a chair which
was pushed under him by Pet. Having crossed his legs, he began to feel a
little more at ease.

"You've been very busy of late, haven't you, Bog?" asked Pet, charitably
anticipating an excuse for the boy's long absence.

"You'd better believe it," replied Bog, not looking at her, but studying
the pattern of his left boot. "The day after I called here last, Mr.
Fink he got a job to stick up bills for a new hair dye, all the way from
here to Dunkirk, on the Erie Railroad. Well, he couldn't go, cos he had
lots o' city posting, ye see; so he hires me to do it for ten dollars a
week and expenses. The pay was good, he said, because the work was
extry hard. The bills was to be posted on new whitewashed fences, new
houses, and places generally where there was signs up telling people not
to 'post no bills.'"

"That was a singular direction, Bog," said Mr. Minford.

"So I told Mr. Fink," replied the boy; "but he said as how them were the
hair-dye man's orders. He said the idea was to make folks look at bills
who wouldn't notice 'em if they was on a place all covered over with
adv'tisements. They was to be posted up high and strong, so that the
owner of the property couldn't tear 'em down easy. Mr. Fink thought the
idea was a good one; but he owned it was a little risky."

"Perhaps that is why he didn't care to do it himself," suggested Marcus
Wilkeson.

"Mebbe," said Bog; "but I didn't consider it no objection. I told him I
was goin' to be a bill poster, and wanted to study every branch o' the
business." At this point Bog hitched his chair nervously, uncrossed and
recrossed his legs, as if he were conscious of trespassing on the
patience of his auditors, and then went on: "Well, I hurried home, and
saw that aunt didn't want for nothin', and then I started on my travels.
I should ha' called and seen you, Mr. Minford," he added, casting a side
glance at the inventor, "but I hadn't time."

"No excuse necessary, my good Bog," returned Mr. Minford, kindly.
"Business before pleasure, you know. But I am anxious to hear how you
got along with the job."

"Well, pooty hard," said Bog, emphatically, "though I made out to go all
through the State, and stick up six thousand bills, every one on 'em on
a new house, shop, or fence. Lemme see--I was chased seven times by big
dogs that was set on me, shot at three times"

"Why, poor Bog!" interrupted Pet; "you wern't hurt, I hope?"

"No, Miss Minford; I wasn't hurt," answered Bog, looking her in the face
for the first time since he entered the house, "though I got one through
my old cap."

"I'm _so_ glad it was no worse, Bog."

These words of sympathy from the young girl flustered the poor boy for a
minute. Then he rallied:

"Besides that, I was took up four times by the perlice, and was carried
afore justices of the peace. When they asked what I had to say why I
shouldn't be fined, I told 'em the whole truth about it, and they all
laughed except one, and said it was really funny, and they hadn't no
doubt the hair dye was a very good thing to take, but could tell better
after they had tried some. I told 'em that the hair-dye man would send
'em a dozen bottles apiece. Mr. Fink had d'rected me to say this, if I
was 'rested and brought afore a justice. The justices--that is, all of
'em but one--then said they didn't want to be hard on me; and as that
was my first offence, they would let me go without any fine. And they
did, after givin' me their names, and tellin' me to be sure to have the
bottles sent on jest as soon as could be. Ye see, they were all as bald
on the top o' their heads as punkins. But the fourth justice that I was
took to, he wasn't bald, but had a crop o' hair like a picter; and when
I offered to put down his name for a dozen bottles, he swore, and fined
me five dollars for what he said was a insult to the dignity of justice,
and five dollars for postin' up bills in places where it was agin the
law. Mr. Fink had give me money from the hair-dye man to pay fines, as
well as my board; so I didn't care. But--but I am talking too much."

Bog paused, because, on taking a stealthy observation around him, he
suddenly become conscious that his three auditors were listening
attentively to his story.

"Not at all, my dear Bog," said Mr. Minford. "I, for one, am curious to
know how this ingenious plan of advertising, in defiance of the law,
succeeded." Mr. Wilkeson expressed himself curious on the same point.
Bog, thus encouraged, continued:

"When I come home, after havin' stuck up six thousand bills in the
principal towns and villages along the route, I went right to Mr. Fink.
He shook hands with me, and ses he, 'Bog, your fortun's made.' 'How's
that?' said I. 'Why, ses he, 'you're the greatest bill poster I ever
heerd of. Professor Macfuddle" (that was the hair-dye man) "ses the
money has begun to pour in to him like sixty, and he is buyin' up all
the hair dye in the market, and puttin' his labils on it to supply the
demand. He has given me ten dollars to present to you, besides the
thirty for your wages.' Mr. Fink then give me forty dollars, and ses he,
'That a'n't all; for I have so much business now, I want a pardner, and
I'll take you, and give you one third of the earnin's.' I rather guess I
snapped at the offer; and we is goin' into pardnership to-morrer."

"Success to you," said Marcus and the inventor together. They saw, in
this illustration of his bill-posting talents, only an evidence of
business shrewdness that deserved encouragement. The young girl,
however, viewed it in the light of a violation of law, and therefore
could not conscientiously approve of it. Bog noticed her silence, and
guessed the cause.

"Thank you very much," said he; "but I forgot to say I a'n't goin' to do
any more business on the Erie plan. It a'n't right. Come to think it
over, I was sorry I done it; and so I told Mr. Fink; and he sed it
wasn't exackly reg'lar either, and he shouldn't never ask me to do
it agen."

"I am glad of that," said Pet, quietly.

Bog's eyes were instantly turned toward her with an expression of pride
and gratitude.

"Oh! of course, it is always best to obey the laws," observed Mr.
Minford.

"And I wouldn't for a moment be thought to advise anything else," added
Marcus Wilkeson; "though I never could help admiring pluck and sharpness
in business affairs."

"I am going to school again, Bog," said the young girl, hastening to
change the subject of conversation.

Bog looked up, surprised and pleased.

"Mr. Wilkeson," said Mr. Minford, "has taken another small share in my
invention, and pays me in advance for it. With that, Pet will finish her
education." The inventor would have made this disclosure of his private
affairs to no other human being but Bog; for this simple boy was the
only person he had ever known (excepting Marcus Wilkeson) who had not
openly ridiculed his mysterious labors.

"I am very glad to hear of it, sir," said Bog, awkwardly, but with an
air of profound respect. "How--how is the _ma_sheen, sir?" Bog asked the
question hurriedly, as if the machine were a sick person, whose health
he had until then forgotten to inquire after.

"Getting on finely, Bog. Only two or three springs, a cog here, a
ratchet here, a band at this point, and a lever up there (Mr. Minford
touched portions of the machine rapidly), and then look out for
a noise!"

