havoc at Bella Vista."

"That ungainly creature a lady-killer? And yet, by Jove! Claribel smiles on him as if she really admired him. Who is this man Botts?

"He is the ugly man who once tried to run away from his own shadow. Did you never hear the story?"

"No. How was it?"

"Botts had been with a number of boon-companions at a tavern in Mapleton, and had put himself in an abnormal condition by the consumption of a considerable quantity of fluids. As you see, he is no Adonis when sober; but when inebriated, his ugly visage would endanger the safety of a mirror at the distance of twelve paces. In the afternoon he was standing in the street alone when he happened to see his own shadow, and was so startled by its unexampled ugliness that he made a tremendous leap to the right. The hideous apparition made a dart after him. Botts jumped to the left; but the frightful spectre sprang at him again."

"Ha, ha, ha! Toney, you will murder me!"

"Botts had often heard that drunken men would sometimes have delirium tremens, and see devils. He thought delirium was coming on him, and that his ugly shadow was a fiend."

"No wonder! no wonder! What did he do?"

"He uttered a yell that set all the dogs in the town to barking, and took to his heels up the street. Each time he looked around he beheld a horrible devil following him, and at the sight he would give another yell, and redouble his efforts to escape. Soon half the men and boys in the town were after him. Away went Botts, and brought up at a doctor's shop. He fell on the floor in a fit, and it was a long time before he could be restored to consciousness. His ugly shadow had nearly been the death of him."

"And you will be the death of me, if you tell any more such stories. But who is that large man, with the bald head, who is jumping about among the dancers with a bunch of flowers in his hand? He has no partner but seems to be exercising his legs in sympathy with those who are really dancing. No! I was mistaken,—he has a partner, but the lady's pretty figure is so small that I could only see the top of her head, which is covered with scarlet verbenas and a profusion of roses; and I was under the illusion that the big man was going it alone with a magnificent bouquet in his grasp. Toney, do tell me, who is that man? He seems to be a great admirer of beauty, and has been flitting about among the ladies like a large bumble-bee in search of the sweetest and most delicious flowers."

"That is M. T. Pate, a distinguished lawyer, an eloquent orator, an able writer, a profound thinker, and the prince of lady-killers. He is possessed of a very original genius, and has recently written a remarkable pamphlet, in which is demonstrated the possibility as well as the immense importance of draining the Atlantic Ocean, and converting its rich alluvial bottoms into cultivated corn-fields."

"How does he propose to accomplish this stupendous undertaking?"

"By constructing a number of enormous steam-pumps at the Isthmus of Panama, and forcing the water into the Pacific. He says that when this great work is once accomplished, the inexhaustible soil now lying entirely useless under the water will afford a comfortable support for countless millions of men; and that the incalculable amount of gold, silver, and precious jewels which have gone down in the vast number of vessels that have foundered at sea will more than defray the cost of this magnificent enterprise. Pate has sent a copy of his pamphlet to the learned professors of one of our universities, who now have it under consideration. In the mean while he has abundant leisure to devote himself to the ladies, by whom he is much admired. But, Tom, has not Wiggins caused you to become acquainted with the green-eyed monster?"

"Who is Wiggins?"

"The man who is dancing with pretty Ida Somers. He has devoted himself to her during the entire evening. Beware of jealousy, Tom! Let there not be a demand for coffee and pistols in the morning."

"Pshaw! Nonsense, Toney! Ida and I are good friends—nothing more—when old Crabstick, her uncle, will allow us to talk to one another—which is but seldom. But is Wiggins the individual with the enormous red nose?"

"The same. You have a formidable rival, Tom. In my town he is admired for his comeliness, and is known by the name of Rosebud."

"A curious name for one of the masculine gender! How did he acquire it?"

"Why, it seems that on a sultry day in June, this worthy citizen having done ample honors to the god of the grape, was reposing under a tree on a fragrant bed of clover, when an industrious bee, foraging among the flowers, espied his crimson proboscis, and supposing it to be a Bourbon rose, alighted upon it, in the vain expectation of extracting honey for the hive. While the busy insect was endeavoring to distill sweets from this extraordinary nose, the sleeper became conscious of a tickling sensation, and shook his head in disapproval of the futile attempt; whereat the irritable little creature darted out its sting, and Wiggins leaped up with an outcry and vigorously rubbed his nasal protuberance. This scene was witnessed by some wags, who were convulsed with laughter. The nose soon began to swell, and, becoming more deeply crimson, it looked like a rose about to burst into full bloom. Since his nap among the clover, Wiggins has been called Rosebud by his boon-companions."

"By Jove! what a magnificent woman!"

This exclamation was uttered in a half whisper by Seddon as a tall, dark-eyed woman, with a beauty that baffled description, moved across the room, with fifty pair of eyes following her in admiration.

"Imogen Hazlewood?" said Belton.

"Poor Harry!" said Seddon.

"He is deserving of your sympathy," said Toney. "Look! he is now approaching her with the awe and timidity of a man about to converse with a goddess, such as we used to read of in the classic hexameters of Ovid or Virgil. Oh, dea certa! It won't do, Tom! it won't do!"

"What won't do?"

"For a man to let a woman see that he is dead in love with her. 'What careth she for hearts when once possessed?' Not a fig, Tom! not a fig. Carry your love about you like a concealed weapon. Don't let her know anything about it until you pop the question. Pop it at her when she don't expect it, and she will fall into your arms as if she had received a pistol-shot,—

and, turning her back on you, as Imogen has done now on Harry Vincent, will walk off on the arm of some fellow like Sam Perch."

"Sam Perch? Do you mean the tall youth with a freckled face and a head of hair so fiery red that it looks like a small edition of a burning bush? What a remarkable head!"

"It is a celebrated head. There was once a lawsuit about that head, and I was counsel for the defendant."

"A lawsuit about the young man's head?"

"Yes, a very extraordinary forensic controversy, which attracted much attention, and in which I established my professional reputation by defeating my distinguished friend M. T. Pate, who appeared as the plaintiff's counsel."

"Toney, do you pretend to tell me that anybody ever went to law about that fellow's head? How did such a suit originate?"

"Why, you must know, Tom, that there is a curious tale attached to that young man's head."

"So there is to the head of a Chinaman."

"No punning on people's cocoanuts, Mr. Seddon! But hear the history of this very remarkable lawsuit. On a cold evening in December, Perch was in a certain house in Mapleton, making himself agreeable