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 OUT OF THE SNOW 
 
 AND OTHER 
 
 ^Sfopies and St^el^ehesf 
 
 
 
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 Author of *"rilfe Ghoat of a Dog;" "From Bad ta';|^or8e ;" 
 " Hard iMBtottfii*' Thompson's Turkey," &c., .^^^^^ ^ 
 
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CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 OUT OF THE SNOW 5 
 
 Illustration.—" In a death-like sleep or 
 
 torpor." 9 
 
 A FAMILIAR FIEND 29 
 
 A PERFECT FRAUD ; 43 
 
 Illustration.—" It was a touching sight 
 
 viewed from under the bedclothes.".. 57 
 
 A TERRIBLE CHRISTMAS. The same storv 
 
 told by different ^ arsons 65 
 
 \ ■ 
 
 MY REPORTER. A story of an elopement... 103 
 
 Illustration.— He said " I don't care if 
 I do." 109 
 
 THE GHOST OF A COAT 127 
 
 " S. E. B, H." A Story of a Secret Society.... 151 
 
 Illustration.—" Pointing their pistols 
 
 at the book." 163 
 
 ■ -■ , 23517 ■■■'■■ 
 
.' \ 
 
 i * 
 
OUT OF THE SNOW. 
 
 If 
 
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 it 
 
 OUfOF THE SNOf 
 
 ^TT was Christinas Eve, and a lipfht snow was 
 ^^1 filling the air with fleecy particles, whirling 
 and wheeling gracefully about and gradually 
 covering the streets and house-tops with its pure 
 white robe. It was early in the evening, although 
 the lamps had long been lighted, and the fitful gas 
 disseminated its feeble rays on the thronged and 
 busy streets of Montreal. Along St. James and 
 Notre Dame streets merry crowds thronged the 
 way and laughed and sang as they proceeded 
 homeward laden with Christmas gifts, or burdened 
 with loads of good things intended to grace the 
 Christmas table on the morrow. The great crowd 
 kept surging on, crowding the highways and 
 branching off" into St. Lawrence. Bleury and other 
 side streets. Gay sleighs spun with lightning- 
 like rapidity over the frozen snow, and the cheery 
 tinkle of their bells broke out on the frosty air. 
 The whole world seemed filled with gladnet^s, and 
 
8 OUT OF TIIR SNOW. 
 
 one cf^^ntle murmur of joy seemed to break out from 
 the (Tushinc^ crowd. All hurried aloni^ so intent 
 on the universal joy or cr^neral pleasure that they 
 failed to notice one sad form, one crouchinc: fipfures 
 one hreakinc^ heart, on<^ human frame thrown down 
 in the utter exhaustion of its helplessness, lyin^ on 
 the frozen snow in front of the parish church of 
 Notre Dame, with its weary head resting on the 
 iron rails. 
 
 It was -a jyirlish figure, crouched up for 
 warmth, and but thinly covered by the light 
 summer dress and scant shawl. Her head was 
 uncovered, and the drifting snow was forming in 
 little heaps on the dark auburn curls which fell in 
 heavy masses over her shoulders. The face was 
 wan and pinched with want and suffering ; but its 
 clear oval outline, fair complexion and general 
 contour, gave evidence of beauty under more favor- 
 able circumstances. And there she laid in a 
 death-like sleep or torpor, with the wild crowd 
 surging past her, and the snow falling in masses 
 about her and threatening to envelope her in its 
 cold embrace, and usher her into the spirit-land 
 through its frozen medium. 
 
OUT OF THE SNOW, 
 
 ''IN A DEATH-LIKE ULEEV Oil TOllVuH:' 
 
OUT OF THE SNOW. 11 
 
 I Mr. Alfred Johnson stood before his desk in 
 the warm countinff-houso in his employer's office 
 on St. Paul street, on that same Christmas Eve, and 
 reviewed his own private affairs for the past year. 
 He was young, probably not over two or three 
 and twenty, fair-haired, with a fine open forehead 
 and clear blue eyes, which however, had rather a 
 weak expression. He W£is making up his accounts ; 
 and his brow grew contracted and his manner 
 more and more serious as the balance slowly, but 
 surely, showed itself to be on the wrong side. It 
 was his own private account with his employer 
 which, as cashier, he could " bridge over " during 
 the year, but which would now have to stand the 
 severe test of the books being balanced by the 
 book-keeper, an old enemy, and the personal 
 scrutiny of his employer, a most exact and carefal 
 man of business, who, although he had every con- 
 fidence in Alfred, whom he had known from child- 
 hood, would, afs a matter of business, make minute 
 examination of the accounts at the end of the year, 
 so as to see exactly how his affairs stood. 
 
 The account was finished, and, examine it how 
 he would, Alfred found that the balance was over 
 five hundred dollars against him — clearly money 
 
12 OUT OF THE SNOW. 
 
 of his employer's which he had misappropriated 
 during the year. He was by no means what 
 would be called a bad young man. He was a good 
 son and brother, and had worked up to his present 
 responsible position by steady industry and strict 
 integrity; but during the last twelve months he 
 had fallen into bad company, had got into the 
 habit of spending the evenings from home, and 
 was seldom to be found in the family circle after 
 tea. He had got accustomed to dropping into 
 saloons for "a quiet drink and a friendly game of 
 euchre," and had also learned to play billiards — a 
 very expensive game to learn, as beginners usually 
 discover. His means soon proved inadequate to 
 the new demands made on his purse, and then — 
 hard pressed for ready money — he was tempted to 
 "borrow" $10 from the funds entrusted to his 
 care. 
 
 Of course he intended to return it. Few men 
 in his circumstances ever commit a cool, deliberate 
 robbery. The devil is very insidious v/ith them. 
 It is only the " use " of the money they 
 want "for a few days," not the money itself; 
 and it is so much easier to take it te porarily 
 irom the funds committed to their care than 
 
OUT OF THE SNOW. IS 
 
 to try to borrow from a friend, and ran the risk of 
 "being refused or of havinj? to explain for what 
 purpose the money is wanted. Youth is very 
 hopeful. The darkness of to-day is sure to be 
 dispelled by the imaginary brightness of to-mor- 
 row, and the present difficulty is in fancy over- 
 come by the success of the future. " I shall be 
 able to return it in a little while '* is the bait with 
 which the Evil One catches most of the youthful 
 defaulters, and is the one hardest for them to 
 resist. 
 
 So it was with Alfred Johnson. He felt con- 
 fident of being able to return that first $10 ; but^ 
 the day of return never came, and the first false 
 step being taken, he kept sinking deeper and deeper 
 into defalcation, driven madly onward by the 
 hope of being by some means able to make restitu- 
 tion, until now he stood involved beyond all hope 
 of extrication. 
 
 He closed the book with a heavy sigh and sat 
 own to think about it. Look at it anyway he 
 would, there seemed but one path out of the diffi* 
 'culty and that was to plunge deeper in. To take 
 A few thousands from the large sums of which he 
 Jiad control and escape to the United States, where 
 
14 OUT OP THE SNOW. 
 
 he thought, he could make a fresh start in life and 
 in time be able to return to his employee all he 
 had defrauded him of. But that way meant dis- 
 grace to the name he bore, and which had been 
 handed down to him stainless by an honest and 
 upright father. It meant shame to the grey hairs 
 of his mother, and sorrow to his proud and loving 
 sisters. It meant more than that. It meant des- 
 truction to all hopes of another and a different love 
 wh^'^-h had, almost without his knowing it, been 
 growing up in his heart. He might prosper in 
 the States, but he would be disgraced and friend- 
 less in Canada. And yet, to stay and be publicly 
 tried as a defaulter ! He knew that was the alter- 
 native. He knew his employer to be a kind but 
 just and honest man, who would not overlook his 
 misconduct, lest it should prove a bad example to 
 others. The problem was too hard to solve, and he 
 sat with|his head buried in his hands, thinking 
 bitterly over it. 
 
 At last he was resolved. The evil day of dis- 
 covery could not be put off much more than a week, 
 as the books would be balanced at the opening of 
 the new year, and then discovery was inevitable. 
 He, therefore, determined to make his preparations 
 
OUT OF THE 8N0\^. i$ 
 
 at once, break the sad intelligence to his mother 
 and start for the United States before the year ran 
 out. Settling the matter thus in his mind, he 
 wrapped himself in his overcoat, and pulling 
 his cap well down over his ears, went out into 
 the night. 
 
 His way was up St. Sulpice street, and as he 
 bent forward against the keen air at the corner of 
 Notre Dame street, he stumbled against a crouch- 
 ing figure and almost fell. Stooping to see who 
 it was lying exposed to the storm, Alfred noticed 
 that it was a girl. The face was pale and wan, 
 and frost marks were coming out on the cheeks 
 and nose. She raised her head for a moment when 
 he struck against her, but quickly returned to her 
 recumbent position and seemed to be thoroughly 
 numbed by the cold, and fast freezing to death. 
 Alfred was kind-hearted, almost to a fault, and 
 the sight of this lone suffering girl moved him 
 greatly. He shook her gently by the shoulder and 
 tried to raise her. 
 
 " Get up, get up, my girl ! If you lie here 
 much longer you will freeze to death." The girl 
 stirred a little when he spoke to her ; and as he 
 
1ft OUT OP THE SNOW. 
 
 continued shaking her, she, with his assistance, 
 rose to her feet. 
 
 " Why don't you go home ?" 
 
 She gazed dreamily about for a minute and, 
 then said slowly and sadly, 
 
 " I have no home. " 
 
 " Where is your father ?" 
 
 •' I don't know. I don't know if I have one 
 now." 
 
 " Where is your mother ? Why don't you go 
 to her? ' 
 
 " I am going to her, I hope. She is in heaven." 
 
 '' Have you no friends ? " 
 
 " None," 
 
 Alfred was puzzled and scarcely knew what 
 to do. The girl stood half leaning against the iron 
 rail, and half supported by him ; but her momentary 
 strength seemed fast giving way, and he could feel 
 her weight growing heavier on his arm. What 
 should he do with her ? Should he take her to the 
 Police Station, or to the Hospital, or to some 
 charitable institution ? The idea of abandoning 
 her in the snow never occurred to him for 
 a moment. His difficulty was settled by a passing 
 carter calling out gaily, ^ 
 
OUT OF THE SNOW. 17 
 
 - Sleigh, Sir ?" 
 
 " Yes," he said as an idea occurred to him. 
 *' Take me to No — Dorchester Street." He thought 
 as he half lifted the girl into the sleigh, and ten- 
 derly supported her, "Fll take her to mother, she'll 
 know what to do with her, and to-morrow or next 
 day we will see what can be done for her. It 
 would be rather too hard to let a girl freeze to 
 death on Christmas Eve." 
 
 Mrs. Johnson was very much surprised at the 
 strange companion her soi brought home with 
 him ; but she was a kind-hearted woman, although 
 weak and foolish, and the poor girl was well at- 
 tended, and gently and tenderly nursed. 
 
 But want and exposure had too surely done 
 their work, and brain fever quickly set in. The 
 doctor, whom Alfred called to attend her, gave no 
 hope of her recovery. Nature was too much ex- 
 hausted, he said, and although she may rally a little 
 and regain her reason, the system was too much 
 shaken for her to regain her health, and she would, 
 probably, sink from debility. The girl remained un- 
 conscious all night and the next day, not raving, 
 but moaning and muttering incoherently ; and 
 
18 OUT OP THE SNOW. 
 
 Mrs. Johnson and her daughter nursed her tenderly 
 
 and carefully. 
 
 # # # # # # 
 
 It \Tas nearly a week alter Christmas, and Mrs. 
 Johnson was sitting by the bedside of the un- 
 conscious girl when Alfred came in from business, 
 looking unusually carewori. ; for the time had al- 
 most arrived when he could no longer conceal the 
 state of his accounts at the office, and he had de- 
 termined on leaving for the States on the next day. 
 He glanced toward the bed and asked how the 
 poor girl was. 
 
 "A little quieter," replied his mother, "and 
 she has just fallen into a light sleep." 
 
 " Mother, I want to tell you something. Some- 
 thing that will make you ashamed of me, perhaps, 
 but you must know it some time, and it is best 
 you heard it from me." He drew a stool to her 
 feet, and hiding his face in her lap, told her all. 
 Mrs. Johnson was a weak-minded woman who 
 had long looked up to her feon for advice and gui- 
 dance, and she was totally unable to give him any 
 good wholesome counsel, to persuade him from 
 his mad desire to run away. She saw only the 
 danger of his remaining, and already pictured her 
 
OUT OF THE SNOW. 
 
 19 
 
 darling placed in the felon's dock and condemned 
 to a prison cell. All her love and fears were 
 roused for her son, and she not only approved of his 
 intention of going to the States, but besought him 
 through her tears to go at once and not risk the 
 chance of discovery by remaining in Montreal. 
 
 ** Go, go at once, Alfred," she said, " You have 
 done wrong, but you are young, and can and will 
 repent and pay back all you have taken. Don't 
 run the risk of Mr. Homespun's discovering you, 
 for I know he is a hard man. although a just one, 
 and he will have no mercy. " 
 
 "Do not ffo," said a sweet, clear voice, and 
 mother and son both turned instinctively toward 
 the bed from whence the voice proceeded, and saw 
 the girl they thought asleep sitting up, with the 
 light of reason once more in her eyes, but an 
 excited, wild look on her face. "Don't go ; don't go,'* 
 she continued, speaking rapidly and with increas- 
 ing excitement ; " I have heard all ; forgive me 
 for listening ; I did not mean to, but I could not 
 help it. I know you have been good and kind to 
 me. I remember your taking me out of the snow, 
 and I know gentle hands have been nursing me. 
 It comes like a dream, but I cannot put it all toge- 
 
20 OUT OP THE SNOW. 
 
 ther. lam suieyou have a good heart, and did 
 not intend to do wrong. G-o to your employer ; 
 tell him what you have done, ask him to forgive 
 you and give you another chance to regain his 
 confidence. If he is a good and Christian man he 
 will be merciful with a sinner as he hopes for 
 mercy hereafter from the G-reat and merciful G-od 
 who says '' .Tudge not that ye be not judged." 
 ^ Oh ! don't do this thing. Don't bring shame on the 
 name you bear, sorrow and disgrace on those who 
 love vou. I have geen it. I have seen a wiPes 
 heart broken and a daughter almost reduced to 
 «hame when all might have been well, with a 
 little courage to speak the truth and a little faith 
 in God to judge the intent and not the deed. Go 
 to your employer, tell him all, throw yourself on 
 his mercy and he will forgive you. I know he 
 will. I can see it clearly. Tell him the prayers of 
 the poor girl " 
 
 Her voice had grown strong with the excite- 
 ment which has working within her ; her face 
 had flushed and as she bent her body forward, her 
 earnest, pleading tones, her ferv^ent impressive 
 manner seemed like one inspired, and her 
 two auditors sat spell bound, as if listening to the 
 
OUT OF THE SNOW. 21 
 
 words of prophecy. She broke off abruptly. Her 
 lace blanched, her gaze became fixed and rigid, 
 a faint sigh broke from her lips, quickly followed 
 by a small stream of blood, she fell heavily back on 
 her pillow and before mother or son could reach 
 the bedside, the soul of the poor outcast had winged 
 its way to her maker. 
 
 Three days passed. The poor friendless girl was 
 placed in the stranger's vault, for no one knew her 
 name or whence she came. Nothing by which shii 
 could be identified was found on the clothing she 
 had on. On an old and torn handkerchief, whi^'h 
 had once been fine, was marked in floss silk the 
 word " Marion," that was all, and by that name 
 she was entered on the funeral register. Alfred 
 alone accompanied the body to the cemetery, and 
 ns he stood beside the plain unornamented cofiiii, 
 a strange superstitious feeling came over him and 
 he thought he could hear that sweet earnest voice 
 saying again " Go to him, throw yourself on his 
 mercy ; he will forgive you, I know he will." 
 
 He could not shake off the feeling and that 
 night in his dreams, he again saw the animated and 
 inspired face, and again the words rang out in his 
 
22 OUT OF THE SNOW. 
 
 ear *'Tell him all. If he is a good and Christian 
 man, he will be merciful to a sinner as he hopes 
 for mercy hereafter." 
 
 Next morning he went to the office with a 
 firm determination of telling Mr. Hoinespun all ; 
 but somehow he put it off, and it was not until after 
 dinner that he found courage to enter Mr. 
 Homespun's private office and ask him for an 
 interview. Even then he was almost afraid and it 
 was only with the greatest effort that he at last 
 managed to get out in broken, disjointed sentences 
 a confession of his guilt. He did not spare himself 
 but owned that his intention had been to take 
 more and go to the States ; but he did not tell what 
 had caused him to change his determination. 
 
 Mr. Homespun sat and listened in wonder, 
 almost doubting the evidence of his senses. He had 
 known Alfred from childhood and regarded him 
 almost as a son ; but, there was a good deal of the 
 Spartan about him, and he thought it was his duty 
 to Society to expose the crime and ingratitude of 
 the one whom he loved best on earth, next to his 
 only daughter Jessie. 
 
 "Alfred," he said — and the old man's voice was 
 so pained and broken, that Alfred scarcely 
 
OUT OP THE SNOW. 23 
 
 recognised it — " what you have told me has given 
 me greater pain than anything I have heard since 
 it pleased the Almighty to take my own son from 
 me. Had anyone else told me, I should not have 
 believed it ; but vour confession leaves no room for 
 doubt. I have loved you, Alfred, and I hoped 
 some day to reward your services with an interest 
 in my business ; but now I must do my duty." 
 
 The old man paused for a moment and ere he 
 spoke again the door leading into the outer office 
 was thrown open and a bright sunny-haired girl 
 of about eighteen or nineteen, came running in 
 and pulling a chair close up to the cheery wood- 
 fire burning in the grate put her feet on the fen- 
 der, and, giving a little lady -like shiver took the 
 poker and began stirring up the fire vigorously 
 declaring she was freezing to death. 
 
 " Come you old papa. " she said looking over 
 at Mr. Homespun, •' no more business to-day. I 
 have come to capture you and take you off sleigh 
 riding. No excuse," she continued — going over to 
 his chair and throwing her arms around his neck 
 — " or I'll pull all your dear old whiskers out. " 
 I As she stood behind her father's chair she 
 I shot one rapid meaning glance at Alfred, but he 
 
24 OUT OF THE SNOW. 
 
 stood with his head bent down gazing intently on 
 the carpet, and the hot blood rising rapidly in his 
 face. It was hard, A'ery hard, he thought, that Jes- 
 sie should be the first to hear of his disgrace. 
 
 The girl saw at a glance that there was some-^ 
 thing wrong and, looking from one face to the 
 other, she left her lather's side and crossing to Al- 
 fred laid her hand on his shoulder and said, half- 
 playfully. " What is the matter, has Alfred been a 
 naughty boy and that cross old papa of mine been 
 scolding him V Well I think ii serves him right 
 for he needs greatly to improve his manners. I 
 think, Sir, you might have spoken to me when I 
 came in. And your conduct lately has been shame- 
 ful, you haven't been to see me for over a w^eek. 
 Dont make any excuses about business for I 
 shan't believe them ; and don't eA^er speak to me 
 
 again." 
 
 Her tone was half bantering, half earnest, but 
 the look which accompanit-d them was full of mean- 
 ing, and, as Mr. Homespun looked up and saw it 
 it let in a flood of light on his mind, and he began 
 to wonder at his own blindness ; for Alfred and 
 Jessie had grown up together as brother and sis- 
 ter, and it had never occurred to the old man, totally 
 
OUT OF THE SNOW. 25 
 
 absorbed in his one child that the brotherly and 
 sisterly feeling might grow into a stronger and 
 deeper affection. Now he saw in an instant that, 
 on one side, at least, it had ; and his duty did not 
 seem so clear to him. 
 
 " Jessie," he said, very gravely, " I cannot go 
 with you to-day. Alfred and I have a very 
 serious matter to talk over, and I cannot leave the 
 office." 
 
 " Well, bring Alfred with you and you can 
 scold him all you wish. I shan't ask you to spare 
 him." 
 
 At last she had her own way and her father 
 consented to go, but nothing was said further 
 about Alfred's accompanying them. As they were 
 leaving the room, Mr. Homespi a said with great 
 emphasis to Alfred, who had remained motionless 
 during the short dialogue, 
 
 " I shall expect to meet you here on my re- 
 turn. Do not leave the country without seeing* 
 me again." 
 