"A noise!" repeated Bog, with juvenile earnestness.

"Not an explosion, my good fellow, but tremendous public
excitement--plenty of fame, mixed with a good deal of abuse at first,
and a _little_ money, I hope." The inventor's eyes flashed with the fire
that Bog had often seen; and when he emphasized the word "little," Bog
knew that he meant to express the boundlessness of the wealth that his
labors would bring to him.

"I believe it," said Bog, with sincerity pictured in every lineament of
his honest face. "I've always believed it."

"So you have, my dear Bog; and your faith has often cheered me," replied
the inventor, patronizingly. "By the way, how's your aunt?"

"Oh, yes; how _is_ your aunt, Bog?" asked Pet. "I had quite forgotten
her."

"She's pooty well, ony them rheumatics troubles her some. They're
workin' their way from her left arm into her head, aunt says. Week afore
last they was in her feet, and they've ben clear round her and goin'
back agen since then. Queer things, them rheumatics!"

"They are very painful, Bog, you know," said Pet.

"Yes; so aunt says." Bog did not add, as he might have truly done, "A
thousand times a day."

"Give her my kind regards, Bog, and say I will call and see her,"
continued Pet.

"My respectful regards also," added Mr. Minford.

"Thank you," said the boy; "but I guess you better not call, Miss
Minford. Aunt's a good woman, but kind o' cur'us, you know. Them
rheumatics has made a great change in her." Bog here referred, but made
no verbal allusion, to a certain friendly call which Pet had once made
upon his aunt, on which occasion that elderly lady had entertained her
visitor with a monologue two hours long, giving her a complete history
of the malady, from its birth in the right great toe, three years
previous, through all its eccentric phenomena, to that stage of the
disease which made it, as the venerable sufferer observed with, some
pride, the "very wust case the doctors ever heerd of."

Upon this fruitful theme, Bog's aunt could and would have discoursed for
hours longer, but for the appearance of Bog, when she sought a new
relief from her agonies by abusing that poor fellow, charging him with
neglect and ingratitude, finding fault with the food which he brought
home for her from market, and asking him when he was going to buy that
soft armchair he had promised her so long. Bog laughed, and explained
this outburst, by saying to Pet, "It's only aunt's rheumatics;" but the
old lady rejected the explanation, and went on scolding and faultfinding
with such increased fierceness, that Pet hastily put on her bonnet and
shawl, and bade the rheumatic grumbler "good-by," saying (which was
true) that her father would be anxious about her. Since then, the young
girl had kept away from Bog's aunt.

"I've bought her a nice, soft armchair lately," continued Bog; "but it
don't do her no good. The rheumatics seem to be getting wusser all the
time; and the thing that makes them wussest of all is calls. So I guess
it's better for aunt you should keep away, Miss Minford." Bog prided
himself on his tact in putting forth the last argument.

Then the conversation turned on Pet's education; Marcus and her father
fondly discussing what it ought to be, and Bog listening, and looking
stealthily at the young girl, still busy at her work; and they all sat,
happy in thoughts of the future, far into the twilight.



CHAPTER IV.

MISS PILLBODY.

Miss Pillbody's school was unknown to the pages of the City Directory.
It was never advertised in the newspapers, with a long list of "Hons."
and bank presidents as unimpeachable references. The bright little plate
on her door exhibited only "Pillbody," in neat script, and no hint of
the existence of a school within. The school was select to such an
extent, that not more than a dozen pupils were admitted to its
privileges; and so private, that, outside of that number, its name was
not known except among its graduates; and there were reasons why they
should hesitate to spread its reputation abroad. If strictly classified
among the institutions of the city, it might be termed, "A school for
female adults in good circumstances, whose early education had been
neglected."

The idea of this school originated with Miss Pillbody; and, like many
other valuable ideas, it was hit upon quite accidentally.

Dorcas Pillbody was the only daughter of a man who had amassed a fortune
in the oyster business, and had finally retired to a four-story house in
Sixteenth street, near the Sixth Avenue, where he purposed to spend the
balance of his days in the dignified enjoyment of his hard-earned money.
To this secluded oyster dealer, as solitary and happy in the midst of
his new grandeur as a bivalve in its native bed, came a plausible
stockbroker, who, after a series of interviews, persuaded Mr. Pillbody
to make a small investment in the "Sky Blue Ridge Pure Vein Copper
Mining Company."

The small investment unfortunately turned out well. In less than sixty
days, the shares that he had bought at ten per cent, sold at
seventy-five, and ultimately advanced to par. Delighted with this
unexpected result, Mr. Pillbody determined to stake largely (he had been
a wholesale oyster dealer, and was a man of comprehensive ideas). Again
his venture prospered. Mr. Pillbody, intoxicated with success, invested
his entire means in the purchase of two new mines in a Southern State,
whose unparalleled richness was certified to by mineralogists of great
reputation.

Just as Mr. Pillbody was making arrangements to bring these mines before
the public, his stockbroking friend, through whom he had effected the
purchase, left for Europe, and it was then discovered that Mr.
Pillbody's mines, if they existed at all, were ten feet under a swamp,
on property which belonged to somebody else, the title deeds of which
had been forged by the adroit operator. Mr. Pillbody could not endure
his misfortune. He wrote notes bidding farewell to his wife and child,
and commending them to the care of their relatives, to whom he had
always been bountifully generous. Then he went to Staten Island by
ferry, there took a row boat, proceeded to a celebrated oyster bed which
was the scene of his youthful labors, and drowned himself.

The widow and daughter (the latter twenty years of age, healthy, and
finely educated) applied to the two brothers of the deceased for
assistance, and were at once kindly received into their families, and
sat upon sofas and ate from tables purchased with money (never repaid)
of the late Mr. Pillbody. The two brothers, upon application to the
proper tribunal, were appointed executors of the estate, and were not
long in discovering that it was insolvent. Mother and daughter were
shifted about with almost monthly regularity from one house to the
other; and, though they tried to make themselves useful in every
capacity except that of a servant, they could not disguise the
conviction that their departure was an event a great deal more welcome
than their coming. The widow's talent for dressmaking (she had been a
milliner's apprentice before marriage), though of a high order, and
exerted to the utmost, failed to please. Miss Pillbody's thorough
knowledge of French, and the higher branches of an elegant education, as
well as her proficiency on the piano, and her sweet, simple style of
ballad singing, were worse than useless acquirements in her
uncles' families.