 " Leave the country ! " exclaimed Jessie, turn- 
 ing very pale and then suddenly flushing up a- 
 gain, " Where is he going ? " 
 
 " I think," said Mr. Homespun, speaking very 
 
2G OUT OF THE SNOW. 
 
 slowly and evidently with difficulty, " that the 
 prospect Alfred has of advancement in the United 
 States, is too good for me as a friend, to advise him 
 to refuse it. His absence may be lengthy ; perhaps 
 he may remain there altogether." 
 
 He laid great stress on the last few words, and 
 Alfred felt that he was pardoned, but with the 
 condition that he left Canada, never to return. 
 
 Jessie said nothing more, but walked out of 
 the office, evidently wanting to be alone for a few 
 minutes, if possible, for she looked very much as if 
 she wished to indulge in that great female luxury, 
 a good cry. 
 
 When she had left the office, Mr. Homespun 
 turned to Alfred and said : " You shall go to the 
 States. I have a friend in New York who will 
 take you into his office, and you will have 
 another chance. Be careful that you make good 
 use of it this time. You will leave to-mor- 
 row, and must never return to Canada." He went 
 towards the door, and as he was passing through 
 shook his head sadly and said to himself : " I 
 am not at all clear that I have done my duty, but 
 
 " He did not finish the sentence, and followed 
 
 Jessie to the sleigh, 
 
 ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ m 
 
OUT OP THE SNOW. 27 
 
 Alfred went to the States and entered on his 
 new duties. His lesson had been a sharp and 
 severe one, but he profited by it. He had no idea 
 of remaining in the States all his life ; and by 
 steady industry and good conduct, in two years he 
 so raised himself in his employer's estimation, that 
 he was promoted to a very responsible position 
 and sent to Canada on special business by the firm 
 he was with. 
 
 It is very easy to see how it ended. Jessie 
 had not changed during the two years, and Alfred 
 had found out by absence how dear to him Jessie 
 was. And Mr. Homespun ? Well, he did not 
 like it much at first ; but he w^ent to New York 
 and satisfied himself that Alfred's conduct durino* 
 his two years' exile had been perfectly exemplary, 
 and then when Jessie teased him for his consent 
 to their union, he could not resist long, and seemed 
 to have no dilficulty at all in seeing clearly that 
 he had " done his duty." 
 
 Ah ! dear, it's twenty years ago now since 
 that Christmas night which proved so eventful 
 in the career of Alfred Johnson, and Mr. Home- 
 spun has long since been "gathered to his fathers," 
 
S8 OUT OF THE SNOW. 
 
 and Alfred succeeded to the business and is now 
 one of our leading, most prosperous and most 
 honored merchants, and talks of retiring and " tak- 
 ing it easy." For Mr. Homespun kept his secret^ 
 and no one — not even Jessie — ever knew how near 
 the brink of ruin he had stood Jessie is a sober 
 little matron now, and many young olive branches 
 adorn the family tree. But whenever Christmas 
 Eve comes around, there always returns to Alfred 
 the memory of that Christmas Eve, twenty 
 years ago, when he had stood on the verge 
 of disgrace ; and there comes to him a vision 
 of a plain marble cross with the word " Marion "^ 
 on it ; and he thinks of the unknown, friendless 
 girl, whose good advice saved him, and who came 
 to him " Out of the Snow." 
 
« ♦ » ■ ♦— B 
 
 A FAMILIAR FIEND. 
 
 CHRISTMAS WITH A PLUMBER. 
 
A FAMILIAR 
 
 CHRISTMAS WITH A PLUMBER. 
 
 ^j KNOW him, you know him, everybody who 
 is a housekeeper or who has lived for any 
 length of time in a house with " modern 
 improvements," knows him. He is indigenous to 
 large cities which boast of " the finest water power 
 on the continent," as nearly every city supplied 
 with water works does ; but he maintains a foothold 
 in almost every town or village embraced in the 
 circle of civilization. He is one of the necessities 
 of modern civilization ; and is only wholly absent 
 from barbarous countries, or those lone and 
 neglected places where lead i>ipes are unknown, 
 where bath tubs are not, where cisterns never have 
 a chance of becoming demoralized — because there 
 are no cisterns — and where man uses water as 
 nature provides it, and does not require '" modern 
 improvements" to introduce it into various portions 
 
32 A FAMILIAR FIEND. 
 
 of his dwelling place. In short, the familiar fiend 
 is a plumber. 
 
 Now, in the abstract, I like plumbers — provided 
 I do not have to pay their bills. There is a peculiar 
 kind of enjoyment in watching a plumber work — by 
 the hour, for a friend or neighbor ; but the pleasure 
 is considerably alloyed if he is working for you, and 
 you know that all the time he wastes will be 
 charged in your bill — by the hour. Nature seems 
 to have specially constructed a plumber to work by 
 the hour, and he makes it a point of honor never to 
 disappoint nature in her kind intention. There 
 is a calm quiet dignity about a pulmber that is 
 inspirative of respect. There is a repose about him, 
 and a sense of self-sustained and quiescent power 
 which no other mechanic possesses ; and he appears 
 to consider it part of his mission in life to impress 
 the rest and meaner portion of mankind with the 
 greatness and importance of repairing dilapidated 
 taps, reconstructing disorderly water pipes, filling 
 up holes in ancient cisterns, and performing other 
 duties in the plumbing line — by the hour. 
 
 He is a noble and stupendous creature ; but, 
 like most great luxuries, he is expensive. G-reat 
 bodies move slowly, and the plumber is no excep- 
 
A FAMILIAR FIEND. 3'J 
 
 tion to the general rale. He is slow and dignified 
 in all his movements. No one ever heard of such 
 a thing as a plumber in a hurry. He could not be 
 in a hurry, and, therefore, he is expensive, for 
 time is veritably money with him, as he always 
 -works — by the hour. 
 
 On the morning before Christmas, some years 
 affo, when 1 descended to breakfast, I found the 
 house in a state of confusion, consequent on the 
 ■cistern in the bath room having overflowed, and a 
 young Niagara was just flooding the house. 
 
 " Turn off' the water,'' said I to Seraphina 
 Angelina, the sharer of my present sorrows and 
 future hopes. 
 
 " Impossible," replied that most amiable of 
 women. " The last plumber who was here fixed 
 the water so that it cannot be turned off* except at 
 the main." 
 
 That was a fact. A plumber had done some 
 repairing a few weeks t>efore and had carefully 
 turned the water on, but neglected to make any 
 provision for turning it off* again. I, therefore, 
 set all the taps in the house running, instituted a 
 bailing: brigade, and went for the plumber. 
 
 I went by the minute ; he came by the hour. 
 
84 A FAMILIAR FIKND. 
 
 He came slowly. He looked at the overflow- 
 ing cistern so long and earnestly that I thought 
 he had some new and mysterious method of mend- 
 ing dilapidated cisterns by mesmerism, or magnetic 
 influence. 
 
 I was about to inquire what process he used 
 when he said, very calmly, gravely and deliberately^ 
 
 " There's something wrong here." 
 
 I agreed with him. 
 
 After another pause, and another look at the 
 cistern, he said, 
 
 " It's running over," 
 
 As the bath room was about an inch deep in 
 water, this fact was self-evident, and I did not 
 think it necessary to make any remark. Once 
 more he mesmerized the cistern, and then, with 
 the emphasis which a great mind uses when an- 
 nouncing the discovery of a vast and momentous- 
 fact, he said, 
 
 " It wants to be turned off"!" 
 
 He had got it. That ponderous intellect had 
 at last grasped the idea, in all its immensity, that 
 the water should be turned off" to stop the cistern 
 from overflowing. Then he proceeded to carry 
 out his great idea — by the hour. 
 
A FAMILIAR FIEND. 35 
 
 Slowly, and with great doliberation. he took 
 off his coat, carefully folded it up, and laid it on 
 the side of the bath. This did not seem to suit 
 him, for, after critically regarding it for a few min- 
 utes, h« unfolded it and carefully hung it on a 
 peg behind the door — by the hour. 
 
 Then he looked at the place under the bath 
 tub where the pipes connect with the main, and — 
 scratched his head. 
 
 It is an imposing sight to see a plumber 
 scratch his head — by the hour. There is a well 
 considered, methodical way about his doing it no 
 one else can equal. By the way he slowly rump- 
 led up his hair, and gently agitated his scalp with 
 his finger nails, I knew he was burning to get 
 something out. I was right. After the fourth 
 scratch the idea came out, and he said, 
 
 " It wants something to turn it off." 
 
 Ever since his entrance I had been trying to 
 impress on his mind the fact that the last plumber 
 had neglected to make any provision for turning 
 off the water ; but, he had to arrive at the idea in 
 his own slow way — by the hour. He next slowly 
 put on his coat, after examining it carefully to see 
 
36 A FAMILIAR FIEND. 
 
 if it had been hurt by its contact with the door, 
 and said, 
 
 " I must go to the shop to get something to 
 turn it oil with," and very slowly and deliberately 
 walked up stairs. Before going out of the door he 
 turned to me and said, quite mildly and confiden- 
 tially, 
 
 *' Its running over. You'd better bail it out 
 until I come back." Then he closed the door 
 behind him, but paused on the top step to light 
 his pipe. I watched him for about five minutes 
 while he carefully examined all his pockets, with- 
 out finding the pipe, (which he finally produced 
 from the first pocket he had examined) ; and when 
 he had carefully polished it on his coat sleeve and 
 commenced hunting for his tobacco, I could not 
 stand it any longer, but went down stairs to do 
 some bailing. I had taken out eleven buckets of 
 water when the bell was rung, and, on going to 
 the door, I was joyfully surprised to see the plum- 
 ber. I scarcely thought it possible he could have 
 been so expeditious : and it was with a feeling of 
 wonder that I opened the door to admit him. He 
 did not offer to enter ; but, stood calm, dignified, 
 impressive, with the unlighted pipe in his hand. 
 
A FAMILIAR FIEND. 37 
 
 and gravely said, 
 
 ** Have you got a match ? " 
 
 I handed him a box and rushed down stairs 
 to resume bailing, leaving him serene and unruf- 
 fled on the door step, striking matches — by tho 
 hour. 
 
 He did not return until after lunch, and then 
 he brought another man with him equally calm 
 and dignified. Each man was provided with a 
 bag of tools, from which he drew a package of 
 putty and solemnly deposited it upon the nearest 
 convenient place. Putty is an amiable weakness 
 of plumbers, they can do nothing without it ; and 
 I believe that if a plumber was sent to a funeral 
 to solder a lead coffin together he would take a 
 lump of putty with him and slowly knead it, 
 while all the mourners waited on him. 
 
 It would be tedious to follow my two plumbers 
 through their afternoon's work — for they took 
 the whole afternoon about it — or to describe the 
 playful manner in which they dropped candle 
 grease upon the carpet, deposited dirty bits of pipe, 
 bolts, &c., on the furniture, and *' made a mess " 
 generally ; suffice it to say that at last they got 
 through and were ready to depart. I escorted 
 
SS A FAMILIAR FIEND. 
 
 them to the door and, ray fiend of the morning 
 gave me a parting shot ere he left. He looked at 
 me calmly, and, as I thought, compassionately, and 
 «aid, 
 
 " The next thing yoiVll want will be a ball- 
 €Ock," and then he went carefully down the steps 
 and commenced a search for his pipe, &c., — by the 
 hour. 
 
 The next thing I would want ! Then he had 
 not finished ? Oh, dear no ! Plumbers never do 
 finish, they always leave something to be done at 
 a future time — by the hour. 
 
 I went down stairs and sat in the bath-room 
 to think about it. The seat felt soft and damp, softer 
 and damper than wooden-bottomed chairs usually 
 do. I arose suddenly and brought up about 
 three pounds of putty firmly attached to my coat- 
 tails and trousers. I did not use bad language, but 
 I wished a fervent and sincere wish. I wished 
 that I had that plumber back in the bath-room, so 
 that I could baste his head with his own putty — 
 by the hour. 
 
 I naturally supposed that my annoyance was 
 over, except the annoyance of paying the bill ; but 
 that act developed a new feature in the plumbing 
 
A FAMILIAR FIEXD. 39 
 
 buisness, this time in the proprietor of the shop. 
 
 A few days after the bill came in ; and al- 
 though I knew that bills made out " bv the hour" 
 always exceed one's anticipations, I was not pre- 
 pared for the magnitude of mine. I examined it 
 carefully and the first item which struck my at- 
 tention was, 
 
 " 3 lbs. putty at 15cts— 45cts." 
 
 That wretch of a plumber had actually 
 €harged me for the putty he left on the chair, not 
 one ounce of which he had used ; and the only 
 thing which it had done was the spoiling of my 
 now trousers and most presentable business coat. 
 I made up my mind at once to contest that item, 
 and proceeded with the bill. The charge for time 
 I passed over, as I knew it would be useless to 
 contest anything charged " by the hour, ' but the 
 next item irritated me again. 
 
 " One ball cock~$1.50." 
 
 One ball cock! And that plumber had so- 
 lemnly assured me " The next thing you will want 
 will be a ball cock." I determined to contest that 
 item also ; and the next day I went to the plum- 
 ber's shop to interview the proprietor. 
 
 He was a grave, slow man, very methodical 
 
40 A FAMILIAR FIEND. 
 
 in his movements, and kept me waiting fifteen 
 minutes while he critically examined a tap to 
 discover what was wrong with it, although any- 
 one, except a plumber, could have told at a glance 
 that the handle was broken. At last he condes- 
 cended to ask, with a sigh, " What do ycm want ? " 
 with an air of offence, as if I had interrupted him 
 in an important calculation — by the hour. 
 
 " I want these two items taken off that bill,'^ 
 I said, pointing to them. " I don't want putty 
 left about my house for me to sit on ; and I never 
 had a ball cock." 
 
 The stupendousness of this request seemed to 
 paralyse him for a moment, and he looked from the 
 bill to me, and from me back to the bill in speechless 
 astonishment. Then he read over to himself, very 
 slowly and deliberately. "Three... pounds... of,.. 
 
 putty.... at. ...fifteen... cents forty.... five. ...cents." 
 
 He made a long pause and then started ag-ain, 
 "One. ..ball cock,... one... dollar.. .and... fifty... cents." 
 Then he pondered deeply and at last said " It's all 
 right" 
 
 I ventured to differ with him. I denied that 
 it was " all right," I said I did not w ant the putty 
 
A FAMILIAR FIEND. 41 
 
 and had not had the ball cock, and I would not pay 
 for either. 
 
 He looked as if he thought this unreasonable; 
 but at last a brilliant idea seemed to strike him, and 
 lie turned to a desk behind him and opened a book 
 lying on it. It seemed to me that he read that 
 whole book through with the fore finpcer of 
 his right hand as well as his eyes — for he 
 carefully kept his finger on the book and ;: lowly 
 ran it down each page — before he looked up at me 
 and said, 
 
 " They are charged to you on the book," and 
 ^ kept his finger on the entry and gazed at me, as 
 much as to say, " You can't object now !" 
 
 " I don't care for that," I responded unawed, 
 *^ J did not have the ball cock, and I won't pay for 
 putty which I don't want." 
 
 He reflected again, and then said, in an 
 ^gumentative kind of way, as if quite sure he 
 niust convince me now, 
 
 ^ " What's the use of our keeping books and 
 cl^arging things if people come in and want them 
 taken off? We'll never get rich that way." 
 I '' I cannot help that," I said. *' If you please 
 charge me for things I did not have, I will 
 
42 A FAMILIAR FIEND. 
 
 not pay for them, that is all. Call the man who | 
 was at my house, and ask him if he put a new 
 ball cock in my cistern.'' 
 
 *' We'll never get rich that way," he repeated 
 meditatively, and then called the man. 
 
 The man admitted that he had not put in a 
 ball cock, " yet ;" but added, " that will be the next 
 thing you will want," and seemed to think it 
 hardly fair of me to refuse to pay for it before I had 
 it. So that item was struck off the bill ; but, both 
 master and man stuck as persistently to the charge 
 for the putty as the putty had stuck to my coat 
 tails, and finally, to avoid further loss of time, foi 
 they seemed disposed to argue the point — by tht|^ 
 hour, I paid for it. Even this concession, however 
 scarcely seemed to satisfy the master, and the last 
 thing I heard him say as I left the shop was 
 ** We'll never grow rich this way." 
 
A PERFECT FRAUD. 
 
!*!<?• 
 
 2^<. 
 
 A PEljFECT FRAUD. |i 
 
 I35T was'nt much of a baby. There was no 
 disguising the fact, that, taken on its real, 
 actual Jmerits as a minute representative of 
 he human race the baby was a fraud. Judging 
 by the abstract standard of babyism, it did not 
 have a single good point about it. It was'nt chubby. 
 It was*nt red. It had'nt a good temper, and not the 
 slightest ghost of a hair could be found on its 
 billiard ball like head. Yet at first sight it struck 
 you, that it ought to have been an extra first-class 
 baby. Nature seemed to have started off* with the 
 idea of making it a very marvel of a baby, but 
 somehow or other got disgusted before the job was 
 half over and gave it up in despair, and so the baby 
 as by no means a success. It had a large head, 
 ind it looked as if it had been designed as a fine in- 
 tellectual head, but somehow, the back had grown 
 out so much and the forehead had grown in so 
 much, and the temples were so flat, that it did'nt 
 
46 A PERFECT FRAUD. 
 
 look much like a head at all, but more resembled 
 a second-class potatoe which had been sat on side- 
 ways and had never had a chance to recover itself 
 afterwards. 
 
 Then in the matter of bulk. There was lots of 
 incipient bone ; nature apparently meant at first 
 to make it a big baby and so laid down a good 
 foundation, but for some unknown cause nature 
 abandoned the idea before the quantity of flesh 
 necessary to cover the outline of bone had been 
 duly considered and, therefore, the baby presented 
 rather a scraggy appearance. Then as to its skin. 
 Babies are supposed to be always red and tender ; 
 this baby was more yellow than red. Its skin 
 looked rough and resembled a convulsed orange 
 rind with a dash of banana peel rubbed in. Its 
 back was uncertain and seemed liable to give way 
 in the middle at any time ; and its eyes showed a 
 decided tendency to that style of eye known as 
 goggle. I freely confess that I felt heartily 
 ashamed of having to call myself the father of 
 such a burlesque on humanity ; but, I could'nt help 
 it. If I could have helped it I would ; 
 but, I couldn't, it was the best baby we 
 il 1 ^ ^t, III S3 there was no use worrying abou t 
 
A PERFECT FRAUD. 47 
 
 it. The baby was a fraud and we wanted it to per- 
 petrate a fraud with ; and as it was the only one 
 we could get we had to be content with it. 
 
 " We," you will say ; "Who are " we " ? " My 
 wife and I," I reply, using the title of one of Mrs. 
 Stow's novels. But it was'nt our baby. Not a bit of 
 it. If it had been we would probably have thought it 
 *' just perfect," as all fathers and mothers do of their 
 first-born. You see this story is all about a fraud 
 I perpetrated, and in order that you may under- 
 stand it better, I will begin at the beginning and 
 tell you how it was that my wife and I came to 
 need a baby which didn't belong to us, and what 
 we wanted to do with it. 
 
 My father was a peculiar man. His name was 
 Treynch — Thomas Treynch, — so he said, and so 
 he wrote it, but I never believed in the y, and al- 
 ways wrote my name T-r-e-n-c-h Trench, short; but 
 my father persisted in calling himself Treynch, and 
 pronounced it as if spelt Tray-ench. This was one 
 of the first differences we had and many more fol- 
 lowed, until at the age of eighteen I felt compelled 
 to forsake the paternal roof and go out into the 
 world to carve out my own fortune. I carved and 
 was tolerably successful. Don't think I was a 
 
48 A PERFECT FRAUD. 
 
 "struggling lawyer", — all the sensation novels 
 now-a-days have struggling lawyers in them — I 
 was nothing of the sort. I went into a dry goods 
 jobbing house, and by close attendance to business 
 rose in three years to the dignity of a drummer. 
 Perhaps you don't know what a drummer is in 
 connection with the dry goods trade ? Then I will 
 tell you. He is a man who travels about from vil- 
 lage to village with samples of the goods his em- 
 ployers have for sale, and takes orders. He is some- 
 times called a travelling agent, and sometimes a 
 commercial agent, and when he is a very cheeky 
 fellow he calls himself a commission merchant ; but 
 I started as a drummer, I liked to be known as a 
 drummer, and I shall stick to the name although I 
 am not a drummer now. Well, I drummed so succes- 
 fuUv that after I had been in the business about 
 four years I was offered a partnership in a rival job- 
 bing house, and accepted it : much to the disgust 
 of my old employers, who did not seem to remem- 
 ber that I had become a man, and wanted to carve 
 my way, and so offered me no inducement to re- 
 main with them until it was too late. I was then 
 twenty-five and had excellent prospects, so I re- 
 membered a little blue-eyed beauty about whom 
 
A PERFECT FRAUD. 49 
 
 I had been very spooney during a long visit to 
 Chicago ; and the next time I went drumming 
 I talked the matter over with her, and the result 
 was that when I returned to New York 1 brought 
 Gerty back with me as Mrs. Arthur Trench, short. 
 
 My lather and I had never got on well to- 
 gether, and my taking my own future into my 
 keeping had not improved his feeling towards me. 
 When I left him he swore that he would never 
 give me a dollar as long as he lived, nor leave me 
 one when he died, and I knew him well enough 
 to feel quite sure he would keep his word. He 
 was in business in Boston and owned dozens of 
 *' brown stone fronts " in that city. His name was 
 good on Change for " any amount," and he could 
 probably have raised half a million dollars as 
 easily as the next man ; but, not one cent of that 
 money would I get, and I felt sure of it. I did not 
 care much about it for myself, but when a man 
 commits matrimony he begins to feel important, 
 and thinks about " providing for his family ;" and 
 80 I began to think it hard that all this money 
 should be left to stran^jers or some public institu- 
 tion, f 1 i I was an only son and had no near 
 relatives but my father. I sometimes met my 
 
50 A I'KRFECT FRAUD. 
 
 father during my business visits to Boston or his 
 to New York. We were very polite to each other, 
 generally dined together, and invariably had a dis- 
 pute on some subject or other — we never agreed 
 with each other on any topic, and we were sure to 
 part bad friends, to meet again next time with 
 polite coolness on both sides. When I got married 
 I thought at first I would take Gerty to Boston, and 
 introduce her to my father ; but on consideration I 
 concluded to write to him. I did so. This is the 
 answer I got : 
 
 ** Dear Sir, — I always thought you a fool, now 
 I am perfectly certain of it. What does a man in 
 your position, travelling half the time, want with 
 a wife ? You are only saddling yourself with a 
 useless expense and providing a pretty little doll 
 for some coxcomb to flirt with while you are 
 away. You'll be having a family too ; but don't 
 fancy I shall support them. My determination 
 with regard to the disposition of my property re- 
 mains unchanged; and I shall probably endow the 
 Deaf and Dumb Institute with it. Deaf and Dumb 
 people always appear to me to be very sensible 
 folks. I shall have the pleasure of seeing you on 
 my next visit to New York, and will discuss your 
 folly with you, if you so desire. 
 
 Very respectfully yours, 
 
 Thomas Treynch. 
 
A PERFECT f^RAUD. 61 
 
 Of course I was furious. I expected to be called 
 a fool ; but, the gratuitous insult to Gerty was 
 more thau I could stand. I wrote an angry reply, 
 received one equally angry in return, and the 
 upshot of the affair was that we had a regular 
 quarrel, our customary visits of politeness were 
 dropped and we did not meet for over a year. 
 
 When G-ertv and I had been married about a 
 year we had a baby. That wafi a baby. You can 
 take my word for it; it was the prettiest, chubbiest 
 sweetest, most intelligent — well, never mind» 
 it was our baby, and that was sufficient to prove it 
 was the finest baby ever seen. Poor little fellow, 
 he ought to have been good for he did not last long. 
 The angels got jealous of us, and after lending him 
 to us for two months they came one night and 
 took him away. The doctor said it was the croup, 
 but I knew better, the angels wanted him and they 
 just took him. 
 
 Poor G-erty, it almost broke her heart ; but she 
 bore up as well as possible, under the circumstances, 
 and would have got quite over it, I believe, if it had 
 not been for the fraud that followed Harrv's death, 
 and this is hoW^e fraud came to be perpetrated 
 About a month after baby's birth, I received an 
 
62 A PERFECT FRAUD. 
 
 extraordinary letter from my father. He said he had 
 seen the announcement of baby's birth in the papers, 
 and wished to congratulate me. He expressed 
 his pleasure at its being a boy, and said he had 
 recently come to the conclusion that he had made a 
 mistake when he took the rash vow about the dis- 
 position of his property. Still it was a 
 vow and he w^ould not change it. With 
 regard to my children how^ever, it was different. 
 He had made no vow^ about them and felt at liberty 
 to change his mind. He went on to say that he 
 had lately purchased a plantation in Demerara and 
 proposed to go out there in the course of five or 
 six weeks, and that before he did so he w^ould be 
 in New York for a day or two, and would call on 
 me, so that he might see the baby before he went. 
 He said he wanted to see the baby before he made 
 his will as, if he thought it likely lO make a good 
 man, he might re-consider his determination about 
 the disposition of his property. 
 
 Of course I felt well pleased about the good 
 prospects of my boy, and used to sit and look at 
 him, thinking how bright a future he had before 
 him. Then the baby died, and all mf bright, beauti- 
 ful castle tumbled to the ground. Then the devil 
 
A PERFECT FRAUD. 53 
 
 put the idea of fraud into my head, and I practiced 
 it. I knew my father well enough to be sure that 
 he would make his will in favor of the Deaf and 
 Dumb Institute if he knew the boy was dead ; 
 because he would think that he had not kept his 
 oath unless he put it beyond any chance that I 
 should personally inherit any of his fortune, 
 which T might do if he left an open will in favor 
 of my children, so long as I had none and may 
 never have any. Then the fraud got more and 
 more impressed on my mind. I would borrow 
 a baby, I would pass it off as mine. My father 
 would make his will in favor of my infant son 
 and my next infant son would do quite as well. 
 You see the fraud quite knocked the law of the 
 case out of my head, and it never occu^-red to me 
 that the will might be contested. So I decided on 
 the fraud. It took a long ftme before I could per- 
 suade G^erty to join me in the plot, but finally she 
 consented, and it was only left to find the baby. 
 
 But there came the rub. I thought it would 
 be only necessary to advertise in the N. Y. Herald 
 for a fine male child, two months old, to adopt, to 
 be perfectly inundated with children, but there I 
 made a mistake. The baby market was in a very 
 
54 A PERFECT FRAUD. 
 
 uncertain condition. Girls were plentiful, but boys 
 were scarce. Day after day passed and I returned 
 home without having found the necessary baby. 
 At last it got to the morning before my father's 
 arrival and still no baby. Matters were getting des- 
 perate. That morning's post brought me a letter 
 offering the much desired baby. I rushed off to 
 secure it, and returned with it in about an hour. 
 Gerty screamed when she saw it and declared she 
 would never own to be the mother of such a 
 wretched little specimen of humanity as that. 
 We had gone too far to go back now, and after a 
 hearty cry Gerty consented — as she generally did 
 to any proposal of mine — to own the little mons- 
 trosity, it being strictly agreed that the baby was 
 to be disposed of as soon as my father left ; and so 
 that fraud was duly instituted ia his position as 
 " our baby." 
 
 The next day my father arrived, and I took 
 him home to dinner. I confess I felt very nervous, 
 and his first words did not at all reassure me. 
 
 " What an ugly little beast," he said, as soon 
 as he saw the baby lying on Gerty's lap, dressed 
 in all the bravery of laces and muslins peculiar to 
 babydom. I perfectly agreed with him. I never 
 
A PERFECT FRAUD. 55 
 
 felt more ashamed of myself in my life, and the 
 tears started into Gerty's eyes as I tried to stam- 
 mer out some nonsense about it being " the best we 
 could do," or something else equally imbecile. 
 
 My father seemed rather sorry that 
 he had spoken so hastily, and patted 
 Gerty kindly on the head, and told her not 
 to mind an old man who never thought any baby 
 pretty. 
 
 After dinner my father sat for a long while 
 talking to Gerty and playing with the baby. He 
 was evidently taking a great fancy to Gerty, and 
 seemed to have got over his first antipathy to the 
 little fraud. 
 
 The next three weeks were terribly trying to 
 Gerty . The baby behaved shamefully. There was 
 only one strong point about this animal and 
 that was his lungs. They were wonderfully dev<^- 
 loped, and for three whole weeks he yelled on an 
 average about twelve hours out of the twenty-four. 
 The way he kicked poor Gerty and pulled and haul- 
 ed her made my heart bleed for the poor thing. 
 But the most extraordinary thing was my father's 
 conduct. He staid over from day to day prolonging 
 
/)6 A PERFFXT Ft?.A.UD. 
 
 his visit from three days, the original limit, to 
 three weeks. 
 
 He was actualbj ^ettins; fond of the baby ! 
 
 The first time I noticed this was the third day 
 of his stay when he asked if he might be allowed 
 to hold his *' grandson." He strutted about as 
 proud as a turkey-cock holding the baby very 
 awkwardly, the little fraud screaming like the 
 mischief all the while. He would sit for half an 
 hour at a time watching the fraud yell and kick. 
 He delighted in being allowed to hold it, and 
 almost screamed with pleasure when he actually 
 saw the baby washed. He would walk it about 
 for hours and the little wretch would keep quieter 
 with him then with any one else. I shall never 
 forget one night the little fraud commenced to 
 scream just after we went to bed, and after he had 
 been yelling for an hour, my father came into my 
 room and asked to be allowed to walk him about. 
 
 It was a touching sight, viewed from under 
 the bed-clothes, to see that noble old man in his 
 long dressing gown and list slippers, without any 
 socks, and evidently uncomfortably cold about the 
 legs, walk that baby up and down for nearly an 
 hour until he had got him asleep. 
 
A PERFECT FUAUD. 
 
 57 
 
 "7( was a touching sight viewed /rom under the bed clothes.^^ 
 
A PERFECT FRAUD. 59 
 
 At last my father made up his mind that 
 he must start for Demerara. He expected to 
 be absent about a year, and the day before he 
 sailed he executed his will, and did something 
 I do not think he ever did before in his life. He 
 made a speech- We were sitting in the parlor 
 after dinner when he asked to have the baby, and 
 after a turn or two about the room, he stopped iu 
 front of G-erty and I and said, very solemnly, 
 
 "Arthur, I am very glad I came to see you be- 
 fore I left the country. I am an old man and De- 
 merara is not a very healthy place. I may never re- 
 turn ; but I shall take away with me more pleas- 
 ant memories than have been crowded into so short 
 a space of time for many years. I confess I was 
 prejudiced against your wife before I saw her. 
 Bless her little soul, I love her now as if she was 
 my own daughter. As for "my grandson'* — here 
 that young imp began to squall, and it was fully 
 ten minutes before he could be quieted. When 
 peace was restored my father continued : "As for 
 my grandson, I do not attempt to deny that I was 
 greatly disappointed at first. His appearance is 
 against him. His development of bone is excellent, 
 but in flesh he is very faulty. There are also points 
 
CO A PERFECT FRAUD. 
 
 about his head and face which are objectionable, 
 and he cannot be called a pretty baby ; but, I have 
 heard it said that ngly babies make the best look- 
 ing men and women, and arguing on that hypothe- 
 sis, I expect he will be the handsomest man of 
 his time. I have taken a great fancy to that boy, 
 and I hope, and expect that he will become a second 
 Demosthenes or Daniel Webster; he certainly pos- 
 sesses the capacity as far as length of wind is con- 
 cerned. I have made that boy my heir. Any other 
 children you may have you will have to provide 
 for yourself. My will is scarcely in exact keeping 
 with my vow, Arthur — and I may here say, that 
 I deeply regret that vow — but I believe it will fill 
 the general tendency of my oath. The whole of 
 my fortune is left in trust to my old partner Bangs 
 and Dr. Allspice until Harry comes of age, when 
 he will come into one half unreservedly. The 
 other half is not to be paid him until his mother's 
 death, which God grant may not be for years to 
 come." He laid his hand affectionately on Gerty's 
 head and continued: "Yes Arthur, I have left your 
 wife a life interest in one half my fortune which 
 will give her an income of over $5,000 a year. It 
 is almost the same as leaving it to you, and, there- 
 
A PERFECT FRAUD. #1 
 
 ^ore, I doubt if I have kept my oath as strictly as 
 I ought to have done ; but if I have erred it has 
 been on the right side, and I hope and believe 
 God will forffive me.'* 
 
 I had never heard my father make such a long 
 speech, and I was naturally much affected. 1 had 
 deeply repented the trick I had played him, and 
 was on the point of confessing it when the little 
 fraud set up a tremendous squall, and my father 
 taking the baby in his arm^ walked up to tha 
 nursery with it and did not come back that night. 
 
 The next day he sailed for Demerara. 
 
 I had intended to get rid of the horrid baby as 
 soon as my father had gone ; but hard as it had 
 been to get him, it was still harder to get rid of 
 him, and it was nearly three months before I could 
 induce an old woman in New York to adopt him by 
 giving her $500. I then wrote a long, sorrowful letter 
 to my father informing him of the death, by small- 
 pox, of my precious son — I am confident I called 
 him precious— and descanted at some length on 
 the grief of Grerty, who expected ere long to again 
 become a mother. 
 
 It was two months ere I had an answer. My 
 father expressed himself very kindly about Gerty, 
 
62 A PERFECT FRAUD. 
 
 and showed sincere sorrow at the death of his 
 grandson. He sent a lot of West Indian knicknacks 
 to Gerty, and told me he had executed a new will 
 leaving the whole fortune to be divided equally 
 amongst any children we might have, Gerty to 
 enjoy the same half interest for life, and in the event 
 of her dying without children, all his fortune wat^ 
 to be devoted to building and endowing a '' Home 
 for ugly and scraggy looking children."^ 
 
 I laughed at that part of the letter and felt 
 pretty comfortable then. My fraud had succeeded, 
 and, mv father's fortune would be secured to the 
 family after all. In two or three months Gerty 
 would again be a mother, and when my father 
 returned I should be able to present him with a 
 genuine grandson — or daughter — which vanity 
 made me think he would not call, an " ugly little 
 beast." 
 
 Three months after I stood beside a newly 
 made grave in Greenwood Cemetery, a brciken 
 hearted man ; for beneath the fresh sod lay all that 
 was dear to me on earth, my own precious Gerty 
 and reposing on her bosom was the form of a little 
 girl whose spirit had been long enough in this ! 
 world to accompany her mother to a better land. 
 
 
A PERFECT FRAUD. G^ 
 
 My sin had brought its own punishment. The 
 doctors said that some serious strain on the ner- 
 vous system had so weakened Gerty's constitution 
 that she was unable to stand the fatigue of child 
 birth. I knew very well what it was. It was 
 that horrid little fraud who had tormented her al- 
 most to death during the four months we had 
 him. I knew it and in my heart I cursed the 
 horrid little wretch, and myself for ever thinking^ 
 of perpetrating such a fraud. 
 
 M} father never lived to hear of G-erty's death. 
 The Demerara fever carried him off before the news 
 could reach him, and all his fortune went to build 
 the " Home for ugly and scraggy looking children.'^ 
 
 That's all my story. Perhaps you don't think 
 it's much of a storv after all ? Well, I never told 
 you it was. I told you at the beginning it was 
 
 A Perfect Fraud. 
 
A TERRIBLE CHRISTMAS 
 
 A Story in Two Parts, hy Two Persons. 
 
A TERRIBLE CHRISTMAS,^" 
 
 A STORY IN TWO PARTS, BY TWO PERSONS, 
 
 :p.A.iaT ams :FII^ST. 
 
 THE MADMAN'S STORY. 
 
 iHEN was it ? Was it last Christmas, or 
 next Christmas, or was it ages and ages 
 ago ? 
 
 I can't remember. I don't remember anything 
 since that night. I can't even be sure, sometimes, 
 that I really remember all that took place then, 
 or that all I remember ever did take place. 
 
 Let me see. Where was it ? Was it in Mon- 
 treal ? 
 
 I can't remember. Sometimes I think it was, 
 and sometimes I think it was far, far away in 
 some country I have forgotten now. I know it 
 was in a large city. I remember the great tall 
 houses, and the wide streets, and the constant 
 
68 A TERRIBLE CHRISTMAS. 
 
 buzz, buzz of trade, and the whirl and swirl of 
 fast and fashionable life. I remember the gay 
 equipages, the prancing steeds, the handsome 
 women, the foolish, foppish men. Ah ! one of the 
 women was so beautiful, and one of the men was so 
 foolish. 
 
 I remember the churches, too, with great tall 
 spires stretching up, up, until they were lost in the 
 clouds. I remember climbing one of the spires 
 until I had reached the clouds, and rolled over 
 and over in them, and danced in them and swung 
 to and fro in their fleecy folds as in a hammock. 
 
 Oh it was fine fun ! To be tossed up and 
 down ; to be danced back and forth ; to hang on 
 the gossamer thread of a thought, far above strug- 
 gling humanity, and laugh at man's puny efforts 
 to peer into illimitable space, and lay down the 
 path for the planets to follow in their orbits, 
 while the faintest trace of a cloud could mar his 
 vision and set all his calculations at variance. 
 And I could roll in the clouds, and laugh at men, 
 aye — and women too ; and above all at that one 
 woman who was so beautiful, and that one man 
 who was so foolish. 
 
 Fool ! The clouds got into my brain. I can 
 
A TERRIBLE CHRISTMAS. 69 
 
 feel them now still rolling over and over, still 
 dancing back and forth ; now banking up dark 
 and lowering, now breaking out bright and glorious, 
 sun capped mountains of golden vapor as the orb 
 of day shoots his slender rays over them, tinging 
 and fringing them with gold. 
 
 Clouds, clouds, clouds ! Always clouds now. 
 Sometimes damj) and heavy, and wet with the 
 vast amount of aqueous matter suspended in them; 
 sometimes hot and dry and parched, as the fiery 
 sun eats them up and leaves only a thin trans- 
 parent film, which I only can see, to tell where 
 they have been. 
 
 Was it all a cloud ? Did it all happen up in 
 that steeple ? Did it ever happen at all 1 
 
 I do not know. Sometimes I think it did ; and 
 then again it seems as if it had got mixed uj) with 
 something else, and I cannot remember. 
 
 It commenced by the sea. It was a gorgeously 
 bright and clear day. The ocean lay stretching 
 itself out, out, out until the clouds came down and 
 joined it, and you could not tell where the ocean 
 ended and the clouds began. The sun shone 
 brilliantly, changing the little ripples of the water 
 into shining scales until it appeared as if the water 
 
70 A TERRIBLE CHRISTMAS. 
 
 had been converted into a million suits of burnished 
 scale armour and the sunbeams were dancing 
 dizzy, whirling maddening waltzes on it. The 
 waves rolled slowly upon the long white beach, 
 chasing the gleaming pebbles, rolling them over 
 and over in mere wantonness, and then leaving 
 them stranded high and dry, and lazily drawing 
 themselves back to the depths of ocean. Isn't that 
 like life ?. Does not strength always thus play 
 with weakness, and when its momentary pleasure 
 has grown satiated, draw away and leave 
 weakness to regret its own folly in being so easily 
 beguiled ? 
 
 I cannot tell. The clouds have come again 
 and I am rolling in them. Jolly clouds. There is 
 fun in you; but even you are treacher' us, and open 
 suddenly and drop me from your dizzy heights of 
 airy thought to the dullness of earth. Away, I 
 want no more clouds ! Let me think. 
 
 Ah! I remember again. I remember that the 
 wind whispered softly to the waves. I heard it 
 although it thought no one was listening, and it 
 kissed and caressed them and they tossed them- 
 selves up in laughing little flakes and kissed back 
 again as the soft zephyr breathed gently over the 
 
A TERRIBLE CHRISTMAS. 71 
 
 face of the water. Here and there brilliantly 
 gleaming fishes darted through the calm and shin- 
 ing water, and a boy on a neighboring jetty armed 
 with a rod and line threw his seductive bait to 
 them in vain. They were too happy in that glorious 
 sea to be seduced by the false sham of a wrig- 
 gling worm, only half concealing a cruel hook. 
 Are men as wise as fishes ? Do they seize at the 
 apparent worm without regarding the concealed 
 barb which will stick into them and poison their 
 lives? I cannot remember. The clouds have 
 come again. 
 
 Yet she laughed — She! Ah, now the clouds 
 have rolled away and I can remember again ! 
 