Her uncles were cold, stern, ignorant men, who had an intense hatred for
the mere accomplishments of life. Each had two daughters, who, with the
natural tastes of the sex, were not averse to the graces of education,
in the abstract, but could not bear to see them displayed by their
"stuck-up, pauper cousin," as they often termed that hapless young lady
in private conversation. A kind offer, which she was imprudent enough,
to make, to teach them all she knew, had set them against her from
the first.

The widow endured the cold looks and cutting words of her husband's
relatives, and even the reproaches which they heaped upon his folly,
with a widow's patience, and seemed content to remain a poor,
broken-down, dependent creature. Miss Pillbody, on the contrary, was
quick to discern and to resent, mentally, the uncivil treatment daily
experienced by her mother and herself. Had she been alone in the world,
she would have left those inhospitable roofs when the unkind hints first
began to be dropped, and trusted to the cold charity of strangers; but
she could not bear the thought of being separated from her mother. So
she endured her wretched state of dependence as best she could, while
she quietly sought for some means of employment that would yield them
a living.

Profiting by the lessons she had learned from her uncles, she did not
apply to any person who had known her father and received favors from
him in their better days. She asked no favor from any one--only work, at
a fair price. By diligent hunting, she found several opportunities. She
could earn four dollars a week by embroidering (at which she was
skilful, and had taken premiums); or two dollars and a half for
teaching French, twice a week, in a country seminary; or her board and
washing for inducting a family of four little musical prodigies into all
the mysteries of the piano. But these tempting offers would still have
left her mother with her uncles, and she spurned them all.



CHAPTER V.

A FRIEND IN NEED.

One day, as Miss Pillbody was riding up Broadway, in tending to visit a
Teachers' Agency for the sixteenth time, she accidentally made the
acquaintance of a middle-aged lady, who talked a great deal upon the
slightest provocation, trifled sadly with grammar and pronunciation, and
was excessively friendly and amiable. The diamonds in her ears and on
her fingers, and her overdone and gaudy style of dressing, were some
indication, though not a convincing one, that she was a woman of wealth;
and Miss Pillbody made bold to ask her if she knew anybody who wanted a
private teacher in her family.

The lady said she did not, "unless," she added, laughing very loud at
the humor of the suggestion, "you come into my family, and learn me
something."

The remark was unpremeditated, but, the moment it was made, the lady
seemed to be greatly struck with its force, and immediately followed it
up with the question, "Do you s'pose you could learn grammar and
pronunciation, and how to talk French, to a grown-up woman like me?"
Miss Pillbody thought the lady with the diamonds was joking, and laughed
by way of reply. "But I am ra-ally in earnest," continued the lady,
thoughtfully, turning three heavy cluster rings on her little left
finger. "Ye see, my early eddication was rather poor, 'cos I was poor
then; but my old man made a spec' in tobacco, last year, and now I'm
pooty well off, and live in good s'ciety. I kinder feel the want of
grammar, French, and a few o' them things. I like your face and your
manners, and if you can learn me 'em, I'll give you ten dollars a week
to come to my house one hour every day, and be my private
schoolmistress. It'll be rather hard, I s'pose, to learn an old dog new
tricks; but there is no harm a-tryin'."

Notwithstanding the oddity of the proposition, Miss Pillbody saw by the
lady's face that she meant what she said. "I think I understand English
grammar, and French, and the other branches usually taught at
academies," she replied, "and should be very happy to accept
your offer."

"Then consider the bargain closed," returned the lady. "Here is my
'dress" (handing her a card), "and you may come to-morrer mornin', at
ten o'clock, if that'll suit you. I have no children, and the old man
will be out at that time, and we shall be as snug as two bugs in a
rug, ye see."

Miss Pillbody was delighted with the sudden prospect of an honest living
thus opened to her, and she only feared that she would not be able to do
enough for her money. So, after she had again thanked the lady for her
kindness, she said:

"I think I could give you lessons on the piano, madam--unless you
understand that instrument better than I do."

"Lor' bless me, child!" responded the lady, holding up her thick, red
hands, and making the diamonds flash in the sunlight; "Lor' bless me!
them fingers is too stiff to play the pianner now. I've got a splendid
pianner, though, with an oleon 'tachment, three pedals, and pearl
keys--cost eight hundred dollar; and a nice piece of furniture it is,
you may believe. I let it be out of tune all the time. That's an excuse
for not playing when anybody asks me to, ye know. I don't mind tellin'
you this, because you'll be sure to find it out." And the lady laughed
very loudly at the confession of this small deceit, which Miss Pillbody
assured her was by no means confined to herself, but had been adopted by
her ingenious sex from time immemorial.

When the middle-aged pupil and her young teacher separated, as they did
on the arrival of the stage at an up-town jeweller's, where the former
got out to make a few purchases, Miss Pillbody felt as if she had known
her patroness for years, and that, in that coarse, showy, good-hearted
woman, she had found a true friend.

And so it turned out. However dull Mrs. Crull might be as a scholar, she
was quick-witted as a friend, and was constantly bestowing unexpected
kindnesses upon Miss Pillbody. Scarcely a day passed that the young
teacher did not receive from her pupil some little present--at times
rising to the value of a bonnet or a shawl. Mrs. Crull's all-embracing
kindness would have extended to the widow Pillbody too (in whom she was
much interested from the daughter's accounts of her), but for the shrewd
objection which she entertained against intrusting any one with the
secret of her pupilage. Miss Pillbody was often and particularly
enjoined by her not to tell any one--- not even her mother--of it; and
she saw the advantages of carefully observing the request. Great pains
were taken to keep Mr. Crull, and the housemaid, cook, and coachman,
from a knowledge of the mystery.

On Miss Pillbody's arrival daily at ten A.M., she was ushered into the
drawing room, where Mrs. Crull was always anxiously awaiting her. The
servant was told to say to callers that "Mistress is out" (Mrs. Crull
bolted at this trifling deception at first, but soon got used to it),
and the lesson began.

Mrs. Crull at first thought she was competent to learn her native tongue
and French together, in a series of half-hour lessons; but she soon
found out that the latter language had some eccentric peculiarities
quite beyond her powers of articulation, and that the spelling of a word
did not afford the slightest clue to the method of pronouncing it. After
floundering about heroically but hopelessly through the introductory
chapter of the first French grammar, she gave up the polite tongue in
despair, consoling herself with the reflection, that speaking bad French
was worse than speaking no French at all.

Miss Pillbody, who did not venture to advise her pupil on her choice of
studies, but left her to consult her own fancies undisturbed, heartily
approved of Mrs. Crull's conclusion, though she acknowledged that New
York society by no means took that view of the case, but tolerated bad
French with a courtesy worthy of France itself.