 She was with me. We stood bv the sea-shore 
 together on a high rock, and gazed at the beauties 
 of the sea, the sky, the earth ; but nought was so 
 beautiful in sea, in sky, on earth, as she ! In all 
 the wondrous beauty of her budding womanhood 
 she stood by me, and we gazed into each other's 
 eyes, and while we drank in full draughts of 
 nature's loveliness spread before us. our glances 
 reflected back the deep, pure love which burned 
 within us, and we felt that our hearts were made 
 to throb in unison, our lives to be mingled together 
 
72 A TERRIBLE CHRISTMAS. 
 
 even as the brooklet trickling out at our feet 
 mingled with the ocean and rejoiced at the union. 
 
 I felt it, and thought that she felt it. I felt 
 the warm passionate love surge through my veins 
 and pour itself out in a torrent of words. I saw 
 her start back to throw herself into my arms and 
 seal our love with a kiss, and then — then — then — 
 what then ? I cannot remember. The clouds have 
 come again and I am swallowed up in them. 
 
 Was it then or was it afterwards that he 
 came ? I cannot tell now. Was it that day by 
 the sea-shore, or was it years afterwards in another 
 country, and in a different land that I saw him 
 throw himself at her feet, and heard him utter 
 words of love which she listened to with longing 
 ears ? I cannot remember. The clouds come into 
 my brain and swallow all the recollection up. 
 
 But one thing I can remember. 1 can see that 
 night plainly before me now. I can recall all its 
 great agony, all its grand triumph. Ha ! ha ! it was 
 rare sport to hear his bones crackle in the warm leap- 
 ing flame. It was joy to see him writhe and twist 
 when he was seized in the arms of the fiery bride he 
 little expected. I was delirious — Stop — Stop— not 
 delirious ; no, no ; blot that out, I am sane, per- 
 
A TERRIBLE CHRISTMAS. 73 
 
 fectly sane, you can see that, can't you ? I am 
 quite calm now. Listen, I will tell you how 
 revenged myself on him for his perfidy in stealing 
 my love. How I paid him back a life for a life. 
 Oh, I am calm now. He stole mv love and rob- 
 bed me of my reason. I know, I know. You say I 
 am mad ; wait a minute ; wait until the clouds 
 get out of my brain I will^tell you how I took his 
 life — aye, his life — to pay for my reason. But it 
 could not pay for my love ; no, no ; a hundred 
 lives like his could not have paid for the one love 
 he robbed me of — but I killed him. Ah ! ha ! I 
 killed him — killed him — killed him. Burnt him up, 
 body and soul. I saw him burning. I lighted the 
 fire. I watched him as his cheek grew pale ; as 
 his lip quivered ; as his breath came short 
 and his strong hands clutched helplessly at 
 the cords with which I had bound him ; 
 I heard him shriek for help, and I laugh- 
 ed — laughed long and loud — and then, and 
 then — the clouds came and I rolled in them and 
 shouted at man's folly and woman's love, and 
 when I awoke again they told me I was mad. 
 Mad ! Well, perhaps, I am. I have loved. All who 
 have loved have been mad. 
 
74 A TERRIBLE CHRISTMAS. 
 
 T^J^TIT SEOOlSriD. 
 
 THE SINE MAN'S STORY. 
 
 My earliest ambition was to attain fame as a 
 lawyer. I burnt to achieve success at the Bar ; to 
 force truth and " Justice under the law " into the 
 minds of the most unsympathetic and phlegma- 
 tic jury, and to rescue injured innocence from the 
 attacks of wrong and injustice, and show it pure 
 and spotless before the world. 
 
 I know there is a popular prejudice against 
 lawyers ; that the word is often misconstrued 
 " liars," and that the main component part of a 
 lawyer's soul, if he has one, which some people 
 will not admit, is generally believed to be " costs ;" 
 but I think there are rather more law students 
 who enter on the " practice of the law" with 
 honest intentions then can be found in any other 
 profession. How long these " honest intentions '' 
 last I am not prepared to say ; but in the majority 
 of cases, I really believe that they last as long as 
 life does. 
 
 I was brimful of " honest intentions " when 
 I received my (degree of B. C. \L. from McGrill 
 College, Montreal, some twenty years ago, and 
 
A TERRIBLE CHRISTMAS. 75 
 
 determined to enjoy a vacation extending 
 over the whole summer before I settled down to 
 the "practice of the law." Yet before that sum- 
 mer was over I had broken what was more than 
 an implied promise, and had greatly failed in my 
 ^'honest intentions." 
 
 My story up to this period may be briefly told 
 as follows : I am the orphan son of a farmer in a 
 small township, (which I do not care to particular- 
 ize) near thb border of the United States. Both 
 my parents died when I was quite young, too 
 young to know anything of their love or care. I 
 was left to the guardianship of a bachelor uncle 
 who lived " across the line " and who carefully 
 nursed for me, during my miaority, my small 
 estate. Uncle Bill was and is— for I am glad to 
 say he is still alive — as genial, whole-souled and 
 kindly a man as I have ever met. He is a strict 
 observer of the oblisrations of honor, and has never 
 been known to break his word 
 
 My boyish days with Uncle Bill passed very 
 pleasantly, and having never known the love of 
 father or mother, both seemed to be made up to 
 me in him. So time slipped away until 
 I was fifteen years of age, when having graduated 
 
76 A TERRIBLE CHRISTMAS. 
 
 at our village school, Uncle Bill decided that I 
 should pass the next ihree years in the High School, 
 Montreal, and then study for a degree in law at 
 McGill. My first term at the Hiffh School passed 
 about as pleasantly as such terms pass. I was not 
 **the light of the school," neither was I the dullard, 
 and returned to Briardell, my uncle's homestead, 
 not much better or worse than I left it. 
 But Briardell had undergone a great change 
 since I had left it. My aunt Bella, (Mrs. Isabella 
 Stewart, widow of George Washington Stewart, 
 "who had lately gone to some other world, whether 
 better or worse no one knew), had taken up her 
 residence for the summer with Uncle Bill, and 
 brought with her her only daughter Ettie, a pink- 
 skinned, blonde-haired little fairy of twelve. 
 
 George "Washington Stewart, whose status in 
 *' the unknown world '' was rather apocryphal, had 
 had a pretty well defined position in this world. 
 He had for many years enjoy d a position of trust 
 and emolument under the benign sway of Uncle 
 Sam's Treasury Department, and on his decease 
 left some three hundred and odd thousand evi- 
 dences in the shape of dollars, that he had looked 
 after his own interests well, il not after those of 
 
A TERRIBLE CIIRTSTMAS. 77 
 
 his country. Mrs. Stewart was, therefore, a " rich 
 widow," and Ettie was, prospectively, " a great 
 heiress ;" but I do not think eith er she or I was 
 aware of the fact when we first met at Briardell, 
 and grew rapidly into that intimacy which so 
 easily springs up between cousins. 
 
 I like cousins, that is, I like cousins in the 
 abstract, but I like one cousin in particular. Ettie 
 and I soon became friends, then " great friends,** 
 and as the summer vacation drew to a close, we 
 advanced to the stage of boy and girl love so com- 
 mon to youths of fifteen and maidens of twelve. 
 And there I think we should have halted had it 
 not been for Uncle Bill. 
 
 That worthy gentleman, Heaven bless him ! 
 had viewed the growing intimacy of his rich niece 
 and his poor nephew with disfavor, and thought 
 it incumbent on him, as our mutual guardian, to 
 admonish me as the sterner animal, on the subject; 
 therefore, he called me into his private room the 
 evening before my return to school — Mrs. Stewart 
 and Ettie were to remain a few days longer — and 
 addressed me somewhat as follows : 
 
 " Look-a-here, The-o-fullus," (my father's 
 father was named Theophiius and I was given his 
 
78 A TKHUIULK CHRISTMAS. 
 
 name) " yer must git any fullish iioshiiiB abut 
 Tetter out uv yer bed. " 
 
 Ettie's proper name was Henriette. She prefer- 
 red to be know n only by the four last letters, and 
 was always called " Ettie " by her mother 
 and I ; but Uncle Bill, and others, insisted 
 upon it that Tetter was the proper abbrevia- 
 tion for Henriette, and so called her ; just as many 
 people persisted in calling me Foley as an abbrevia- 
 tion of Theophilus, and my uncle always addressed 
 me as The-o-fuilus. Uncle Bill paused a few 
 moments and then continued : 
 
 "Yeou and Tetter hes been prutty entimet 
 this summer, but yer aint nothin but gal and boy, 
 and yer aint to git ]io foolish noshins in yer beds. 
 So I warn yer. Tetter es a great lady with hundreds 
 uv thousands uv dollars comin to her, an yer aint got 
 a red cent, over seventy five akers ol ground thet aint 
 worth the cost uv as much salt es would enduce half 
 a dozen sheep to graze on it. So, Foley, don't yer git 
 no foolish noshins in yer hed. Yer got to git yer 
 livin an mak yer way in the world ; an, meybee 
 yer mey be President of the States affore yer die, 
 purwuded yer live long enuf ; but Tetter hes a 
 different kereer befur her, and yer two aint ment 
 
A TERUIHLE CUKISTMAS. TD 
 
 to bitch hosses. So jest yer look sharp an mind what 
 I tell yer." After which speech he walked off, 
 quite satisfied with his explanation, and I went to 
 bed thinking, for the first tinn\ that T was in love 
 with Ettie. 
 
 Next morning T was to return to school in 
 Montreal, and before I left my uncle spoke to me 
 
 agani. 
 
 " The-o-fullus," said he, "hev yer thought uv 
 what I said to yer last nite ?" 
 
 "Yes uncle, I have," said I, "and 1 promise you 
 that I will follow your advice with regard to Ettie, 
 as far as possible ; and I will never marry for 
 money, but work honestly for my own living," 
 
 "That's rite" said he, "stick ter that." 
 
 Six years after I graduated, and determined on a 
 six months' trip through the States and West Indian 
 Islands before settling down in Montreal. My uncle 
 had husbanded my seventy five acres, which he 
 said were not "worth the cost of as much salt as 
 would induce half a dozen sheep to graze on it," so 
 well that, not only had my college expenses been 
 paid, but I had a sufficient surplus to warrant my 
 proposed trip before commencing work. During 
 
80 A TERRIBLE CHRISTMAS. 
 
 th(3se six years I had not met Ettie again, although 
 I had often heard of her, and we had occasionally 
 corresponded. Lately her letters had ceased, and 
 for two years past I had not heard from her, and 
 did not even know what part of the States she was 
 living in. So runs my story up to the 15 th of June, 
 1866, when I left Montreal for my six months' trip. 
 
 It is unnecessary to dwell on the incidents of 
 mv visits to the various larcre cities of the Union 
 suffice it to say that gradually I made my way 
 south until I reached New Orleans, from whence 
 I crossed to Havana, and thence took the steamer 
 for St. Thomas and the Windward West India 
 Islands. 
 
 It was a charming afternoon in September 
 W'hen the steamer dropped anchor in Carlisle Bay, 
 Earbadoes, and I was pulled ashore by four stal- 
 wart blacks, who captured me and my luggage and 
 placed both in a rather dirty boat, before I quite 
 understood what was being done to me. 
 
 Bridgetown, the capital of the Island, is a veri- 
 table beehive of industry, and presents a pretty 
 animated picture from the bay ; but it possesses 
 little or no architectural beauties, and about the 
 only imposing looking building in the place is the 
 
A TERRIBLE CHRISTMAS. 81 
 
 fine old Cathedral of St. Michael, with its great 
 massive square tower, in whic^h is a good chime 
 of bells and a rather uncertain clock, as far as cor- 
 rect time is concerned. The strong point about 
 the island is the garrison, where about a thousand 
 or more English troops and a regiment of blacks 
 are usually stationed. The barracks are very large, 
 well built and substantial, situated on a bluff at 
 the head of the bay, and are considered the finest 
 and most healthy c^uarters for troops in the West 
 Indies. The parade ground is large, very level and 
 well shaded, and it is usual for the troops to be " put 
 under canvass " for a few weeks during the months 
 of August and September, the ''hot season " out 
 there. This was the case when I arrived ; and. as 
 it chanced to be Thursdav, I soon found out that 
 the '»orrect thing" to do was to go up to the parade 
 ground — about a mile from the town — to hear 
 the band practice, which it did every Thursday 
 afternoon. This is the fashionable assemblage of 
 the island. There all the notables congregate, and 
 there the girls delight to go and have half-an- 
 hour's chat or flirtation with the officers of the 
 garrison; for the Barbadoes girls, like girls the 
 world over, are fond of the red coats of the British 
 
82 A TERRIBLE CHRISTMAS. 
 
 Army. Beyond the garrison is the little village of 
 Hastings, a favorite bathing place, and "the rocks" 
 at Hastings is a great resort for those v^'ho love to 
 inhale the salt sea breeze, or to enjoy a sentimental 
 stroll along the sands, I had been furnished 
 withlettersof introduction by some frieijds in New 
 York, and one of my newly formed acquaintances, 
 a young man maned Henry Beigen, a cleik in a. 
 large commission house, accon panitd me to the 
 parade ground, and proposed that we should extend 
 our drive to Hastings rocks, which of course I did. 
 I had noticed that Bergen frequently looked 
 anxiously around while we were on the parade 
 ground, as if searching for some one he could not 
 find, but on reaching the rocks his face lighted up 
 with pleasure, as he noticed a handsome landau, 
 drawn by a fine pair of piebald horses, come to- 
 wards us down the AYorthing load and stoj^ at the 
 rocks. Four ladies were seated in the carriage^ 
 two of middle age, two just blooming into 
 womanhood. 
 
 I have neyer seen any one who so thoroughly 
 filled my idea of peiiect beauty as one of the 
 young ladies who sat on the front seat of the car- 
 riage. I jhall not attempt to describe her for two 
 
A TERRIBLE CHRISTMAS. 83 
 
 reasons ; first, I could not do thorough justice to 
 her ; and, secondly, men's ideas of beauty, differ 
 so much, that possibly what I consider exquisitely 
 lovely, you may think ordinary or even plain 
 looking. SujSice it to say that the face so attracted 
 me th:it I involuntarily asked my companion 
 who she was. 
 
 " Miss Stewart," he answered with a blush, 
 which showed me there was no doubt what his 
 opinion on the subject of her beauty was. " She 
 is a young lady from the States who, with her 
 mother, is paying a visit to the Jones' while they 
 get some law business settled. Isnt she pretty ? " 
 
 1 looked at the elder ladies and instantly re- 
 cognised my aunt, who had changed very little in 
 the six years which had elapsed since I had last 
 Seen her ; but Ettie had " grown out of all know- 
 ledge," as the saying is, and I should never have 
 recognised her again as the golden-haired little 
 beauty with whom I had been so desperately in 
 love six years before at Briardell. 
 
 Bergen, who was acquainted with all the 
 ladies, proposed that we should alight and speak to 
 them which we did, he kindly introducing me, as 
 I did not tell him I was a relative of the Stewarts- 
 
84 A TERRIBLE CHRISTMAS. 
 
 My aunt did not recognise me, and the name, " Mr. 
 Langdon, a gentleman from America," did not 
 seem to help her recollection at all ; but Ettie 
 knew me almost instantly, and holding out both 
 hands in her old, impulsive way cried out, 
 
 '* Why it's The!" Somehow no one ever gives 
 me my whole name, I always get it in fragments. 
 Sometimes a piece of the beginning, sometimes a 
 part of the end, sometimes a nickname. 
 
 " You dear old stupid," she exclaimed, getting 
 out of the carriage, and slipping her arm through 
 mine in the old familiar manner, " who would 
 ever have thought of seeing you in this out-of-the- 
 way place ; and what a fright you look with those 
 great whiskers and beard. You'll just shave all 
 the hair off your face to-morrow, except your mous- 
 tache, or I'll never speak to you again." 
 
 We walked away from the carriage, and in a 
 few moments were back on the old friendlv foot- 
 ing of childhood, laughing and talking over old 
 memories, and telling each other something of our 
 lives during the past six years. Bergen remained 
 by the carriage moodily, and I noticed his eyes 
 flash as Ettie and I walked away. I paid no 
 
A TERRIBLE CHRISTMAS. 85 
 
 attention to it at the time, but I remembered it 
 afterwards. 
 
 Ettie told me how it was I had met her 
 mother and herself in Barbadoes. It appears tha^ 
 amongst the other property George "Washington 
 Stewart had left, was a claim to a portion of a 
 sugar plantation in Barbadoes; and as the agent 
 in charge had not been working it satisfactorily of 
 late years, Mrs. Stewart had determined to visit 
 her possession and endeavor to sell the estate. 
 This had taken longer than was expected, as 
 Stewart's partner in the plantation died and the 
 property could not be sold until his son came of 
 age, w^hich would be about Christmas, and Mrs. 
 Stewart had determined to wait until the sale 
 was completed, a purchaser having been found. 
 The heir, whose majority they were awaiting, was 
 Mr. Henry Bergen, a very devoted admirer of 
 Ettie's, who seemed to think it would be a much 
 better arrangement than selling the estate if a new 
 partner was admitted in the person of Miss Ettie. 
 What the young lady thought on the subject was 
 very difficult to say. When I laughingly tried to 
 joke her about Bergin's very evident admiration, 
 her cheeks flushed, and her eyes glanced half 
 
86 A TERRIBLE CHRISTMAS. 
 
 angrily at me as she said, 
 
 " Don't talk nonsense, The ; Mr, Bergin and I 
 are very good friends, that is all. Ton men are al] 
 so stupid. If a girl says a civil word to you, you 
 immediately think she is in love with you. What 
 has Mr. Bergen been saying to you ?" 
 
 " Nothing. I have seen very little of him the 
 past few days," — this conversation took i^lace a few 
 weeks after my arrival — "and then he had scarcely 
 spoken to me. He seems out of sorts." 
 
 " The," she said, very earnestly, " promise me 
 you will not make an enemy of Henry Bergen. 
 You don't know what he may do to you " 
 
 " I have no desire to make him an enemy," I 
 replied lightly ; " and I have no fear of anything 
 he can do to me." 
 
 " But promise me," she insisted ; *' I do not 
 want that man to be your enemy." 
 
 '' I will promise anything to please you''' I 
 said, trying to be impressive ; but, although she 
 blushed slightly, she pretended not to notice the 
 intonation of my voice, and continued : 
 
 *' Try to avoid him. The. I know he does not 
 like you, and you must remember that there is 
 insanity in his family." 
 
A TERRIBLE CHRISTMAS. 87 
 
 " Is there ? " I answered carelessly. " I was 
 not aware of the fact. Now you mention it, I 
 remember having noticed several times that he had 
 a strange, wild expression. So he is mad ?" 
 
 " No, I did not say that, but his father died in 
 the lunatic asylum here, and he has been ' queer ' 
 two or three times as a boy ; but the doctors think 
 he will get over it as he grows older, if he lives a 
 quiet, steady life." 
 
 " G-ets married and settles down, eh ?" I said, 
 trying to catch her eye, but she rose hastily, 
 glanced out of the window, and said, 
 
 " I must go and dress for dinner, now. Shall 
 I see you at the rocks this evening ?" 
 
 I replied in the affirmative, and left the house. 
 In the avenue I met Bergen, and I spoke to him. 
 He glared savagely at me and passed on towards 
 the house, without returning my salutation. 
 
 " Mad as a March hare," I soliloquized, as I 
 went back to my hotel f^jr dinner. 
 
 When I landed in Barbadoes I had intended 
 to remain there only a day or two, and as soon as 
 I bad visited "Hackelton's Cliff," the '' Animal 
 Flower Cave," and the " Boiling Spring," the three 
 ^' sights " of the Island, to have taken the first 
 
88 A TERRIBLE CHRISTMAS. 
 
 trading ship for St. Vincent, and continue my tour 
 through the beautiful islands of the Caribbean Sea; 
 but that chance meeting with Ettie, changed my 
 purpose, and, indeed, changed my whole life, and 
 I lingered on from day to day, from week to 
 week, falling more and more in love every timv3 I 
 saw my cousin. My " honest intention " on being 
 admitted to the " practice of the law," was to earn 
 a competency before I thought of marriage, and 
 that I would never so demean myself as to owe 
 fortune to my wife, but that resolve was 
 gone, and 1 found myself hanging on every 
 word Ettie uttered, and constantly trying* 
 to decide whether she really returned my love or 
 w^hether she had only that cousinly feelihs" for me 
 which sometimes comes so near to beinf>' love and 
 yet is not. "W^hile at dinner I resolved for the hun- 
 dredth time, to " know my fate " that evenings 
 and with that resolve went to keep my appoint- 
 ment with Ettie at the rocks. 
 
 It was "band evening," and the rocks were 
 crowded. I saw the Jones' carriage with Mrs. Stew- 
 art in it, but EtLie was not there ; she had doubt- 
 less alighted for a stroll along the beach, as usual, 
 and after saluting my aunt, I turned to seek her. 
 
A TEliUIHLK CHRISTMAS. 8i> 
 
 As I turned I saw her. She was standing on the 
 highest point of the rock, leaning against a wall 
 which bounded a priv^ate residence, and by her 
 side was Henry Bergen. He was speaking rapidly 
 and gesticulating violently, and she appeared 
 terrified, and anxious to break from him. Sud- 
 denly he threw himself on his knees and his words 
 poured forth in an almost unbroken torrent as he 
 declared his love and pleaded his suit with her. 
 By this time I was quite close, and as Ettie turned 
 to leave him she saw me and sprang towards me. 
 Bergen jumped to his feet and faced me. Never 
 can I forget that wild, despairing look, nor the 
 k gleam of madness starting from his strained and 
 glaring eyes. 
 
 " Ah ! " he shouted, rather than spoke, " It is 
 you. She leaves me to go to you ; but it shall 
 not be. You shall not have her, she is mine, mine, 
 mine ! We are goinq; to be married beneath the 
 sea," and with a wild laugh, he sprung on Ettie, 
 seized her in his arms, and leaped off the rocks into 
 the water below. 
 J The movement was so quick that, although T 
 ' was within a yard of him, I could not arrest him 
 1)efore he took the desperate leap, and Ettie's terri- 
 
90 A TKIiUUJLK CHRISTMAS. 
 
 lied scream of horror rang oat on the calm air, 
 starting the idle loungers into a knowledge of 
 the tragedy attempted to he enacted before them. 
 
 In an instant I had plungi^d after them and 
 seized the maniac. The rock,, at this place are about 
 twenty feet high, and the waves break under 
 them into a cavern formed by the constant sur- 
 ging of the waters. Fortunately, however, the tide 
 was out, and the water was not over two feet deep. 
 Bergen turned as I touched him, and loosing his 
 hold of Ettie, allowed her to drop into the water 
 while he turned on me. I am naturally power- 
 ful, and my athletic training at McGill had 
 greatly developed my muscles ; but 
 I was no match for the raving maniac, who 
 rushed on me like a demon and strove to throw 
 me into the water. I struck him a heavy blow in 
 the face, but he did not heed it, and in another 
 moment he had closed with me, and what I knew 
 was a struggle for my life had commenced. Strong; 
 as I am, I felt like a child in his grasp, and in lessj 
 time than it takes to write it, he had forced my 
 feet from under me, and we both fell into the 
 water, he above me, holding me down, and endeav- 
 oring to keep my head under water. The struggle 
 
A TKHHIRLE rifRISTMAS. 1)1 
 
 » was brief, but fierce, and I felt my strength failing 
 me, wIkmi help arrived in the shape of some gentle- 
 men who had run down the rocks to the beach and 
 hastened to my assistance. Even with this help 
 it was a difficult task to secure the madman 
 and take him to the shore, which Ettie had already 
 reached, and where I was speedily assisted, for J 
 was too much exhausted to stand alone. 
 
 That night I told Ettie of my love, and learned 
 that I was loved in return. Mrs. Stewart, with 
 whom I was a great favorite, willingly gave her 
 consent. Indeed, I think, she was secretly very 
 much obliged to me, for she was greatly afraid of 
 Ettie's falling in love with one of the "Red coats," 
 and being separated from her. 
 
 My aunt's consent to my union with Ettie 
 was, however, conditional. She approved of the 
 marriage, but required that I should return at once 
 to Montreal, commence practice, and the wedding 
 should take place a year from the next Christmas. 
 Of course I consented — I would have consented to 
 any terms — and left Barbadoes about the end 
 of November, Mrs. Stewart promising to be in 
 Canada early in the ensuing year. Harry Bergen 
 
92 A TERRIBLE CHRISTMAS. 
 
 was then in the lunatic asylum, apparently, a con- 
 firmed lunatic. 
 
 I returned to Montreal, and at once secuied an 
 office on that portion of St. James Street then 
 known as " Little St. James Street," and entered on 
 " the practice of the law." Everything went well 
 w ith me. I got a large amount of business, for a 
 young lawyer, and before my first year had expired, 
 I had gained some celebrity by winning two or 
 three rather difficult cases. Mv aunt came on in 
 the spring, and, partly to please Ettie, bought a 
 house in Montreal, and decided to settle there. 
 
 So matters stood with me on the day before 
 Christmas, and an eventful day it seemed to me, 
 and so it proved to be, although not in the way I 
 had expected, for I was to be married on Christmas 
 Day. 
 
 I spent Christmas Eve at my aunt's house, 
 and did not leave until nearly eleven o'clock, 
 when I went to my room over my office in Little 
 St. James Street, which I was to occupy for the 
 last time that night. 
 
 My office was one, of fiv(^ on the second flat of 
 an old brick building ; and the third flat was divid- 
 ed into four rooms, with a bath room and a large 
 
A TERRIBLE CHRISTMAS. 93 
 
 Toomy vault for storing books, papers, etc. The 
 place was very convenient and suitable for bach- 
 elors, and the four rooms were occupied by young 
 men, like myself, who were just starting in the 
 world, and had not yet made a name, or a home. 
 
 The vault was one of the " institutions " to use 
 an Americanism of the house. Why It had ever 
 been built on the third flat nobody knew, yet there 
 it was ; what use it could be put to, no one could 
 'tell, until one day I invited a reporter to visit me, 
 and in showing him the conveniences of the place, 
 he noticed the vault, and said, " What a splendid 
 place that is for you fellows to keep your beer. 
 It is cool, all lined with iron, with an iron door — 
 and has a gas jet in it, so that you can always get 
 a light. By Jove it is a handy place for beer ;" 
 and he looked about wistfully, as if he wondered 
 that no one had ever before thought of what a useful 
 purpose the vault could be put to, and, therefore, 
 stocked it with "Dow's" or *' Dawes" or 
 some other brand congenial to his palate. That 
 hint of the reporter's " took ;" and from that time 
 the vault was used as a receptacle for beer, the 
 door being left unlocked so that the four of us 
 living on the flat could have free access at any time. 
 
94 A TERRIBLE CHRISTMAS. 
 
 When I reached my room that Christmas Eve» 
 after partinp^ from Ettie, I found all the rooms on 
 the ** living " flat, as we. used to call it, unoc- 
 cupied. My fellow-lodgers had all gone to spend 
 Chrietmas out of town. 
 
 I lighted the gas, lit a pipe, and, having 
 donned my slippers and dressing- gown, sat beiore 
 the fire and took a look into the future. I thought 
 of what a great change to-morrow would make in 
 my life; how different it would be to ha^e some 
 one waiting for me at the door when I came home ; 
 not the scarred, blistered, and "unpainted for 
 twenty years" door which now admitted me ta 
 my "home" (?), but to a real home, with a real 
 wife, and real additions in the prospective future. 
 
 It was a jolly train of thought, and I do not 
 know which gave out first, the pipe or the "ad- 
 ditions in the prospective future ;" but the last 
 thing I can remember distinctly was, that my eldest 
 son was appointed Grovernor General of Canada ; 
 and that following the example of Mr. U S. Q-rant, 
 President of the United States, he had appointed 
 me postmaster for Montreal. I was just comple- 
 ting a scheme for building a new post oflB.ce, when 
 
A TERRIBLE CHRISTMAS. 95 
 
 I lost consciousness, and how long I slept I do 
 not know. 
 
 Mv awakening was a rude one. 
 
 The first sensation I experienced, that I can 
 remember, was one of suffocation. T struggled, and 
 wrestled, like one in a nightmare and finally, by 
 a great effort, awoke. 
 
 Awoke to what ? To find myself gagged and 
 bound hand and foot to the chair I had been sit- 
 ting in when I dropped to sleep ; and standing 
 between me and the fire was a form which at 
 first I took to be only a remnant of my nightmare, 
 but which I soon found to be a stern reality. 
 
 It was the form of Henry Bergen. 
 
 He was watching me with a fixed, steady gaze, 
 as if noting every breath I drew ; and as I opened 
 my eyes and became conscious, he changed his 
 position and seemed relieved to find that I was 
 awake. 
 
 " You are surprised to see me, "he said, quit^ 
 calmly, although the light of madness smould- 
 ered in his eyes." You did not expect me ? Ha ! 
 ha ! never mind. You might have invited an old 
 friend to your wedding, but you did'nt, and I 
 have invited myself. It will be a jolly wedding ! 
 
96 A TERRIBLE CHRISTMAS. 
 
 oh, such fun ! A bride waiting for a bridegroom 
 who will never come, never, never come. I have 
 escaped from the prison you threw me into. I 
 have crossed the seas. I have followed you like a 
 sleuth hound until I have tracked you down. Oh 
 it is rare fun. You thought to have her. You 
 thought you could outwit me ! No, no ! I am too 
 clever for you, and to-morrow while your bones 
 are lying charred and blackened amongst the ruins 
 of this house, I will console your bride for you. 
 Your bride ? She shall be my bride ! As for you 
 I have prepared a bride for you — death. Come and 
 see how pleasant I will make it for you." 
 
 He lifted the chair in which I was bound, and 
 carried me with ease out of the room into the 
 vault, and deposited the chair in the centre of it. 
 The gas was lighted, and I noticed that a bottle 
 with a candle stuck in its mouth had been placed 
 in one corner. There was nothing else in the 
 vault except a few bottles of beer. 
 
 Bergen looked at me for a few moments and 
 laughed, then he lit the candle which was in tjie 
 bottle and placed it in a corner. He then crossed 
 to the gas burner, and turned the light out, still 
 
A TERRIBLE CHRISTMAS. 07 
 
 keeping his hand on it, however. He then 
 laughed again and said, 
 
 *' IVe turned the gas off, but I am going to turn 
 it on again, only this time I shall not light it." 
 He turned on the gas and then continued ; "I 
 shall lock the vault door and leave you with the 
 escaping gas and the burning light. When the 
 vault is filled with gas there will be an explosion 
 and you will be blown to atoms. Ha ! ha ! it*s 
 funny, isn't it ! It needed a madman to think out 
 such a fine revenge. You stole my love, I'll 
 steal your life. Good night !" 
 
 He stepped out of the vault, and I heard the 
 •door closed and bolted. 
 
 My situation was truly terrible, and there 
 seemed to be no possible escape from a horrible 
 death. I was most securely bound to the chair, 
 my hands being strapped behind its back and my 
 feet firmly fastened to the lower rung in from, 
 while two stout cords around my body held me 
 securely to the back of the chair. I was gagged, 
 but so gagged that I could breathe, al- 
 though I could not cry out. To release 
 myself was impossible, and there appeared to be 
 no means of attracting attention to my condition, 
 
A TERRIBLE CHRISTMAS. 
 
 even had there been anyone on the flat, which I 
 knew there was not, as the three friends who oc- 
 cupied rooms there had gone into the country to 
 spend Christmas, and would not be back for two 
 days. The janitor lived in the basement and there 
 was no one else in the building. 
 
 I fully realized my position and knew that my 
 death was almost inevitable ; but I did not quite 
 despair. The gas burner, which was now open 
 tnd fast filling the vault with noxious vapor, was 
 very near the floor ; and if I could get to it, I 
 might be able to reach up to it, and turn it off* with 
 my teeth. Although I was only five or six feet 
 from the side of the vault where the gas burner 
 was, it took me a long time to jerk and twist my 
 chair over to it, and the vault was now so filled 
 with gas that every moment I expected the fatal 
 explosion to take place. At last I reached the 
 burner, and by a great effort stretched my neck up 
 so that one end of the wooden gag which was in 
 my mouth rested against the screw, and in a few 
 seconds more I had pushed it around and shut off" 
 the stream of poisonous vapor. 
 
 I was saved for the present, but was so ex- 
 hausted and overpowered by the gas, that I fell to 
 
A TERRIBLE CHRISTMAS. 9# 
 
 the ground insensible, bringing the chair down 
 with me. 
 
 When I recovered consciousness I found that 
 almost all the gas had escaped out of the vault, 
 and the air was comparatively pure, but 
 intensely cold, and my limbs were so benumbed I 
 could not move. Some hours must have elapsed 
 as the candle had burned almost out, and I sup- 
 posed it must be nearly morning ; but would morn- 
 ing bring relief ? I scarcely hoped so. I should 
 not be missed until near mid-day ; and when I 
 was missed, who would think of searching for me 
 in the old vault ? It was with a bitter pang that 
 I resigned myself to the idea that I was doomed to 
 pass many hours, perhaps days, in that gloomy 
 vault, unable to make myself heard. I was to 
 have been n«9Tyied at eieveh c'ciaok,'but all chance 
 of that was over now, for everi if i should be re- 
 leased in time, I was iv too weik 3'iid exhausted a 
 condition to do more than to be put to bed. 
 
 Wearily the minutes dragged themselves away, 
 and the candle went out, leaving me in darkness. 
 Then a new fear came to me. Suppose Bergen 
 should return to see that his work was completed ? 
 There would be no hope for me then. The idea 
 
100 A TERRIBLB CHRISTMAS. 
 
 grew and grew until my brain reeled, and I again 
 became unconscious. 
 
 When I awoke to reason again, I found myself 
 in bed in my own room, with a doctor and some 
 friends attending me. 
 
 I owed my deliverance to my reporting friend's 
 weakness for beer. He had awoke, very thirsty, 
 about ten o'clock on Christmas morning, and, 
 having no beer in his boarding house, had come to 
 my rooms, where he knew there was a supply, and 
 so found me. There was no wedding that day, 
 and it was several weeks before my system recov- 
 ered from the severe shock it had received ; then 
 Ettie and I were married, and spent our honeymoon 
 where we had learned to love each other, in 
 Barbadoep. .,^, ; , ^,0.*,.; 
 
 How EergeA founo. me oiif 1 do not know. 
 He had been discharged from the asylum in Barba- 
 does some mdnths kft'el- 1 lef £ the island, and started 
 on a pleasure trip to Europe. Very little more was 
 known of him until he appeared in my room on that 
 memorable Christmas Eve. He must have been in 
 Montreal some days, w^atching me ; but I never 
 discovered where he had been staying. After 
 locking me in the vault, he went to the St. Law- 
 
A TERRIBLE CHRISTMAS. 
 
 101 
 
 rence Hall, and spoke and acted so strangely that 
 a policeman was called, who took him to the station 
 house " for safe keeping," and he was shortly after 
 sent down to Beauport, where he is now a con- 
 firmed lunatic. 
 
\ 
 
MY REPORTER^ 
 
 A Story of an Elopement. 
 
N. 
 
 '.■?** 
 
"^.ry 
 
 MY REPORTER. 
 
 A STORY OF AN ELOPEMLNT. 
 
 IKLS, did you ever have an adventure with 
 a real reporter ; one of those meddlesome 
 people who are always finding out some- 
 thing about somebody and publishing it ? Well, I 
 did once, and Til tell you how it happened. It 
 was when Fannie got married, you know — hut of 
 course you don't know, or what would be the use 
 of my telling you ; so I'll 'begin at the beginning"^ 
 and tell you the whole story. 
 
 Frank Rainforth was my father's clerk. He 
 was head clerk or something, and held a respon- 
 sible position in the office ; but somehow papa did 
 not like him much, and always spoke of him as a 
 wild young man who set a bad example to the 
 younger lads in the office, although he was very 
 smart at business and paid great attention to his 
 duties. But papa said he drank, and played 
 billiards, and carried on all soits of wild games at 
 
106 MY KEPORTER. 
 
 nigliL, although he was very steady and attended 
 to business during the day. 
 
 Papa used often to talk to mamma about the 
 young men in the office, and that's how Fan and I 
 first heard of Frank. Of course we had seen him 
 occasionally when we used to go to the office for 
 papa ; but we had never paid any special attention 
 to him until after we heard how wicked he was, 
 then, of course, we took more interest in him, as I 
 believe girls always do when they ought not to. 
 He was just splendid. He had such curly brown 
 hair, and such a love of a little moustache. I almost 
 fell in love with him myself, and I believe I should 
 if Fan hadn't; but she did, and that ended my 
 fancy. It was a long time before we got to know 
 him ; and I used to notice him taking a sly look at 
 us out of the corner of his eye when we went to 
 the office. I thought he was looking at me, but he 
 wasn't, he was looking at Fan and falling in love 
 with her — so he said afterwards— and wondering 
 how he could manage to get introduced to her 
 without papa knowing anything about it ; for he 
 knew that papa would never permit his forming 
 an acquaintance with us. I am afraid papa was 
 quite right about Frank. He was a bad boy ; but 
 
MY REPORTER. 107 
 
 we girls never thought of that then. 
 
 One day Fan and I were out sleigh ridiag, 
 when just as we got opposite St. Andrew's Church 
 on Beaver Hall Hill, a littl*^, boy threw a snowball 
 at one of the horses, and hi^ shied, and before we 
 knew what had happened the horses had start(^d 
 as hard as they could run down the hill, and just 
 as we got by the St. .Tamos' hotel, t'le sleigh struck 
 against a lamp post and was upset, throwing Fan 
 and I, and the coachman, out upon the sidewalk. 
 Fan was not hurt, but I got a cut on the forehead 
 — I've got the mark yet — and was -quite stunned. 
 When I recovered I found some one helping me into 
 the St. James' hotel. It was Frank. He had been 
 passing at the time, saw the accident, and came to 
 our assistance. He was ever so kind, and got us a 
 sleigh to take us home, and promised to tell papa 
 about the accident, which he did. 
 
 While we were in the hotel, a queer looking 
 man, with long hair, and a little book in his hand, 
 came running in in a great hurry, and began asking 
 all sorts of ques "ons, and writing down the 
 answers as fast as he could in the little book. I 
 did not pay much attention at the time, but I 
 remembereu afterwards that he took Frank 
 
108 MY REPORTER. 
 
 aside, and they talked together for a few 
 minutes, and then Frank asked him something, 
 !^nd he said " I don't care if I do ;" and 
 then went out through a ^ittie door into an- 
 other room, and when Frank came back I could 
 smell cloves very strong. The man with the book 
 didn't come back ; but wasn't I mad that eve ning. 
 when papa brought home the Evem?ig' Boom- 
 shell and there was a long accounl. of the 
 accident, written all full of stories, saying that 
 *' the horses came tearing down the hill, with the 
 young ladies screaming," while we didn't scream 
 at all ; and that Frank " rushed into the street, 
 stopped the horses and caught the elder of the young 
 ladies " — that was me — '' in his arms just in time to 
 prevent her brains being dashed out against the 
 lamp post," which was a great fib, for Frank never 
 caught me in his arms at all, and I did not fall any- 
 where near the lamp post. 
 
 Papa was so angry about the paragraph in the 
 BooMshell that 1 believe he was mad at us for being 
 thrown out. He declared Frank had told the re- 
 porter what to write, and just wanted to get credit 
 for doing us a great service when he had not done 
 anything at all. He desired us not to speak to 
 
MY REPORTER. 
 
 109 
 
 He saidj "/ don't care if I do^ 
 
s 
 
MY REPORTER. Ill 
 
 Frank, and said that he would thank him for us. 
 
 I . ould not say anything, for I remembered 
 the queer man with the little book, and the smell 
 of cloves afterwards ; and I felt sure papa wa& 
 right. Somehow papa was always right, he had a 
 way of saying such disagreeable things, but thou 
 they were always true, and that made them more 
 provoking. We saw Frank at Church the next 
 Sunday, and he bowed to us when papa wasn't 
 looking. I was so angry with him for telling that 
 reporter such stories that I would not return his 
 bow, but Fan did, and I caught them three or four 
 times during the sermon exchanging glances. Oh, 
 I saw them although, no one else did, for papa 
 was asleep in his corner of the pew, and mamma 
 was looking so intently at Dr. Bellowell that she 
 did not notice. 
 
 About a week after that there was a ball at 
 the St. Lawrence Hall, and Fan and I went with 
 mamma. Papa had a touch of gout and had to 
 stay at home. 
 