Mrs. Crull's studies were thereafter confined to English spelling,
grammar, and writing. She declared that she knew enough of arithmetic to
count change correctly, and wanted to know no more; and that geography
was of no earthly use to her. Besides, she never could remember the
names of places.

It was in pronunciation that Miss Pillbody's system achieved the
greatest good. Anxious to strengthen herself on that weak point, Mrs.
Crull set a watch on her language, and gave every word a good look
before she sent it forth. The effect of this constant introspection was
most happy; but, at times, Mrs. Crull would be thrown off her guard by a
rush of ideas, and all the old blunders would come out. Toward other
persons, she became, to some extent, a free teacher, and would, in the
most obliging manner, rectify their little errors of pronunciation, when
she was sure of them, and sometimes when she was not.

Of course, Mr. Crull was taken in training by her. That gentleman,
having made the discovery, early in life, that the less a man says, the
more he is supposed to know, had acquired a habit of taciturnity which
had become a second nature to him. His conversation consisted mainly of
grunts and nods; and it was astonishing how much he could express by
them. At any rate, they had "made his fortin', and he couldn't ha' done
more'n that if he'd talked like a house a-fire"--which explanation,
often repeated, was about the longest one ever known to be uttered by
Mr. Crull. Therefore Mr. Crull did not offer a large field for the
exhibition of his wife's new acquirements; but, by drawing him into
conversation, and then lying in wait for him, she found opportunities to
exhibit them for his good.

At first, Mr. Crull only stared and grunted. Then he laughed (his laugh
and Mrs. Crull's laugh were very similar, and were their strongest bond
of union). Once he said, "Wonder what's the matter with the ole woman?"
And, on a subsequent occasion, when Mrs. Crull had convicted him of
three mistakes in five words, he ventured upon this protracted remark:
"Guess the ole gal feels rather big since she got inter wot they call
good s'ciety, eh?" This was in allusion to the recent successful
speculation in tobacco, which had enabled Mr. Crull to buy the best
house in Twenty-third street, and take the second best pew in a
fashionable church, thereby placing Mrs. Crull at once within the
charmed circle of society.

As for himself, Mr. Crull took very little interest in society, having
observed that society had taken very little interest in him until that
"lucky turn in terbacker." Mrs. Crull would smile, and confess that
society had claims upon people, and that, when one is in Rome, one must
do as the Romans do. The moral of which proverb was, that Mr. Crull
ought to improve his speech. Mr. Crull replied, by asking "wot
difference 'twould make a hunderd years from now?" Which observation,
when Mr. Crull condescended to speak at such length, was a favorite
argument with him. But he little suspected his wife's secret.



CHAPTER VI.

BRANCHING OUT.

To Miss Pillbody, this quiet little arrangement proved a fortune indeed.
In two weeks after she became acquainted with her benefactress, she was
rich enough to take lodgings for her mother and herself at a decent
boarding house. The old lady entertained singular notions about the
rights of relationship, and held that it was the duty of her husband's
brothers to give them a home for the balance of their lives, and
regarded her daughter's desire to cut loose from her uncles, and be
independent, as a romantic and absurd notion, born of novel reading, to
which Miss Pillbody was a good deal addicted.

To gratify her daughter's whim, the widow Pillbody finally consented to
move into a boarding house, though she did it in the firm belief that
the good luck which the young lady had fallen upon would be of brief
duration, and they would be glad to come back to their relatives
again--their "natteral protectors," as Mrs. P. called them.

In their new residence, Miss Pillbody was happy. The money which she
earned weekly, and which was always paid to her in advance, was
sufficient for her own and her mother's board. In addition to other
presents, Mrs. Crull had forced small sums upon her acceptance, at
different times; and Miss Pillbody began to enjoy the odd sensation of
laying up money in a savings bank. Of the future she thought but little;
first, because she had no head for plans; and second, because Mrs. Crull
had promised to set her up in a private school; and Miss Pillbody placed
a blind trust in that lady. An accident, in this wise, caused the
fulfilment of the promise much sooner than was expected.

Mr. Crull, in getting out of a stage, one day, slipped on the step, and
dislocated his left shoulder. At his age, careful treatment was
necessary for an injury of that kind; and the family doctor peremptorily
forbade him to leave the house for a month. Mr. Crull therefore stayed
at home, growling like a bear in a cage, and solacing himself with the
determination to bring a suit for damages against the stage company, the
carelessness of whose driver (in Mr. Crull's opinion) caused
the accident.

Mr. Crull, like a good husband, would have nobody to nurse him, apply
his embrocations, and put on his bandages, but his wife; and Mrs. Crull,
like a good wife, cheerfully and tenderly performed that duty. But this
rendered necessary the abandonment of the daily lessons at her house;
for she was liable to be summoned to her husband's bedside at any moment
(he sent for her at every new twinge of pain); and, furthermore, it was
his custom to crawl out of his couch every half hour, and wander
restlessly through the house, until his wife, under the stern
instructions of the family doctor, sent him back to bed again.

Mrs. Crull, though not wanting in love for her disabled consort, was
loth to abandon her lessons. Having tasted of the Pierian spring, she
desired to drink deeply.

As Miss Pillbody could not continue her course of instruction at Mrs.
Crull's residence, without being detected in the act by the invalid lord
of that mansion; and as it was clearly impracticable for Mrs. Crull to
go to Miss Pillbody's boarding house, and turn the widow Pillbody out of
the little room which mother and daughter jointly occupied, the generous
pupil hit upon the idea of renting the ground floor of a house for her
teacher, setting apart one room as a schoolroom, fitting it up for her
in comfortable style, and helping her to get wealthy adult pupils enough
to pay all the expenses of the establishment, and a handsome
income besides.

Miss Pillbody thankfully accepted the noble offer; though she feared
that she would never obtain scholars enough to repay the money which
Mrs. Crull was willing to advance, and also to defray the current
expenses of housekeeping.

Mrs. Crull entertained no such fears. She had great faith in the
efficacy of advertising. She had personally known three quacks who made
half a million apiece out of patent medicines; and one woman who had
turned a common recipe for removing superfluous hair into an eligible
establishment in Thirty-second street, and a country cottage, with
sixteen acres under good cultivation. She believed that newspaper
advertising was the shortest and surest road to fortune; and the only
standing cause of quarrel between her and her husband was the latter's
incredulous "Pooh! pooh!" at her theory upon this subject.

At her request, Miss Pillbody drew up this advertisement, and caused it
to be inserted twice in three daily papers:

"To LADIES IN GOOD SOCIETY WHO DESIRE TO IMPROVE THEIR EDUCATION.--A
young lady who has moved in wealthy and fashionable circles, and has
received the best education that New York city could afford, having met
with reverses in fortune, would be happy to accept, as private pupils, a
few ladies whose early cultivation was, for any reason, neglected.
French, Italian, Spanish, vocal music, the piano, and all the English
rudiments, taught at reasonable prices. Particular attention paid to
pronunciation, spelling, and writing. Satisfactory references given
and required.

"N.B.--Pupils taught separately, and at different hours.

"For further information, address 'Educatrix, New York Post Office.'"

       *       *       *       *       *

There were many points in this advertisement to which Miss Pillbody's
modesty took exception; but Mrs. Crull insisted upon them in a way that
permitted no refusal. The little bit of bragging was the principal
thing, she said. She had always observed that people are inclined to
believe bragging advertisements, though they openly profess that they
can't be taken in by them. As for the satisfactory references, she would
undertake to give them, if they were required--which, of course, they
would not be, as the mere offering of them invariably sufficed. If
called upon, she would say that she knew a wealthy lady, the head of a
family, who had derived the greatest possible benefit from the
instructions of "Educatrix." If asked who she was, she could answer,
that "Educatrix" would on no account allow the name to be made known, as
it was a great merit of her system that she kept the names of her pupils
a profound secret from each other, and from the rest of the world. The
good sense of this regulation would at once be appreciated by all mature
ladies who wished to repair the defects of their early education. Her
own position as the mistress of an elegant mansion in Twenty-third
street, would (Mrs. Crull reasoned) entitle her statement to
ready belief.

The plan worked capitally. "Educatrix" received fifty answers to her
advertisement, and was busy more than a week calling at the houses of
those who desired an interview with her. The ladies were all in good
circumstances, and, without an exception, were the wives of men who had
made sudden fortunes, after the manner common in the United States.
Finding themselves elevated above the necessity of cooking their own
dinners and washing their own clothes, they keenly felt the want,
hitherto unknown, of an education which would fit them, in a measure,
for that society whose portals were now thrown wide open to them. Miss
Pillbody's gentle manners and polished ways gained for her the
confidence of all; and she could have had fifty pupils daily, at two
dollars a lesson (the fixed price), of one hour each, if it had been
possible to teach that number.

Acting on the advice of Mrs. Crull, Miss Pillbody decided to accept only
twelve pupils, for twenty-four lessons each, and devote six hours daily
to them. This arrangement would give her six pupils a day; and the
twelve would complete their course in about two months. Then she could
take twelve more, and so on. It was plain, from the success of the first
experiment, that there would never be a scarcity of pupils.

Mrs. Crull then rented the first floor and basement of a suitable house
in a quiet neighborhood, furnished it nicely, hired a grand piano for
the front parlor, and turned over the premises and their contents to her
young teacher. Miss Pillbody brought her mother to their new home, a
fair share of which had been set apart and fitted up expressly for her.

The old lady admitted, with some reluctance, that the house was not
badly furnished, and that her daughter's prospects might be worse than
they were. But who was this mysterious woman, that took such an interest
in her daughter? What was her motive? she would like to know. And why
was she so anxious to avoid her (Mrs. Pillbody)? To which questions her
daughter responded, as she had done fifty times before, that her
teaching was strictly private, and that none of her pupils would visit
her, except under a pledge of the profoundest secrecy. Mrs. Pillbody
shook her head doubtingly, and said, "We shall see," adding that she
only hoped they would be as comfortable there as they were at Uncle
John's and Daniel's, that was all.

The school throve. The pupils came with great punctuality at their
different hours, and were unknown to each other and to the world. The
secret of the school would never have got abroad, but for the incaution
of a certain Mrs. Brigback (wife of a man who had been connected with
the City Government for two years on a nominal salary, and retired
rich). She was so delighted at the progress which she made in the
English rudiments, and in the French (being able to ask for bread, or
fish, or concerning a person's health, in that language), that she could
not refrain from confidentially advising another lady (the wife of a
street contractor, suddenly opulent) to take a few lessons from the same
accomplished teacher. The street contractor's wife was perfectly
indifferent to society, and had no wish to remedy the defects of her
early education. She promised secrecy, and the next day told the story,
at the expense of her friend, to a mutual female acquaintance, who
passed it on with embellishments to a third, who amused a fourth with
its narration; and so it went through a succession of confidential
people, until, one day, it became the subject of conversation in a stage
in which Marcus Wilkeson was riding. He could not avoid hearing it; and,
although the two ladies (themselves shockingly astray in their grammar)
laughed at the absurdity of the thing, Marcus Wilkeson thought it was a
capital idea. A plan which he had been idly revolving in his mind for
the education of Miss Minford, began to take shape. The inventor (he
reasoned) would not be likely to object to a strictly private school for
his daughter, if the teacher were a lady of correct principles, and
highly educated.

Upon the last point, Marcus Wilkeson determined to satisfy himself. So
he addressed a note, through the General Post Office, to "Miss Pillbody,
New York City," requesting the privilege of an interview on business, at
the residence of the lady, the exact location of which she was asked to
designate.

The letter was advertised (Miss Pillbody's address being unknown to the
carrier), and, about two weeks after it was written, an answer came back
to Mr. Wilkeson, at his house, giving information as to the whereabouts
of the lady, and appointing the time for an interview.

Mr. Wilkeson called, and in five minutes' conversation was satisfied of
Miss Pillbody's moral and intellectual qualifications as teacher, and
thought himself very fortunate in securing a vacancy among the pupils
(caused by sudden illness) for Miss Minford. With what perfect
confidence the suspicious inventor, as well as his simple-hearted
daughter, accepted the frank offer of their friend and benefactor, we
have already seen.



CHAPTER VII.

THE LITTLE PUPIL.

It was a pleasant winter's morning, when Mr. Minford and his daughter,
and their singular friend, made a formal call on Miss Pillbody, by
appointment. The inventor had overcome a difficulty in his machine, by
introducing a cam movement, and was in excellent humor. As he walked
along the streets, he said that the snow and the sky and his future all
looked bright to him now. Of the two former objects his assertion was
obviously true, and Pet enjoyed the shining scene, as youth, health, and
innocence always do, without reference to the future.

A few minutes' walk brought them to Miss Pillbody's private schoolhouse.
A pull at the bell summoned a stout, red-faced servant girl to the door.
To the question, if Miss Pillbody was in, she said, "Yaas, sir, ef yer
plaze" (Miss P. had vainly endeavored to correct her English), and
ushered her visitors into the reception parlor, or schoolroom.