 To our great surprise we met Frank there, and 
 the great deceitful thing made friends with Uncle 
 Tom, and actually got that old simpleton to intro- 
 duce him to mamma and to us. Of course, mamma 
 
112 MY liKPORTER. 
 
 had to thank him for h(3lpin<^ iis, and he was so 
 pleasant and ag'reeable, that mamma took quite a 
 fancy to him, and said slic thought papa judged 
 him too harshly ; but papa knew him better than 
 we did. Fanny danced with him twice, and when 
 he was bidding her good-night, I am sure he 
 squeezed her hand for I saw her blush. I wouldn't 
 dance or shake hands with him, for 1 had not for- 
 gotten the stories he had told that horribh^ repor- 
 ter. The next day Fan could talk oi' nothing but 
 Frank, and how nice and good he was. Poor 
 little thing, she was not quite eighteen, and had 
 never been in love before. I w^as nearly two 
 years older and had had more experience. I told 
 Fan she was a foolish little thing and would live 
 to repent her folly, but she didn't mind me — who 
 ever did that was in love with a bad man ? 
 
 After that Frank managed to meet us several 
 times when neither papa nor mamma was with 
 us ; and at last Fan used to make appointments to 
 meet him on Sherbrooke Street in the afternoon, 
 when he could get away from the office on some 
 pretence or other about business. Of course, I 
 went with her, poor little thing, she was so madly 
 in love I could not bear to thwart her ; and then 
 
MY REPORTER. 113 
 
 I had changed my opinion of Frank and likod him 
 -ever so much now, and thought papa very unkind 
 to ispeak of him as he did. Twice Frank brought 
 up a friend with him, whom he introduced to us as 
 an acquaintance from the States, Mr. Thornton 
 Murray He was ever so nice, and could talk, talk, 
 talk away, telling such funny stories, and keeping 
 me laughing all the while. He was very good 
 looking, too, and used to dress so nicely, that I 
 liked to walk down Sherbrooke Street with him, 
 and have all the girls turn to look at us. Frank 
 would always manage to get a little ahead of us 
 with Fan ; and Mr. Murray and I would stroll be- 
 hind, he — for a wonder where T am concerned — 
 -doing most of the talking, and I half killing my- 
 self with laughing at the funny remarks he would 
 make about people. It was only twice that he 
 €ame up wuth Frank. He was to have come again 
 but Frank met us without him, and said he had 
 been called away suddenly to Quebec on business. 
 That afternoon a terrible thing occurred. As we were 
 walking along together who should come driving up 
 but papa, in a sleigh with another gentleman. I 
 thought papa had burst a blood vessel, he turned so 
 black in the face, when he saw us, and he looked 
 
114 MV REPORTER. 
 
 as if he could kill Frank. I thouscht I should 
 die when papa stopped the sleigh and told us 
 to get in, I was so frightened. Papa never said a 
 word to Frank, but just looked at him for a minute 
 and told the eoachman to drive on, leaving poor 
 Frank standing there in the street looking the very- 
 picture of despair. 
 
 I never shall forget that night. Oh ! how papa 
 did scold. I never had any idea he could get in 
 such a passion. I was too much frightened to say- 
 any thing, but Fan showed more spirit than I ever 
 thought she had. :She flew right out and told 
 papa she loved Frank, and meant to marry him ; 
 and she didn't care whether he gave his consent 
 or not. Then there was an awful scene. I thought 
 papa would go crazy. He swore a terrible big oath 
 — I had never heard papa swear before — that she 
 should never see Frank again, and that if she did 
 he should cast her off for ever, and never 
 recognise her as a daughter again. Then mamma 
 went into hysterics and oh ! there was such a time. 
 Papa took good care to prevent our meeting Frank 
 again, for we found next day we were just as good 
 as prisoners. We were not allowed to go out with- 
 out mamma, and we were not allowed to receive 
 
MY UEPOUTKU. 115 
 
 any letters without pupa or mamraa soeinj^ them. 
 This went on for a week, and Fan got so sullen 
 and cross I hardly knew her for the same girl. 
 Still we heard nothing of Frank, and did not even 
 know whether he was still at the office or whether 
 papa had driven him out of the country, as he had 
 threatened he would. One day we were doing* 
 some shopping at Morgan's with mamma, when a 
 little newsboy came in crying out, " Here you arc% 
 Morning Blazer !" and came close up to us. I saw 
 Fan start and flush up very suddenly, and thtii 
 put something in her pocket, and it flashed across 
 me in a moment that she had got a letter from 
 Frank. 
 
 I was right. Fan had got a letter from Frank. 
 She showed it to me that night ; and oh ! it was 
 beautiful Iv written and covered all over with 
 great blots where the poor fellow's tears had fallen 
 on the paper — so Fan said ; but I don't believe 
 a word of it now, and think he just sprinkled some 
 water on the paper to make it look like tears. He 
 said his heart was breaking ; that he had left the 
 office, and intended soon to leave the countrv and 
 go to the States ; but he knew he should 
 die unless Fan went with him. He begged ever 
 
IIG - MY REPORTER. 
 
 SO hard of Fan to see him, and actually had 
 the audacity to propose that we should let 
 him into the house at night alter everyone 
 was asleep. Of course, I would not hear of such a 
 thin;^' ; but Fan becrixed so hard to bt» allowed to 
 see iM'aiik that at last I conseiit(^d to help her to 
 see him just once ; but it should be in the evening" 
 before papa came home to dinner, and while mam- 
 ma was dressing. We could then manage to slip 
 out into the grounds for a few minutes without 
 being noticed. Fan w^rote to tell Frank, and the 
 next evening he came and talked to Fan for about 
 ten minutes. Fan was almost crazy, and I was 
 not much better, for I thought papa wac behaving 
 horridly, and I determined to help Fan all I could. 
 
 It was all agreed that Fan should run away 
 w^ith Frank, and that they should go to the States 
 and get married. I wanted to go with them, but 
 Frank thought it would be better for them to go 
 alone. Then Frank said, Fan ought to be disguised 
 or she may be recognised and both of them 
 stopped. It was finally settled that Frank should 
 send a suit of boy's clothes to the office, done up 
 in a millinery box, so that papa might think it was 
 a new dress and bring it home. The elopement 
 
MY RKFORTKK. 117 
 
 was planned to tak(» placo on Friday — it wiis lh»'ii 
 Monday night — Frank was to cotno for Fan about 
 nine o'clock, and he was to drive across to Rouse's 
 Point that night, and take th(» train ibr New York 
 next morning. I don't know how w^e passed the 
 next four days. I never was in such a state of 
 excitement in my life, and it is wonderful that 
 mamma lu^ver suspected anytliing. Fan's disguise 
 arrived all right, and when she had got it on she 
 made the lovliest boy you ev(»r saw ; with short 
 curly light hair — Fan's hair was jet black — a cun- 
 ning little short jacket, the oth(^r things of course, 
 a big rough overcoat, a muHlcr, and a great fur cap 
 coming down over her ears. She whs a perfect 
 picture, and I would have defied anyom* to have 
 recognised her. At last it was all over. Fan walk- 
 ed bravely out of our room, down the passage and 
 out of the servants entry, without being noticed 
 by anyone, and was met by Frank in the grounds 
 and they went away together, leaving me, wuth a 
 penitent letter from Fan to papa, to stand the 
 discovery next day, and try to make peace for them. 
 
 I never slept a wink all night, and could 
 scarcely contain myself in my room next 
 morning until the breakfast bell rang. Just as 
 
118 MY REPORTER. 
 
 soon as I hoard that I ran down stairs, and 
 put Fan's letter near papa's plate so that he 
 may see it as soon as he sat down. That was a 
 terrible morning. Just as quick as papa read Fan's 
 note he came over to me, looking as if he meant 
 to kill me, and he took me by the shoulders and 
 gave me such a shaking as I never had before in 
 my life.- 
 
 " So, Miss," he said, *' This is some of your work, 
 is it ? Well, I wish your happy pair joy, for they 
 will have nothing else to live on. Never will I see 
 or have anything to do with either of them again, 
 I swear it by — 
 
 n 
 
 I screamed, I couldn't help it, and so pre- 
 vented papa swearing that great big oath I knew 
 he was going to use. 
 
 He did not say anything more, but went back 
 to his seat and made a pretence of eating his 
 breakfast; but I could see that he never swallowed 
 a mouthful, and his face looked so pained and 
 careworn, all in a minute, that I began to feel 
 «orry and frightened at what had been done, and 
 wonder how it would all end. Mamma, of course, 
 had hysterics, she always did when anything 
 unusual occurred, and had to be taken to her bed. 
 
MY IlEPORTEK. 119 
 
 Before papa left the house he came and stood by 
 my chair, and said, very solemnly and gravely : — 
 
 " Minnie, I don't think I have been a harsh or 
 unkind father to you and Fan. You were all I had 
 to work for in the world, and I have toiled early 
 and late for twenty years for your sakes. I tried 
 to prevent Fan committing this folly, but in her 
 self will she has outwitted her father, and must 
 now reap the result of her error. That fellow has 
 only married her on speculation ; and it shall 
 prove a bad one. Min, I have only one daughter 
 now, don't you deceive me too. Confound the 
 thing," he continued, " it will all get into the 
 papers and make a fine dish of scandal." 
 
 When pai^a had gone, I sri at the window, 
 feeling very sad and lonely, and beginning to find 
 out, when it w^as too late, that I had helped Fan to 
 do a very foolish thing. It was about noon when 
 I heard a ring at the servants' bidl, and looking 
 out, saw that horrid man with the Idack book 
 talkin^j to one of the chambermaids. 
 
 How on earth had he found it out so soon ? 
 I called the girl in and told her not to answer any 
 questions from strangers. That miserable man 
 kept hanging about the house, trying tr question 
 
120 MY REPOKTER. 
 
 the servants, and at last I got so much annoyed 
 that I called John, the coachman, and ordered him 
 to turn that horrid man out. 
 
 The man had'nt been gone more than half an 
 hour, when a cab drove up to the door, and out of 
 it jumped Mr. Murray. I w^as so glad to see him ; 
 he had always said that Frank and he were very 
 intimate, and I thought he had perhaps telegraphed 
 Mr. Murray that Fan and he were safe. 
 
 This proved to be the case, for the minute I 
 asked Mr. Murray if he had got a telegram from 
 Frank from Jvouse's Point, he said yes, and Frank 
 had asked him to call on me and let me know they 
 were safe. 
 
 Mr. Murray was just as nice as ever. He told 
 me he had been in Quebec for two or three weeks, 
 and did not know what had happened until he 
 returned, on the night of the elopement, and got a 
 letter from Frank, bidding him good-bye for a 
 while, and telling him that Fan was going with 
 him to New York. He offered to show me the 
 telegram from Frank, but found he had forgotten 
 it at his office. He sat and chatted away for about 
 half an hour. He spoke so kindly of Frank, who, 
 he said, was an old schoolmate, that I quite took a 
 
MY REPORTER. 121 
 
 * fancy to him, and thought him nicer than ever. I 
 told him the whole story about Frank and Fan, 
 just as I've told it to you. He laughed heartily 
 when I spoke of Fan's being disguised as a boy, 
 and said : 
 
 " That's capital ; I could not have had it any 
 better if I had got up the thing myself." 
 
 He kept asking me questions, and seemed to 
 take the greatest interest in everything. He was 
 so pleasant and agreeable, in his light, charming' 
 manner, that he quite drove away the fit of the 
 blues I was suffering from, and I was really sorry 
 when he rose to go. He said he expected a letter 
 p from Frank from New York, enclosing one to me, 
 as Frank had said he would write that way — I did 
 not remember Frank having told me so, but per- 
 haps he did — and he would bring it to me. 
 
 The house was so miserable that day that I 
 felt quite feverish by evening, and determined to 
 go down in the sleigh which always went at five 
 o'clock for papa. 
 
 Just as we were driving down St. Jame& 
 street, I heard a newsboy call out, " Here yer are. 
 Evening BoomshelU six o'clock edition. Full account 
 of the 'lopement ! " 
 
122 MY REPORTER. 
 
 So ! that horrid man with the black book had 
 found out something about it after all. I bought 
 a paper, and, as the sleigh had stopped near a 
 lighted window, I just looked at the paper for a 
 minute. Judge my astonishment, if you can, 
 when I read the following in great big letters : — 
 
 MODERN ROMANCE. 
 
 A CHAPTER FROM MONTREAL LIFE. 
 A YOUNG LADY ELOPES WITH HER FATHERS CLERK. 
 
 Q,TJE!EI^ ^ O Y 
 
 Our Reporter Interviews the Yourg Lady's Sister. 
 
 The Whole Story of the Affair — The Beginning of the Bomance— Stoles 
 
 Interviews — The Plan of Escape — Full and 
 
 Interesting Particulars. 
 
 There was just one liae in it that got me angry. 
 ^'Our Reporter Interviews the Young Lady's Sister " 
 The wretch had only seen me through the window, 
 a,nd he called that '* an interview ! " It made me 
 so angry that I told John to drive me to the office 
 of the paper, as I was determined to see the editor 
 and tell him what a story-teller his reporter was. 
 
 There was an old man in the office when I got 
 
MY REPORTER. l2.5 
 
 there, and he asked me to walk up-stairs and I 
 would find one of the editors. I went up, and 
 opening the door marked " Editors and Reporters," 
 found, not the man with the black book, but Mr. 
 Murray, leaning back in a '"hair with his feet on a 
 desk, smoking a nasty black pipe and reading the 
 Evening' Bnomshell with evident delight. I was so 
 much astonished I could not say a word, but stood 
 stupidly looking at him, while he hastily took his 
 feet down and put away that nasty pipe, while he 
 stammered out something — I don't know what. 
 
 It all flashed upon me in a minute. He was 
 the reporter, not the man with the black book, 
 I'm sure I can't remember what I said. I just 
 usked him if he had written that report, and he 
 did not deny it, and then I gave him a piece of 
 my mind, and told him pretty plainly what 
 thought about his conduct. He tried to say some- 
 thing, but I would not let him, and as soon as I 
 had finished, I walked down stairs, leaving him 
 to be ashamed of himself, if he could, but I don't 
 suppose he knew how. 
 
 I found out afterwards that he wasn't a friend 
 of Frank's at all, but just a chance acquaintance, 
 and that it was quite accidental his being with 
 
124 MY REPORTEU. 
 
 Frank the first time he met Fan and I ; the second 
 time Frank had brought him just because " two 
 was company, but three was none," Frank said. 
 He had never got a letter or telegram from Frank 
 at all, and heard of the elopement by chance. He 
 then sent the man with the black book, but as he 
 found out nothing he came himself, and as I did 
 not for a moment suspect him, I told him every- 
 thing ; and so he wrote a " stunning " report, as 
 he called it. 
 
 Papa was furious, and declared Frank had 
 given all the facts to the reporter himself; and 
 he was so bitter about Frank that I was forced to 
 tell him the truth and take the blame off poor 
 Frank's shoulders. He was an^rv with me at 
 first, but soon got over it, and persisted in blaming 
 Frank for introducing almost a total stranger to us. 
 
 Papa was right about Frank. He behaved 
 shamefully w^hen he found papa would not recog- 
 nize him as his son-in-law, and that he would get 
 none of the fortune which Fan would have got 
 had she married someone whom papa liked. He 
 took to drinking and gambling in New York, 
 neglected poor Fan shamefully, and almost broke 
 her heart. At last he was detected in someswind- 
 
MY REPORTER. 125 
 
 ling operation and was obliged to run away, 
 leaving Fan destitute. Poor thing, she never 
 recovered the blow that was to her, for she still 
 loved him. Papa went to New York when he 
 heard Frank had run away, and brought Fan back 
 to Montreal again but she had lost all her spirits, 
 and sunk, sunk, sunk until the next spring, when 
 we laid her in Mount Royal Cemetery. Then Mr. 
 Murray wrote another report about that ; but this 
 time he wrote it, oh ! so tenderly, so feelingly and 
 touchingly. He spoke so kindly and nicely of Fan, 
 and drew such a pretty picture of her betrayal and 
 abandonment, that it made me cry ; and he wrote 
 some verses, too, that were perfectly elegant, and 
 he spoke so harshly of Frank that it pleased even 
 papa, and he went to Mr. Murray's office and 
 thanked him. After that papa got to know him 
 and took a great fancy to him, saying he was the 
 smartest editor in Montreal ; and one day papa 
 brought him home to dinner. I had a great mind, 
 at first, not to speak to him ; but, after all, he was 
 not to blame ; he had only done what it was his 
 duty to do, and so I forgave him. 
 
 Thornton — Mr. Murray, I mean — comes to see 
 us very often now, and — and — I might as well tell 
 
126 MY REPORTER. 
 
 you that it is not at all improbable that somethiiio' 
 might take place next spring— not an elopement — 
 which will appear in the papers under the heading 
 "Married," but will not be reported as a great 
 sensation. 
 
THE GHOST OF A COAT, 
 
CHAPTER I. 
 
 DONNELLY AND HIS COAT. 
 
 HE coat which Donncllvwore was, of course 
 ^c)\4. known as Donnelly's Coat ; but as a matter 
 fts^^s'^^ of fact it could never have been intended 
 for Donnelly. It was too long for him, and too loose 
 for him ; and if any tailor ever made that coat with 
 the idea that it would fit Donnelly, that tailor 
 ought to have been cut into pieces with his own 
 shears, before he could make another coat. 
 
 It was not a pretty coat ; and as to the fit, it 
 could not be said to fit Donnelly at all. It was 
 supposed to be a tight-fitting overcoat, cut frock 
 style. When Donnelly put it on it nearly reached 
 his ankles, and when he buttoned it up there was 
 room enough in the back for a week's provisions 
 for a man with a good appetite ; while it bagged 
 enough in front to afford accommodation for a 
 
130 THE (illOST OF A COAT. 
 
 couple of bottles oi beer, a corkscrew and one of 
 those patent compressible drinkinu: cups. 
 
 It was a peculiar and rather disrei)utable-look- 
 ing coat altogether ; but one which it would not be 
 easy lo mistake for any other, 
 
 Donnelly and I were room-mates. A very 
 good little fellow was Donnelly, what there was 
 of him, lor he was only ^^Q ft^t^t, two inches in his 
 high-heeled boots ; and he and I were not only 
 room-mates, but dear and close friends. Although 
 small in stature, Donnelly was large in intellect. 
 I am quite sure of that, lor he was the only person 
 who rightly appreciated my poem on " The 
 Addled Egg," and acknowledged it to be the finest 
 epic in the English language. Besides, he was a 
 reporter for the Morning' Trumpet, and everybody 
 knows that all reporters are talented. 
 
 Donnelly was a good reporter. He was fond 
 of roaming about in out of the way and half for- 
 gotten side and by streets, and making short 
 and graphic sketches of the scenes he witnessed ; 
 and some of his accounts of his noctural rambles 
 about the city were so clever, and attracted so much 
 attention to the Trumpet, that when Christmas time 
 came around the proprietors made him a handsome 
 
TIIK (;H<)ST OF A COAT. 131 
 
 presont, and engaged him for another year at an 
 increased salary. 
 
 01' course, Donnelly was somewhat elated at his 
 success ; and invested in a new pipe, some tobacco, 
 and a small flask of brandy, all of which were 
 comfortably bestowed in the breast porket of his 
 overcoat, without materially affecting the ill-fit 
 of that garment. 
 
 It was Christmas Eve — never mind how many 
 years ago, I am not writing ancient history — and 
 Donnelly and I were sitting in our room in a 
 boarding house in Montreal, having a smoke and 
 a chat after supper. Somehow, the conversation 
 turned upon spiritualism and supernatural appear- 
 ances, and I found, to my astonishment, that 
 Donnelly was a firm believer in spiritualism. 
 
 " You must admit, old fellow," he said, " that 
 if we are to have a future existence — and I do not 
 for a moment suppose you will dispute that — we 
 must have the germ of immortality in us now." 
 
 *' Granted," I replied;" but it does not follow 
 as a natural sequence that the inborn germ of one 
 man should possess the power of communicating 
 with the translated spirit which has pierced the 
 mystery of death." 
 
132 THE GHOST OF A COAT. 
 
 "Still you confess, that the germ of immor- 
 tality being born in us, it is possible that the full 
 and perfected future life, mifrht communicate with 
 the germ which is yet in the world undeveloped ?" 
 
 " Excuse me, I confess nothing of the sort. I 
 would as soon think of saying that the chicken, 
 while still in its shell, ' undeveloped,' could com- 
 municate to a rooster which has entered upon its 
 'perfected future life.' It would be presumptions 
 for me to attempt to say what might or might not 
 happen to the spirit after it leaves the body. My 
 idea is that it enters into its new state of existence 
 somewhat in the same condition that a baby enters 
 into this world, remembering nothing of its state 
 prior to its breathing the atmosphere of earth." '^ 
 
 " You have no belief in the power of spiritual 
 beings to make their presence known and felt on 
 earth ?" 
 
 '* Of course I have not. I look on the future 
 existence as an outgrowth of mundane life, a higher 
 development ; and while it is possible — although 
 in my opinion it is not probable — that in a future 
 state we may remember what occurred during our 
 sojourn on earth, I cannot conceive that any 
 Heavenly spirit could possess the desire, even if it 
 
THE GHOST OF A COAT. 1J]3 
 
 had the power, to revisit the scenes of earth after 
 it had once tasted the joys which we are taught to 
 believe — and which I firmly do believe — exist in 
 Heaven." 
 
 " You admit that a spirit in the other world 
 might remember what has occurred on earth. Is it 
 not, therefore, possible that any strong influence, 
 such as love or hate, might induce it to endeavor 
 to make itself known to those it loves, or hates, 
 either directly or through some media ?" 
 
 " Now you touch on the vital point in spirit- 
 ualism," I replied. " Spiritualism, as accepted 
 and practised by " Clairvoyants," &c., is a mere 
 tissue of deception, based on the superstitious iear- 
 of the credulous, who are always ready to ascribe 
 to supernatural causes anything which cannot be 
 immediately accounted for by natural material 
 means. For instance, a man eats a hearty supper 
 of lobster salad, has the nightmare, wakes up in a 
 freight, sees the moonlight streaming through the 
 open window on his own shirt which he has hung 
 on a peg to air, and is firmly convinced that he sees 
 a spirit with great white wings and an angelic 
 smile bending over him. He shuts his eyes for a 
 moment, when he opens them again his supernat- 
 
134 THE GHOST of a coat. 
 
 ural visitor has disappeared, of course it has, and 
 it is a difficult matter to make that man believe 
 that his ghost was composed entirely of moonlight 
 and a linen shirt." 
 
 *'You speak very lightly of serious matters. 
 Art," he said in a calm, grave voice. " You surely 
 do not mean to say that it is impossible for a spirit 
 from another world to visit this earth." 
 
 " I cannot undertake to say that it is^impos- 
 sible ; but I do mean to say that no spirit ever has 
 visited this earth — except those mentioned in the 
 Bible. 
 
 Donnelly said nothing, but paced the room 
 several times, quite excitedly. At last he stopped 
 by my chair, and, laying his hand on my shoulder, 
 said, very seriously : — 
 
 " Art, if I die before you do, I will, if such a 
 thing be possible, as I firmly believe it is, revisit 
 this earth and appear to you to convince you that 
 communication can be had from the other world." 
 
 "Do, old fellow, I replied, laughing at his 
 earnestness, " and, ' if you love me,' wear that 
 overcoat, then I shall know you out of a thousand 
 ghosts." 
 
 " I will," he said, very quietly, and began to 
 
THE CJIIOST OB^ A COAT. 135 
 
 pull on his boots, for it was time for him to go to 
 the office of the Trumpet. 
 
 "Will you be late to-night?" I asked, care- 
 lessly. 
 
 " Yes ; I have a good many items to write up, 
 and it will probably be two or three o'clock before 
 I get through." 
 
 " All right. I shall be asleep long before that, 
 so don't wake me up ; but if you meet Santa Clans, 
 he is one of your spiritual friends, you can bring 
 him along, and I will interview him in the morn- 
 ing." 
 
 Donnelly stood for a moment at the door, 
 dressed in his long, loose, ill-fitting coat, and 
 smiled at me good-humoredly. 
 
 " You are in a skeptical mood to-night. Art," 
 he said, " but perhaps you will change your views 
 about supernatural things before you die. Good 
 night." 
 
 " Grood night, old fellow, and take care that 
 none of your supernatural friends run away with 
 you.'' 
 
 He closed the door behind him, and I was left 
 alone to the enjoyment of my pipe and book. 
 
136 THE GHOST OF A COAT. 
 
 CHArTER II. 
 
 THE COAT WITHOUT DONNELLY. 
 
 ^«a^FTER Donnelly left, I threw myself v.n the 
 wJKVI sofa, and took up the book I had been 
 v^^U^ reading before Donnelly and I commenced 
 conversing. It was Bulwer's remarkable work, "A 
 Strange Story," which was quite new at the time I 
 am writing of, and in which I was soon deeply 
 interested. 
 
 I read for several hours, how long I scarcely 
 knew, and had just reached the description of the 
 appearance of the " Luminous Shadow," when I 
 chanced to look up, and, to my surprise, saw 
 Donnelly's coat hanging on its usual peg, behind 
 the door. 
 
 It seemed to me almost impossible that 
 Donnelly could have entered the room and hung 
 up his coat without my hearing him ; besides, it 
 was much too early for him to leave the office. 
 
 The door on which the coat hung was imme- 
 diately opposite the sofa on which I rested, and I 
 could not understand how Donnelly could have 
 opened the door, hung up the coat, and left the 
 
THE GHOST OF A COAT. 13; 
 
 i room, closing- the door behind him — for it was 
 closed, — without my hearing him. 
 
 I took a good long look at the coat before I 
 arose from the sofa. It certainly was the same coat 
 Donnelly had worn when he left the room a few 
 hours before. There was the same bulge in the 
 back, the same fullness in the chest, the same extra 
 length in the skirts, the same disreputable look 
 generally. 
 
 It seemed so curious tome that the coat should 
 be there without Donnelly, that I called out : — 
 
 " Where have you got to, old fellow ?" 
 
 There was silence in the room ; but some* 
 ^ thing seemed to whisper in my ear : — 
 . " Look at the coat, Art." 
 
 I did look at the coat, and noticed that some- 
 thing was dropping from it. I laid down my 
 book, crossed the room, and put my hand on the 
 coat. 
 
 It was soaking wet 
 
 I felt in the pockets and could find nothing. 
 It seemed to be Donnelly's coat beyond doubt ; but 
 I noticed that the pipe, tobacco pouch and brandy 
 llask, I had seen Donnelly put in the breast pocket, 
 were not there now. I examined the coat very 
 
138 TlfE GHOST OF A (OAT. 
 
 carefully, and it seemed, while x:>assing my hand 
 over the left breast, that the coat was warmer. I 
 drew my hand quickly away and looked at it — 
 
 It was stained with blood ! 
 
 The shock to me was so great that I involun- 
 tarily sprung back, and called : 
 
 " Donnelly ! Donnelly ! what the deuce kind of 
 A joke is this you are trying to play on me ? " 
 
 A voice, which sounded as if it came from a 
 great distance, and which resembled Donnelly's 
 voice, seemed to whisper to me, 
 
 " It is no joke, Art. I have been murdered and 
 thrown into the river. Try to bring my murderers 
 to justice. You see spirits can communicate with 
 mortals. Grood-bye ! " 
 
 Unbeliever as I was in anything approaching 
 the supernatural, I laught'd to myself at what I 
 thought was a cleverly contrived trick ; so I opened 
 the door suddenly and ran into the passage, expect" 
 ing to find Donnelly there. My hand was covered 
 with blood, which stained the knob of the door as I 
 opened it. 
 
 The passage ran the whole length of the house, 
 with bedrooms on each side of it. There was no 
 one in it ; and I did not release my hold of the door 
 
THE GHOST OF A COAT. 1;^J) 
 
 knob, until I was satisfied that I was alone and 
 turned back into the room. It was after midnight 
 and all the other boarders had retired. I could 
 hear snoring in several rooms, buJ; there was no 
 other sign of life. I felt rather annoyed at having 
 allowed myself to be momentarily excited at what 
 I was confident was a trick of Donnelly's— although 
 I could not think how he could have performed it, 
 and stepped back into the room determined to 
 examine the coat more olosely and see if Donnelly 
 was behind it. 
 
 The coat was gone ! 
 
 I experienced a queer sensation as I looked at 
 the peg on which the coat had hung only a few 
 moments before and found it empty. 
 
 Then I looked at my hand. 
 
 There was no blood on it, neither was there 
 any stain on the door knob, and the spot on the 
 carpet where I had seen the water dripping was 
 quite dry. 
 
 1 returned to the sofa and sat down to think. 
 In a few moments I proved to my satisfaction that 
 1 must have dozed for a few moments, and that 
 what I had been reading about the '^ Luminous 
 Shadow," and what I been talking about to Don- 
 
1 40 TIIK GHOST OF A COAT. 
 
 elly had got mixed up in my mind, and I had 
 really dreamed all about the coat and the voice. 
 
 Having settled that matter, I read for about 
 an hour more and then went to bed, a trifle annoyed 
 at myself for nearly letting my imagination trick 
 me, but never for a moment supposing that I had 
 had a supernatural visitation. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 DONNELLY WITHOQT THE COAT. 
 
 SLEPT soundly, and did not awake until 
 
 late on Christmas morning, w^hen I dis- 
 covered, to my astonishment, that Donnelly's 
 bed was unoccupied ; in fact, it had not been 
 occupied during the night, as the clothes w^ere 
 undisturbed. 
 
 This was strange, for, although he was fre- 
 quently late, he always came home some time 
 before six o'clock, at which hour the paper went 
 to press, and it was now after eight. 
 
 I began to feel uncomfortable. Somehow I 
 could not help thinking of the curious dream — as 
 I called it — 1 had had ; and several times I almost 
 persuaded myself that I heard Donnelly's voice 
 
THE GHOST OF A COAT. 141 
 
 saying, " I have been murdered and thrown in the 
 river." 
 
 I hurried through breakfast, and went to the 
 house of the night editor of the Trumpet, to find 
 out what time Donnelly had left the office. The 
 night editor said Donnelly had last been seen in 
 the office, for a few minutes, between ten and 
 eleven, when he said he was going around to the 
 police stations in search of items, and would be 
 back in an hour. He had not returned. Inquiry 
 at the central police station elicited the fact that 
 Donnelly had been there about eleven, and had 
 said he was going to the " Black Horse," a low 
 saloon on the wharves, which the few sailors left 
 in the city after the close of navigation frequented, 
 and where I knew Donnelly occasionally picked 
 up a stray item or two. I could not discover 
 anything at the Black Horse. Donnelly had not 
 been there ; nor could I learn that there had been 
 any row or disturbance of any kind along the 
 wharves — which are, indeed, entirely deserted at 
 that time of the year, in Montreal. I made e very- 
 possible inquiry, advertised and offered rewards, 
 but could learn nothing of Donnelly after he left 
 the central police station ; and I began to fear that 
 
142 THE (JIIOST oy A COAT. 
 
 my poor little friend must have met with foul 
 play in some way or other. 
 
 Days grew into weeks, weeks into months, and 
 still there were no tidings of Donnelly. Winter 
 passed away. Spring came, and with the break- 
 ing up of the ice came the usual number of reports 
 of bodies found which always accompany the release 
 of the St. Lawrence from the icy bands in which 
 it spends the winter. 
 
 I was not at all surprised to read in the 
 7rumpet one morning that a body had been found 
 at Yarennes which was supposed to be that of 
 their late reporter. The body was forwarded to 
 Montreal for an inquest to be held. I received it 
 on its arrival. Despite the action of the water, 
 there was not a moment's doubt that the body was 
 Donnelly's. It had on the coat, vest, pants, boots, 
 shirt, collar and tie Donnelly had worn when I last 
 saw him ; but — 
 
 There was no overcoat ! 
 
 I made most careful inquiry and found that 
 the body had been brought up precisely as it had 
 been taken from the river. 
 
 The inquest was opened and I was summoned 
 on it. The body was ** viewed " in the usual man- 
 
THE OHOST OF A COAT. [{3 
 
 ner by the Jury, and the Coroner had just asked 
 the foreman whether a post mortem examination 
 should be made, when I chanced to look towards 
 the body, and there on a peg close behind it, hung 
 the coat ! 
 
 It was wet as before, and water and blood 
 were dripping* from it as before. A^i^ain I heard 
 that mysterious whisper, and this time the voice 
 said, 
 
 *' Examine the body." 
 
 I shut my eyes for an instant, and, opening 
 them suddenly, looked again. 
 
 The coat had disappeared. 
 
 This was in broad daylight, about nine o'clock 
 on a bright May morning. I confess that I began 
 to feel a little queer, and I thought it certainly 
 would be better to make a closer examination of 
 the body than had yet been done. I advanced to 
 the table on which it lay, opened the coat, vest 
 and shirt and laid the breast bare. 
 
 There was a deep gash, about two inches wide, 
 on the left side, immediately over the heart ! 
 
 This gave a new complexion to the inquest. 
 A post marten examination was made The Doctors 
 said that death had been caused by a stab with 
 
Ill THK (JIIOST or A COAT. 
 
 some loner, sharp-pointod instrument which had 
 penetrati^d th<' heart, and that life was extinct 
 before the bodv was thrown into the water. 
 
 A verdi't of " Wilful Murder" ai^ainst some 
 party or parties unknown was r»'turn<'d, and there 
 the matt«»r rcstiHl ; for although the ease was put 
 into " the hands of the detectives," not 1h ' faintest 
 clew to the p^^rpetrator of the deed could be found. 
 
 CHArTER IV. 
 
 THE LAST OF THE COAT. 
 
 jPRING grew to Summer, Summer to Autumn, 
 Autumn to Winter and Christmas was at hand 
 again. I had taken Donnelly's place on the 
 Trumpet, and on Christmas Eve was engaged in 
 pretty mu(^h the same way Donnelly had been a 
 year ago, trying to pick up "unconsidered trifles," 
 for next morning's issue. 
 
 In the Central Police Station I sat chatting for 
 sometime about Donnelly, who had been a great 
 favorite with the force, and its being the anniver- 
 sary of his disappearance, called him to mind. 
 
 While the Sergeant in charge and I were 
 talking, a prisoner was brought in who had been 
 
THK (;fiost of a coat. 145 
 
 arnistod for attempting to stab a companion in a 
 drunken Imiwl, in a low tavern on Commissioner 
 Street. He was a low, thick-set man, apparently 
 a sailor, wearing a short pea jacket and smoking a 
 brier-root pipe. He was very drunk, and as he 
 reeled up to the Sergeant's desk to give his name, 
 etc., he struck against the railing and knocked the 
 pipe out of his mouth. 
 
 1 picked it up and was about to hand it to the 
 Sergeant, when my eye was attracted by the initial 
 letter Z), cut deep in the face of the pipe. I remem- 
 bered Donnelly's having cut such a letter on his 
 ' pipe, the night ho brought it home a year ago, and 
 I stood in a sort of stupid amazement gazing at 
 the pipe, while the man was being searched. The 
 pipe was a common brier, and there was nothing 
 to distinguish it from thousands of others except 
 the initial, and that was, most probably, only a 
 coincidence, and I turned to ask the man where 
 he had got the pipe, when a sight met my view 
 which made me start back in amazement. 
 The man had on Donnelly's coat ! 
 
 When he had entered the station he had on 
 only a short pea-jacket ; but now, over that, he 
 had that unmistakable, long, baggy, ill-shaped, 
 
146 THE GHOST OF A COAT. 
 
 disreputable-looking coat which Donnelly had 
 worn the last time I saw him alive, and which had 
 not been found on his dead body. 
 
 I turned to the Sergeant and cried out, 
 
 ** Look at the coat." 
 
 "Well, what of it?" asked the Sergeant, 
 evidently astonished at my manner. 
 
 " It is Donnelly's," I said. 
 
 *' Donnelly's !" replied the Sergeant. "I never 
 saw Donnelly wear a short coat like that." 
 
 I looked at the man again. He had on only 
 the pea-jacket he had worn into the station. His 
 manner, however, had changed considerably. He 
 was ghastly and trembling, and his drunkenness 
 seemed to have suddenly left him. 
 
 " Who is Donnelly ?" he stammered. " What 
 do I know about his coat ?" 
 
 Just at that moment, in that matter-of-fact 
 police station, a curious sensation came over me. 
 I felt as if I had suddenly been endowed with 
 some supernatural power over the will of this man ; 
 and at the same instant I heard Donnelly's voice 
 whisper to me, 
 
 " Question him." 
 
 I laid my hand on the man's shoulder, and 
 
THE GHOST OF A COAT. 147 
 
 felt a queer tingling along my arm, like a mild 
 shock of electricity. 
 
 " Donnelly," I said, " is the man you murdered 
 a year ago, and threw into the river." 
 
 He winced under my touch, and stammered 
 out, 
 
 " I didn't touch him," 
 
 " But you know who did." 
 
 " Yes," he answered, like one speaking against 
 his will. " There were three of us, but Rinaldi 
 struck the blow." 
 
 " Tell me all about it." 
 
 He shuddered and seemed to struggle against 
 the power I was influencing over him, but at last 
 told in detail what I here give in substance — the 
 story of Donnelly's murder. 
 
 After leaving the police station, Donnelly 
 went down Jacques Cartier Square to Com, 
 missioner Street, and strolled along the wharf until 
 he had nearly reached the Quebec gate barracks. 
 Here he was met by three men, Marco Ilinaldi, 
 John Bates, and the prisoner, Joseph Thompson, 
 They belonged to a gang of river thieves, and were 
 on the look out for some chance passer-by, with 
 the intention of robbing him. "When Donnelly 
 
148 THE GHOST OF A COAT. 
 
 approached, one of the men stopped him, and asked 
 him for a match. Donnelly opened his coat to take 
 a match from his pocket, when Bates, who had 
 crept up behind him, attempted to garrot^ him. 
 Donnelly managed '^ shake himself free, and * struck 
 out from the shoulder," hitting Rinaldi, who 
 had asked for the match, in the face and knocking 
 him down. The Italian instantly drew a stiletto 
 and stabbed Donnelly in the left breast. He fell 
 without uttering a word, and in a few moments 
 expired. The men then consulted what to do with 
 the body and decided to throw it into the river — 
 the ice not having formed yet. They robbed the 
 body of everything of any value. The money was 
 divided, Rinaldi took the watch. Bates the chain, 
 and Thompson the overcoat, with the pipe, pouch 
 and flask it contained. The three men had gone 
 to Quebec after the murder, but Thompson and 
 Rinaldi had returned to Montreal when navigation 
 opened, and Rinaldi was still there. Bates had 
 shipped in a vessel for Brazil and had not r^^turned. 
 The man seemed like one in a trance while telling 
 his story, and appeared greatly relieved when I 
 removed ray hand from his arm. He was taken to 
 a cell, and almost immediately fellinto a deep sleep. 
 
THE GHOST OF A COAT. 149 
 
 On the strength of Thompson's confession, I 
 caused Txinaldi's arrest, and he, finding that his 
 companion had confessed, made no attempt at 
 defence, but admitted having committed the mur- 
 der, and was sentenced to be hanged on the seven- 
 teenth of November. 
 
 In my report orial capacity 1 witnessed the hang- 
 ing of Kinaldi; and on the eveningof theday ofthe 
 execution, I heard the voice for the last time, when 
 it seemed to whisper in my ear, " Thank you. Art, 
 you see spirits can make themselves known. 
 Grood bye." 
 
 That was years and years ago, and I have never 
 heard the voice or seen the coat since. Sometimes 
 I try to persuade myself that I never did see or hear 
 them at all ; but I cannot convince myself that 
 there was not some power beyond human ken 
 which assisted in bringing Donnelly's murderer 
 to justice. 
 
S. E. B. H. 
 
 A STORY OF A SECRET SOCIETY. 
 
\,. 
 
 ' V 
 
 
 S. E. B. H. m 
 
 ^K9. 
 
 0-* 
 
 y 
 
 A STORY OF A SECRET SOCIETY. 
 
 may as well introduce myself to you before 
 I begin. My name is James Bumpus, retired 
 merchant, living quietly and peaceably in the 
 bosom of my family, which consists, at present, of 
 my wife, Seraphina Angelina, and two young Bumps 
 (as they are sometimes lacetiously termed), named 
 Seraphina Angelina, Jr., and Niithaniel. I have a 
 strong antipathy to secret societies, and from an 
 adventure which I had in New York a few years 
 ago, when I resided there, and which I am about 
 to relate to you, I think you will agree with me 
 that I have some ground for my dislike. 
 