A pleasant place it was, and nicely warmed with a smouldering coal
fire, the coziness and comfort of which, were fitly reflected from the
red carpet, and red curtains, and red plush covered furniture. The grand
piano, hired for use, gave the room that completely furnished appearance
that nothing but a piano can give. A book of instruction, open at a
passage which strongly resembled a rail fence through a rolling country,
showed that inexperienced hands had recently been pounding the
instrument. There was no sign of a school or any side, excepting a small
blackboard, which had been hastily thrust into a corner, and which bore,
faintly traced in chalk, a sum in simple division.

The visitors sat down in the warm red chairs, and looked around the room
but a moment, when Miss Pillbody entered by a door connecting with the
rear parlor. She bowed gracefully to Mr. Wilkeson, and was by him
introduced to his two companions. To the father she was profoundly
respectful, and to the daughter tender and affectionate, grasping her
hand closely, and smiling a welcome upon her.

Pet was instantly fascinated with her future teacher. There was
something lovable not only in her intelligent face, pale with the
protracted labors of her daily life, but in the infirmity of her eyes,
for she was shortsighted, and could see objects distinctly only by
nearly closing the lids. This peculiarity, not disagreeable in itself,
won upon Pet's compassion, and made her feel more at home in the strange
lady's presence than if she were conscious that a pair of full-sighted
orbs were looking at her, and accurately noting her defects.

Miss Pillbody's occupation, for some weeks past, had given her a new
idea of the value of time, and she proceeded at once to business,
without wasting a single word upon the weather. In less than five
minutes, she had, by artful inquiries and a winning voice, found out the
exact range and extent of Miss Minford's acquirements, and agreed with
the father that a further education in the English branches was
unnecessary at that time (with the exception, perhaps, of an occasional
exercise in reading), and that his daughter might devote twenty-four
lessons to French and the piano, with hopes of success, provided she
could study and practise several hours a day at her own home.

Mr. Minford replied, that she could study French at home to her heart's
content, but he had no piano. Whereupon Mr. Wilkeson took the liberty of
suggesting that it might be possible to borrow one, at a moderate rate,
by the month, and set it up in their front room. Miss Pillbody applauded
this idea, and it was instantly agreed to.

"For certain reasons, which I will not now mention," said Mr. Minford,
"I am anxious to hurry up her education."

"By the way, what is your first name, my dear?" asked Miss Pillbody. "It
is quite awkward to call you Miss Minford, you know."

The inventor answered for his daughter. "Her name is Patty, miss; and we
call her Pet, for short, instead of Pat, which would be hardly
appropriate."

"A pretty name," said Miss Pillbody; "and she _is_ a pet, if I mistake
not." The teacher looked archly at Mr. Minford, and then affectionately
at the daughter, through her half-shut eyes. "I promise you she shall be
a pet here, provided, always, she learns her lessons like a good girl.
We always insist on that first." The teacher waved her hand with
magisterial authority as she spoke, but accompanied the act with a
laugh, which made Pet laugh also.

During this conversation, Mr. Minford had dwelt upon his machine in an
undercurrent of thought; and an idea just then occurred to him, which he
was desirous to test immediately. He therefore rose, and said that they
would not detain Miss Pillbody any longer, and that his daughter would
call and receive the first lesson at any time which that lady
would name.

"Her hour will be from nine to ten o'clock every other morning, and from
three to four on alternate afternoons," said Miss Pillbody. "It is now
half past ten," she added, consulting a watch. "Mrs. Penfeather, my
eleven-o'clock pupil, is put of town to-day: so Miss Minford--that is.
Pet--can commence now, and I will give her until twelve o'clock. This
will save time."

"Good!" remarked the inventor. "The great point is to save time. For
certain reasons, as I said before, you have none to lose in educating my
daughter. And, that we may not detain her a moment, Mr. Wilkeson, we
will leave, if you please."

Marcus Wilkeson was glad to do this, for the conversation had already
reached its natural terminus. He therefore followed Mr. Minford's
motion, and grasped his hat and cane.

"You are not afraid to stay here, child?" said-the inventor.

"Oh, no," replied Pet, with a happy laugh. "I already feel quite at
home."

"And she shall always feel so here, I assure you, sir," added Miss
Pillbody.

Mr. Minford's new idea occurred to him again with fresh force, and he
hurriedly said: "Good-by, Pet. Be a good girl, now, and see how much you
can learn in your first lesson." Then he kissed her, jerked a bow at
Miss Pillbody, and made his exit into the hall. Marcus Wilkeson added
his best wishes for the progress of the little scholar, bade her and her
teacher a pleasant farewell, and followed Mr. Minford.

The child ran after them to the front door, and exchanged good-bys with
them until they had turned the corner of the next street, when she
entered the schoolroom, and straightway began her first lesson in the
accomplishments of life.



BOOK THIRD.

THE TRAIL OF THE SERPENT.



CHAPTER I.

"ONE--TWO--THBEE--FOUR."

Pet studied hard, and made great progress. Her father and Marcus
Wilkeson watched her developing education with equal pride, and
constantly applauded and encouraged her.

The inventor did not know one word of French beyond the colloquial
phrases with which everybody is familiar; but he would ask his daughter
to read the crisp and tinkling tongue to him for hours at a time. He
would hammer softly and file gently as she read, so that he might not
lose a word of it. He would hear no news but that which she translated
from the triweekly French paper published in the city. With correct and
careful tuition at Miss Pillbody's, these constant exercises at home,
ambition, and an excellent memory for languages, Pet was soon able not
only to satisfy her teacher, but to make herself understood, in a small
way, by a real French woman, Mdlle. Duchette, the forewoman of a candy
store on the nearest business avenue.

Pet followed every lesson on the piano at Miss Pillbody's by three hours
of daily practice at home. Marcus had hired for her a small piano,
warranted to be just the thing for beginners. In other words, the keys
and pedals were nearly worn out, and could not be much further damaged
by unpractised hands and feet. This instrument was squeezed in between
the bureau and the washstand, filling up the last spare place in the
crowded little room. Pet wanted to have it set up in the next apartment,
and practise there in the cold, alone; but neither her father nor Marcus
would listen to that proposition for a moment.

Mr. Minford's nerves were extremely sensitive to sound. They vibrated to
it, like Aeolian harp in the wind. He placed pianos, cats, fish
peddlers, and hand organs on precisely the same footing, as nuisances.
Nothing but the ruling desire to make a lady of his child, could have
steeled him to the endurance, hour after hour, of her monotonous
"One--two--three--four," and the discordant banging which accompanied
those plaintive utterances.

The permanent discords with which the piano was afflicted, or the
striking of a false note, would sometimes set his teeth on edge; but he
would only hold his jaws tightly together, beat time with his head, and
smile a hypocritical approval. Sometimes he would torture himself
playfully, and make Pet laugh, by running a musical opposition with his
three-cornered file--a small but effective instrument.

Marcus Wilkeson was equally tolerant of Pet's practice, and there was
little false pretence in the patience with which he listened. Happily,
he was not all alive to sounds. Screeches and harmonies were pretty much
the same to him. Since he was a boy, he had been trying (privately) to
sing, or whistle, "Auld Lang Syne," and had not yet mastered the first
bar of it. He watched Pet's little fingers moving up and down the piano
with mechanical repetition, and was truly interested in the sight--for
two reasons: first, the motion was graceful; and second, she was
acquiring an accomplishment which he held in the highest esteem, because
Nature had put it entirely beyond his reach.

Sometimes, but not often, Bog was a listener at these rudimental
concerts. Since Marcus had come to the relief of the family, Bog felt
that his mission was ended. He knew that it was a piece of pure
hypocrisy to call once or twice a week to see if he could be of any
service, when he was aware that Mr. Minford had hired a woman, who lived
on the floor below, to do all their household work, marketing, cooking,
and general errands. He knew that Pet, on these occasions, asked him to
go for a spool of thread, or a paper of needles, or a package of candy,
merely to gratify him with the idea that he was making himself useful.
When he came into the room tidily dressed, and highly polished as to his
boots, he blushed even redder than he used to. It was not the
acquisition of a little money by Mr. Minford that had exalted his
daughter in the-eyes of Bog, but the French and the music. These two
accomplishments seemed to lift her into an upper air of delicacy and
refinement, for which Bog felt that his miserable education and clumsy
manners quite unfitted him. After Bog had performed some little invented
errand for her, she would reward him with a short exercise, and Bog
would sit, with open mouth and crossed legs, staring at Pet's face and
hands alternately, and beating time with his large red hands on
his knees.

Bog knew the negro songs of the period, and admired them. He would have
liked to hear Pet play them, but feared she would think his musical
taste very bad if he asked her to. Her "exercises," as she called them,
he considered something perfectly wonderful, and belonging to a class of
scientific music which a poor fellow like him could not be expected to
enjoy. But, like many an older and more worldly-wise person, he
pretended to be thrown into raptures by it, and, at every pause in the
playing, would say, "Beautiful! a'n't it?" "That's prime!" or
"Splendid!" or "The best I ever heerd." Sometimes, at his earnest
entreaty, Pet would read a page of French to him; and he would listen
with awe and reverence, as to a beautiful sibyl prophesying in an
unknown tongue.

Bog always paid these visits in the afternoon. Marcus Wilkeson always
called in the evening. The two had met in the house rarely since New
Year's. When they accidentally met on the sidewalk, within a square or
two of the house, as they sometimes did, Bog colored up as if he were
guilty of something. Once Marcus Wilkeson saw Bog at a distance, turning
suddenly down a side street, as if to avoid him; and Marcus wondered
what could be the matter with the boy. By industry and tact, Bog made
money in his new partnership, and had already laid up a snug sum in the
savings bank.

Between Pet and her teacher a feeling of sisterly affection had sprung
up. Miss Pillbody turned with a feeling of relief from her dull elderly
pupils, stiff in manners, and firmly set in their habits, to this fresh,
impressible young creature. What she did conscientiously to the others
for pay, she would have done to Pet for love, had not her bills been
settled in advance. Whenever Miss Pillbody had a spare hour or two,
afforded by the indisposition of one of her older scholars (from
excessive fatigue occasioned by a dinner party or other laborious
hospitality the night before), she would send the red-headed servant to
Mr. Minford's, and notify Pet, who was only too happy to go to her
beloved teacher, and take an extra lesson.

Mrs. Crull could not be called a promising pupil. Her intentions were
excellent. Her patience and her good nature were unbounded. She was
always punctual at her lessons. Neither cold nor storm could keep her
away. While she was in the schoolroom, she would resolutely deny herself
the pleasure of indulging in more than a dozen episodes on the fashions
and bits of scandal which she picked up in her cruise through society.

With the exception of these little wanderings, she would go through her
recitations with as much correctness and docility as a sharp-witted
child of twelve years. She felt a childlike pride in gaining the
approval of her teacher. When she was under Miss Pillbody's
instructions, and knew that every mistake would be courteously but
firmly corrected on the spot (the teacher's invariable custom), she kept
such a guard upon her tongue that she sometimes read or conversed in
long sentences without making a single error. But when she was out of
Miss Pillbody's sight, there were certain blunders which she fell into
as surely as she opened her mouth.

Sometimes Mrs. Crull and Pet would meet on the doorsteps of Miss
Pillbody's house--the one going in and the other coming out--or on the
sidewalk in the neighborhood. Mrs. Crull would catch the child by both
hands, smack her heartily on the cheek (no matter how public the kiss),
and then a conversation something like this would follow:

"How bright and pretty you look this mornin', my darlin!" (Mrs. Crull
could not remember to pick up the "g's," except under Miss Pillbody's
eye, and then not always.)

"Thank you, Mrs. Crull; I am quite well. How are you, marm?"

"Oh! smart as a trap. Haven't known not a sick day these ten years."
(Mrs. Crull was weak on the double negatives.)

"How do you get along?" From motives of delicacy, Pet never added, "in
your studies."

"Well, I don't mind tellin' you, as you are my confidential little
friend." Here Mrs. Crull would look around cautiously, to be sure no one
was listening. "The other studies isn't so hard, but grammar knocks me."
(Mrs. Crull's nominatives and verbs were irreconcilable.)

Then Pet would say, telling an innocent fib:

"I don't observe anything very wrong, Mrs. Crull."

"Ha! ha! there you are flattering me, you little chick. I know, or
think, I have improved a good deal with our dear Miss Pillbody; but a
smart little scholar like you must see lots of mistakes in me."

At this point, Pet would blush, and murmur, "No--no!"

"Humbug!" Mrs. Crull would say. "I know my incurable faults, and I know
that you know 'em. But Lor' bless you, child! there is plenty of ladies
in good s'ciety" (Mrs. C. always slurred on the first syllable of that
word) "who talk as bad as me. Their husbands, just like mine, got rich
suddenly, you see. I tell you, I was 'stonished to find how many of 'em
there was. They are thicker'n blackberries. I found out something else,
too." Here Mrs. Crull would shake her head knowingly, like one who had
discovered a great truth.

Pet would know what was coming, but would ask: "Pray, what is it, Mrs.
Crull?"