 I had noticed for some time that Mrs. Bumpus 
 was thinking of something which she was keeping 
 secret from me. Several times I had come upon 
 her suddenly, when she had been seated wrapped 
 in thought, and she had started and looked at me 
 in a manner which made me fear she was " non 
 
154 s. i:. H. n. 
 
 compos mentis." Then at night she groaned 
 wearily in her sleep, and once or twi(^e she mut- 
 tered a few words — apparently part of some mystic 
 spell — the only intelligible one of which was 
 " Extinguish." All day she wore a troubled, pre- 
 occupied expression, and would frequently look 
 strangely at me ; and then, drawing a huge roll of 
 manuscript from her pocket, read it over carefully, 
 and make pencil marks on the margin. Two 
 weeks x^assed thus, and it was getting very 
 unpleasant. I feared Mrs. B. was becoming a 
 hypochondriac, and consulted our physician ; but 
 he assured me she was only suffering from the 
 effects of trying to keep a secret, a feat so difficult 
 for a lady to perform that it invariably makes her 
 ill. One evening, about that time, Seraphina 
 Angelina absented herself from home, and remained 
 away until a very late hour. I endeavored to 
 draw from her where she had been, but she gave 
 me a withering look, and muttering, " Belligerent," 
 in solemn, warning accents, shook her finger at 
 me, and got into bed. The following morning the 
 mystery was solved. Mrs. B. came to breakfast 
 with a huge star, formed of red. white, and blue 
 ribbon, conspicuously displayed on her left 
 
s. E. li. II. ir)5 
 
 shoulder, which she appeared particularly desirous 
 of my seeing, for she affectionately placed her 
 right arm around my neck, so as to bring the left 
 shoulder well under my eye, and kissed me with 
 an air of tender solicitude which w^as very affect- 
 
 ing- 
 
 " Seraphina, my love," said I, smoothing her 
 auburn locks, and noticing the star " what is this 
 badge ?" 
 
 " The symbol of liberty !" she said, in such 
 tragic tones that I involuntarily started back. 
 
 " Symbol of what ? " 
 
 " Liberty ! G-lorious liberty ! " she continued, 
 raising her arm and striking the attitude which 
 the " Groddess of the red cap" is generally supposed 
 to assume when she perches on top of the world 
 to harangue the nations. '' Yes, James, this badge 
 is the emblem of freedom, the token that we are 
 bound together to struggle and fight against slavery, 
 drudgery, and the ' thousand ills ' to which women 
 are subjected by men." 
 
 " Good gracious, Seraphina, you don't mean to 
 say you are getting up a revolution ? " 
 
 " I do ! A grand social and political revo- 
 lution to reform mankind. We will shed no blood 
 
156 s. K. 11, II. 
 
 — at least'we hope not — unless we are opposed. If ( 
 we an;, then ' Extinguish.' " 
 
 '' But, my love, what terrible enterprise are 
 you engaged in ? I have noticed that your con- 
 duct has been very strange of late, and I hoi)e you 
 have not been joining in any projects which will 
 involve you in difficulties hereafter." 
 
 " Our enterprise is glorious, and our society 
 will be the one to inaugurate the grand movement." 
 Here she touched the star. 
 
 " Your society ! My love, I was not aware 
 that you cared for any other society than that of 
 your dear James." I was endeavouring to be con- 
 ciliatory, for I began to fear my good little woman 
 was slightly crazed on some point to me unknown. 
 
 " Of course you don't know anything about it," 
 she said, bristling up with the consciousness of 
 having kept a secret for nearly three months. "Of 
 course you haven't heard of it. We mean to keep 
 it a secret until the time for action comes and then 
 — ." She paused and gave me another of those 
 terrible looks. 
 
 " What is the name of your society ? I asked. 
 
 "That is a secret." 
 
 " Where do you meet ? ■ \ " ' 
 
S. E. H. II. ir)7 
 
 " That is a secret." 
 
 *' And what do you do when you meet ? 
 
 " That is a secret." 
 
 " My love," T said, getting wrathy, " I am sorry 
 to find you have joined a society which is ashamed 
 to show its actions to the world. Where women 
 have reason to conceal, there is cause for shame. 
 Secret societies," I continued, throwing mysiilf into 
 the true oratoric posture, the thumb of my right 
 hand placed between the first and second buttons 
 of my vest, while the left graceftilly supported my 
 coat-tails, and my spectacles rested on my forehead, 
 so as to permit my piercing eye to exercise its 
 inlluence undimmed — " Secret societies, my dear, 
 are a drawback and hindrance to civilization ; they 
 hamper enlightenment and clog the wheels of pro- 
 gress. From them emanate all the evils which 
 distress and annoy the body politic. All revo" 
 lutions, rebellions and seditious conspiracies against 
 the established governments and ruling powers of 
 the earth are first conceived in secret societies. 
 Here the viper treason lays its egg and here it is 
 nurtured, fed, and nourished until it becomes a 
 huge reptile and rushes out into the world to 
 destroy life and deluge the streets with blood. It 
 
 - ■ f 
 
 A 
 
15b 8. E. n. n. 
 
 waK in secret that the French Revolution was 
 conceived ; it was m secret that the Southern Re- 
 bellion was planned, and it is in secret that almost 
 all of the evil in the world is comnKmced." 
 
 " Oh ! Bother that," she said. " Ours is a 
 secret society, because we please it to be ; and. if 
 revolutions do come," — here she assumed the tragic 
 again — " and blood does run like water through 
 the streets, you, you, .lames Bumpus, and others 
 like you, will be responsible for it, and not me "; 
 saying which she swept out of the room in a 
 manner which would have done credit to Miss 
 Bateman in her great character of Lady Macbeth. 
 All attempts at renewing the conversation were in 
 vain. Mrs. B. had let me know that she had a 
 secret, and had told me just enough to raise my 
 curiosity, and she was satisfied. The next month 
 passed without any great explosion in the social 
 world, and I was beginning to forget the whole 
 matter, when one evening the postman brought a 
 large official-lookinc' letter addressed to Mrs. 
 Bumpus, in a strong, bold, reckless kind of female 
 hand, and bearing in the corner of the envelope 
 the mystical letters S. E. B. H. Of course I might 
 have opened it, but I would not ; I preferred ta 
 
H. E. B. ir. !')!> 
 
 give it to k^eraphiiia and (loimind an t'xplaiiatioii. 
 This sho coolly refused to give mo, and, tearinir' 
 the paper to atoms, she threw it into the lire. This 
 was past all eiiduranee. I had intended to be 
 calm, but her coolness made me wild. 
 
 " Angelina," I said, ''this must be put a stop 
 to. That letter has something to do with your 
 secret society, and I demand to know its con- 
 tents ?" 
 
 " Which demand 1 refuse to obey. Oh ! James, 
 James, do behave like a sane* man, or you will 
 drive me to do something- desperate." 
 
 "Desperate! My love, what do you mean?'* 
 
 " Our so(nety meets to-morrow^ flight, when w^e 
 are to consider the advisability of — 
 
 " Of what, mv dear ?" 
 
 n 
 
 *' Nothing," she said, sharply checking herself. 
 ** Nothing that concerns you ;" and she w^alkedout, 
 leaving me as much in the dark as ever. 
 
 I knew one thing now, however, which was 
 that this society, which had such dangerous ten- 
 dencies, met on the following evening ; and I felt 
 it was a duty I owed to the peace and welfare, not 
 of myself alone, but of the whole State, that I 
 should be present. I offered to accompany Mrs 
 
IGO S. E. H. II. 
 
 B., but she smiled ironically and said that she 
 " could do without me," and that their meetings 
 were secret and " no gentlemen admitted." I made 
 up my mind that I would make one of that party, 
 whether they liked it or not. I did not much like 
 the idea of playing the spy on my wife's actions, 
 but as my little woman might be getting into bad 
 habits. I considered it my duty to watch her and 
 iind out something more of this secret association. 
 
 About five o'clock on the following evening I 
 entrenched myself behind the glass window of 
 Jones, the groceryman, and patiently awaited Mrs. 
 Bumpus. At fifteen minutes past six she appeared, 
 and, w^alking down to the corner, entered 
 a Fourth avenue car. I followed in the next 
 car. At the depot she got out and purchased a 
 ticket. After waiting until ghe was seated in 
 the car, I also secured a ticket, but not knowing for 
 what place she had taken one, I thought it safest 
 to purchase one for William's Bridge, as I did not 
 think Mrs. B. would go further than that alone. 
 Accordingly, I invested, and securing a seat in the 
 smoking car, sat smoking a cigar and wonderii^e^ 
 how my adventure would terminate. At the fi.st 
 station past Harlem Mrs. B. alighted and started at 
 
S. E. H. H. IGl 
 
 a rapid pace down a by-street. I followed at a 
 long distance, and a pretty chase she led me of 
 nearly two miles, over some of the roughest and 
 muddiest roads that it has ever been my misfortune 
 to travel on. At last she turned up a wild deso- 
 late-looking road, with a superfluity of mud and 
 very few houses, and entered a medium-sized house 
 standin^"^ a little back from the road on a slight rise. 
 After giving her time to enter, T cautiously ap- 
 proached and began to reconnoitre. The house 
 was a three-storey brick building, with a piazza on 
 two sides and the parlors apparently on the second 
 floor. On approaching, however, I notic(^d a small 
 sitting-room, the windows of which opemnl under 
 the piazza, and one look into which filled me with 
 astonishment and convinced me that that was the 
 apartment in which the meeting was to be held. 
 The room was small, but neatly furnished for gen- 
 eral use. A piano stood on one side, a sofa and 
 half-a-dozen chairs on the other and placed about 
 the room. Near the centre stood a small table, on 
 which was placed a large book — apparently a Bible 
 — with a pair of drawn swords, crossed, on it. On 
 om side of this lay a roll of manuscript, and on the 
 other a smaller book with a dagger driven through 
 
162 S E. B. 11, 
 
 it. Ov(^r the piano was a gilt frame holding a 
 silken banner, bearing the magical letters S.E.B.H. 
 Above the door, leading to an inner apartment, 
 was suspended a pair of fencing foils, crossed, and 
 standing in each corner was a musket. On the 
 piano, which was closed, lay two or three pairs of 
 boxing gloves, and a pair of Kehoe^s clubs were on 
 the floor. Altogether the room presented a most 
 w^arlike appearance, looking more like the apart- 
 ment of a gay young bachelor than the meeting 
 room of halt-a-dozen gentle females ! 
 
 For nearly an hour I stood watching the clubs^ 
 muskets, etc.. without any new discovery. When 
 my patience was almost exhausted, the inner door 
 opened, and a troop of young ladies marched 
 gravely in. They w^ere all armed with seven 
 shooters, and each bore on her shoulder the red^ 
 white and blue badge. Mrs. Bumpus led the way, 
 and I was surprised to see several young ladies 
 with whom I was acquainted following her. 
 There was Miss Bowanarrow, Miss Beech wood, 
 Miss Knocksoftly, and tw^o others w^hom I did not 
 know. They entered in single file and marched 
 round the room three times, pointing their pistols 
 at the book with the dagger in it, and chanting a 
 
S K. Bi a. 
 
 163 
 
 ''POINTING TEEIE PISTOLiy AT THE BOOK.'' 
 
s. K. I?. H. i»>r) 
 
 low dirge, — after which the tallest of the party 
 mounted on a chair and with great exertion pulled 
 out the dagger. Three more girls then went to 
 her assistance, and each one taking a rorner, the 
 book was carried to the fire-place and laid on the 
 flames. As the fire blazed up and crackled they 
 all smiled grimly and clapped their hands with 
 glee. When the book was entirely consumed, 
 they gravely seated themselves around the tall girl, 
 who sat at a small table and appeared to act as 
 President. I then noticed that Miss Knocksoftly 
 had not taken a seat, but was standing guard before 
 one door, armed with a sword, while another young 
 lady performed the same office at the other door. 
 
 I do like anything mysterious. Nothing gives 
 me so much delight as unravelling an apparently 
 unfathomable mystery. I know I may be called 
 curious ; but still I will confess to taking the 
 greatest pleasure in finding out anything that has 
 an air of grand, important concealment. T had, so 
 far, only seen ; but now I determined to hear. 
 The evening was warm and pleasant ; so I thought 
 a little fresh air would do the girls no harm. I 
 therefore raised the window enough to allow the 
 air to pass in and the sound of the voices to pass 
 
IGG S. K. I{. II. 
 
 out. The first sound that reached my ears per- 
 I'ectly asuouiided me. The tall girl who acted as 
 presiding ofiict^r, rose and said, " The ' Society for 
 Extinguishing Belligerent Husbands ' will please 
 come to order ! " (rood gracious ! What bloody- 
 minded females ! 1 now understood what Mrs. 
 Bumpus meant when she muttered " Extinguish," 
 and remembered the impressive manner in which 
 she had begged me " not to force her to do some- 
 thins^ desperate." And I evidently had forced her 
 to desperation ; for there she sat, within fifteen 
 feet of me. and only sepaiated from me by circum- 
 staiices and a pane of glass. The strange, fierce 
 look was on her face, and I could see that she was 
 debating within herself the advisability of recog- 
 nizing my rights as a " belligerent " at once, and 
 no doubt contemplating the most favorable oppor- 
 tunity for " extinguishing " me. I felt a cold chill 
 down the back, and a shivering sensation all over 
 the body, when I recollected that I was standing 
 very close to these six females, banded together to 
 "extinguish belligerent husbands," and that each 
 of them was armed with a seven-shooter, not to 
 mention the muskets, Kehoe's clubs, boxing gloves, 
 etc., which were lying around loose, I felt con- 
 
s. K. B. n. 167 
 
 yinced that the whole party was taking' aim at me 
 through the window, and it was only after a long 
 while that I ventured again to apply my eye to the 
 glass, taking care, however, to profit by the 
 darkness; and I believe I fervently thanked the 
 moon for not shining, and was never 8o glad to 
 lose the light of the stars. 
 
 When I peeped in again, a very pretty, 
 modest-looking young lady was speaking ; and as 
 she raised her full, dark eyes, filled with love and 
 womanly tenderness, and a slight Hush diifused her 
 blooming cheeks, I wondered that one so young 
 and fair could harbor such sanguinary thoughts in 
 her pure bosom, against a prosf)ective husband ; 
 for, judging from ai)pearances, Mrs. Bumpus seemed 
 to be the only married lady in the room. As well 
 as I can remember, the young lady said that she 
 "Would like to recommend to the Society the pro- 
 priety of adopting a motto, as Wtll as a badge, and 
 so form, as it were, a coat of arms, which could be 
 executed on black velvet, worked with colored 
 silks, and the letters done with gold thread." Miss 
 Knocksoftly brought her sword down with a sharp 
 bang on an unoffending chair, and asked if any 
 one had thought of a motto. The young lady 
 
1G8 s. K. I!, n. 
 
 replied that she had. A geiitlaman ol'her acquain- 
 tance had been teasing her to tell him the namt^ of 
 the Society, and, among other guesses, had said 
 that he thought the initials meant " Short Engage- 
 ments Benefit Humanity," which she considered 
 would be an excellent motto lor them to assume. 
 Miss Knocksoftly said she "Did not think there 
 was any necessity for the Society to have a motto 
 For h(^r part, she objected to mottoes, unless they 
 were presented by a young gentleman, and accom- 
 panied by a kiss." 
 
 Miss Bowanarrow shot in a remark which was 
 partly unheard by me ; but it appeared to be 
 somewhat irrelevant, as it referred more to the 
 benefit of short engagements in the abstract, than 
 the adoption of the sentence as a motto, and showed 
 that young hidy's predilection for the short and 
 quick road to matrimony in pretty conspicuous 
 colors. A mild, gentle-looking female rose, and 
 replied in a stirring speech in favor of long engage- 
 ments. She depicted, with heart-felt earnestness, 
 the misery of bounding into wedlock before suf- 
 ficient time had been allowed to form a just 
 estimate of the man's character. She argued that 
 men are deceitful above all things, and desperately 
 
S. E. 15. II. 1G1> 
 
 wicked, and that their true natures were concealed 
 during courtship or a short engagement, and it was 
 only alter marriage, or during the trial oi' a three 
 or four year engagement, that the real character 
 showed itself; and that many a girl — here she 
 sighed — had been saved from a life of misery by 
 refusing to consent to hasty nuptials. Miss Knock- 
 softly leaned up against the door she was protect- 
 ing, and, bringing her sword down again with a 
 sharp bang, declared she was in favor of short 
 engagements. She said that w^hen she told a fellow^ 
 she would have him, she meant it, and didn't want 
 to give him an opi)ortunity to back out. Many a 
 girl — here she sighed — had lost a good match by 
 not taking a fellow when he was in the humor, 
 and she thought it all nonsense in girls to have a 
 ^ellow tagging after them for years, when they 
 could just as well be married at once. After this 
 the debate became somewhat confused. Every one 
 tried to speak at once, and the uproar was so great 
 that I could distinguish nothing. 
 
 How the affair would have ended it is impos- 
 sible to say, for war seemed inevitable, had not 
 a fortunate interruption occurred, in the shape of 
 a low, long wail, apparently proceeding from 
 
170 S. K. H. n. 
 
 the next room, which had so weird and unearthly 
 a sound, that the wordy combatants involuntarily 
 paused, and perfect silence reigned. After a few 
 seconds the sound was repeated, accompanied by a 
 hard scratching noise at the bottom of the door. 
 At this second manifestation, Miss Knocksoftly, . 
 with the greati\st presiMice of mind, plunged her 
 8word heroically into the keyhole, and ran, scream- 
 ing, into the opposite corner of the room where 
 she threw hcn'self violently on the sofa, and cried 
 aloud for help. Confusion was now the order of 
 the evening, and all crowded into the corner, cow- 
 ering down, frighti^ned, and crying loudly for help. 
 Again the sound was repeated, this time followed 
 by a short, sharp bark. The group of trembling 
 females looked muc^h relieved, and the tall Pres- 
 ident actually smiled as she said, " It's only Ponto," 
 and, vt^alking to the door, opened it and admitted 
 a fine species of the genus puppy-dog. It was a 
 long time before order was restored, and when the 
 discussion was renewed, it was in such alow tone, 
 that I could with difficulty ^ear what was said, 
 and I was therefore obliged to place my ear very 
 close to the window. Miss Beachwood was just 
 speaking in savage tones of the male sex in general, 
 
S. E. U. H. 171 
 
 and wishing that sho had one before her now on 
 whom to exercise her will, when I heard a lierce 
 growl in my immediate rear, and experienced the 
 unpleasant sensation of being seized by the leg by 
 a fierce specimen of the canine race. My head, in- 
 votuntarily fonx^d forward, burst through the pane 
 ol'glass, severely wounding me in the face. I heard 
 a volley of shrieks, and was conscious of a rapid 
 disappearance of crinoline, after which my memory 
 is much confused, until I found myself quite a 
 distance down the road, minus hat, wig, spectacles 
 and coat-tail, running at full speed, with the dog 
 in hot pursuit. 
 
 On ar.viviiiig ihomeo-my p'^ntion was somewhat 
 
 awkward, fot-.j. 'was 'loblievl, out of mv own house 
 at two o'cJock j.]\ :tl;c mo.riiii?.g. Jliiiging I knew 
 
 would be 01 no 'li^e'; so, 'after tryulg 'every other 
 means, I conceived the brilliant idea of letting 
 myself down through the coal hole and then trying 
 to work my way upstairs. The first part was 
 managed with no worse result than a bruised 
 linger, caused by the cover of the trap dropping on 
 it and crushing it so severely that I was forced to 
 yell with pain. I was obliged to break open the 
 cellar door, and again had to force a lock to gain 
 
172 8. E. B. If. 
 
 the entry. All this had made a great noise, and I 
 was not surprised to hear the policeman ringing 
 .the bell violently. However, I went boldly on, 
 knowing there is no law to prevent a man break- 
 ing into his own house, if he feels so disposed. 
 I had got half way up the second flight of stairs 
 when the door of Seraphma's room opened, and 
 Mrs. B. bounded out with a huge pitcher of water. 
 In a moment, and ere I could say a word, the 
 contents were emptied over me, and the heavy 
 jug, striking me on the head, sent me rolling down 
 the stairs. At the same time the policeman suc- 
 ceeded in opening the door, and, seizing me by the 
 collar, ne carried me off before I had an opportunity 
 to call on Seraphina to rfefe-ci^eme* A night spent 
 in the statio'n-hotise did not tend to soothe my 
 ruffled feelings, anid on p.y Tel^^'aserjiext , morning I 
 had a tremendous row with Mrs. Bum pus, the 
 upshot of which was that she immediately recog- 
 nized my right as a "belligerent," and always con- 
 tinued to do so, until, by leaving Nevt^ York, I got 
 her away from the Sanguinary S. E. B. H. '