"Why, I found out that, if you give good dinners and big parties, and
keep a carriage, and have a conservatory, and rent a pew up near the
altar, your little shortcomin's in grammar isn't no objection to you.
'Money makes the mare go.' However, eddication, as Miss Pillbody says,
is a good thing of itself, and I shall keep on tryin' to get it."

These conversations always ended by an invitation to Pet to visit Mrs.
Crull. "I'll have our carriage call for you," she would say, "at your
father's house. We have no children, you know, and the old man would be
very good to you; though, of course, it wouldn't do to hint about the
school. But I can trust my little friend for that. Come, now,
won't you?"

But Pet always modestly declined these kind invitations. She knew her
father's pride, and his aversion to the patronage of rich people.



CHAPTER II.

THE FALLING BOARD.

One afternoon, Pet had been taking an extra lesson from Miss Pillbody,
and had started homeward with a light heart, humming to herself a
musical exercise which she had practised for the first time that day. A
few doors from Miss Pillbody's, some workmen were repairing a wooden
awning. The framework was covered with loose boards, which the
carpenters were about to nail down. A feminine dread of danger would
have induced Pet to make a wide detour of this awning; but her mind was
so fully occupied by the musical exercise, that she walked, unheeding,
right under it.

"Look out! look out!" shrieked a chorus of voices overhead, accompanied
by a rattle of falling boards. Pet sprang forward just in time to escape
one of them, and to catch another on her shoulder. It touched her
gently, not even abrading her skin, for its fall had been stopped midway
by a young man.

"Stupid!" "Silly creature!" "The girl's a blockhead!" "Where's her eyes,
I wonder?" shouted the carpenters, after the manner of carmen and stage
drivers, when you narrowly escape being run over by _their_
carelessness, at the crossings.

"Shut up!" said the young man, savagely. "Why the d---l don't you keep
your boards where they belong, instead of tumbling them down on people's
heads?--I hope you are not hurt, miss?" (in a gentle voice).

"Oh, no; not at all. I am sure I thank you, sir, very much." Pet
blushed, and hurried away.

The young man and the carpenters then exchanged the customary abusive
epithets with each other, which might have resulted in something more
serious (though such verbal encounters rarely do), but for the desire of
the young man to overtake the young girl whom he had saved from a
bruised shoulder, or a worse accident. Shaking his fist at the four
jeering carpenters, and muttering a farewell execration between his
teeth, he rapidly followed Pet, and soon came up with her.

"You are sure you are not hurt?" said he. "Those scoundrelly workmen!
I'll thrash one of them yet."

Pet was confused by the second appearance of the young man at her side,
though she knew that he would follow her; even her brief experience
having taught her that it is not in the nature of man to do a kindness
to a woman, without exacting a full acknowledgment for it.

"No, sir; I am not hurt the least bit," she replied, looking in his face
no more than gratitude and civility required. Here she would have
stopped, but she feared (charming simplicity of girlhood) that the
young man would, some future day, get into trouble with the four
carpenters. So she added, timidly: "As for the workmen, sir, they were
not to blame. It was all my fault, running into the danger. I--I beg,
sir, that you won't say another word to them."

This was a long speech for timid Pet to make to a stranger, and she
blushed fearfully at the end of it, and wished that the young man
would go away.

"They deserve a thrashing, every one of them," said he; "but, for your
sake, I let them go." The young man spoke in a sweet voice, and his
manner was respectful. Pet had observed, in several hasty side glances,
that he was nicely dressed, and not ill-featured, in all except the
eyes. But had his eyes been large and handsome, instead of small and
forbidding, she would have desired his absence all the same.

"You say you are not hurt," he continued; "but you may be, without
knowing it. I have heard of people receiving serious injuries, and never
finding them out till they got home. Have you far to go, miss?"

"Only two blocks farther," said Pet, turning the corner.

"The very route I was going," observed the young man.

Although Pet felt that the young man's company was unnecessary and
disagreeable, she did not like to tell him so. She kept silence until
she reached her home, when she said, "I stop here, sir." She would have
added, "Good-by, sir," or "Thank you, sir," or something equivalent, but
instinct checked the expression, and she darted into the entry (the door
being accidentally ajar), and shut the door after her, before the young
man could say a word. Although the door was shut, he raised his hat
respectfully as one often does on Broadway _after_ he has passed a
female acquaintance upon whom he suddenly comes--the salute being
received and acknowledged with a stare by the next lady, or ladies,
following after. The young man then noted the number of the house,
nodded satisfactorily to himself, and strolled very leisurely along the
street, as if neither business nor pleasure had urgent demands upon him.



CHAPTER III.

SNEAKING JUSTIFIED.

Neither Pet nor the young man saw the awkward figure of an overgrown
boy, who had followed them at a distance, on the other side of the
street, keeping the trunks of trees between them and him. This clumsy
figure, upon which a suit of good clothes and a new cap looked strangely
out of place, was Bog.

The boy Bog was often seen lounging about the neighborhood of Miss
Pillbody's school; and if the policeman on that beat had not known him
to be an honest lad from childhood, he would have watched him as a
suspicious character. From whatever part of the city Bog came home after
a bill-posting expedition, he invariably made a circuit past Miss
Pillbody's school, keeping the other side of the street always, and
never looking at the house. He walked hurriedly by, but came to a sudden
stop at a grocery store halfway up the second block beyond, and there he
would stand, partly covered by an awning post, and look strangely
around, letting his eyes fall occasionally, and as if by accident, on
that house. If his object in these singular manoeuvres was to see Miss
Minford, he always failed to improve the opportunity when it offered;
for, as surely as Pet came out from the school, or turned into the
street to go toward it, so surely did the boy Bog walk off whistling in
another direction. Nobody can understand the motives of Bog's conduct,
except those who have done the same thing in their youthful days.

On this eventful afternoon (eventful as a starting point in a history of
sorrows), Bog had taken his usual circuitous route home from a
profitable professional tour on the east side of town. Reaching the
grocery store, he sheltered himself behind the friendly post, and
commenced looking up and down the street, and across the way, and into
the sky, always winding up his mysterious observations by a single
glance at Miss Pillbody's front door. When Pet came out, after her
musical exercise, the boy Bog flushed up a little, turned upon his
heels, and walked quickly away. He had not gone a dozen steps, before
the shouts of the workmen and the sound of the first falling board
reached his ears. He suddenly turned about, and saw a young man catching
the next board that fell. His first impulse was to run to Pet's
assistance; but a fatal spell chained his feet.

Poor Bog had dreamed a thousand times, by night and by day, 

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