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yfioldehht "Copyright 185* by 1 CHAPTER XXV. DEATH. The old man offered no resistance to my violence, nor'did he utter a word. A ghastly paleness overspread his face, his head fell a little to one side, and he looked a? if he would have fallen but for the support I afforded him. His apparent collapse under the sudden attack which had been made upon him excited my sympthy, and in less than a minute I relaxed my grasp, saying: "Tel) me where you have put those coins, and not only shall you escape punishment, but you shall be rewarded , and allowed to remain here as long as you live." Tho old man made no reply, but leaned against the wall, breathing heavily, with a strange expression upon his face, the like of which I had not seen. Again I approached him, and laying my hand gently on his shoulder spoke to him kindly, yet earnestly: 4,I am sorry I have frightened you. As I live, I promise you shall come to no harm. But please tell me what you have done with those coins, for I have a right to know." With a great effort, pitiable for its feebleness, the old man took a large iron key from his pocket, and essayed to step towards me, making as though he would speak; but he failed of his intention and fell heavily on the floor. The incident seriously alarmed me. In an instant 1 was on my knees at his side, supporting his head on my arm. But my utmost efforts failed to rouse the old man; his attenuated form waxed heavier and heavier, and his half-closed eyes and lips lent an expression to his face awful to behold. . Quite terrified at his condition, I An tlm flttnr QTlfl BiaiiipfU > IViCUlij vu IUC MVV4 * ? shouted so loudly for help that two servants rushed into the room. "Fqtch Dr. Thunow at onee; if he iso t in, send the boy on a horse to Ix worth for a doctor. Adams is ill?I don't know how seriously. Aud bring some water, one of you, quickly!" The women hastily left to obey my orders, and were met at the door by my lather and Mr. Wolsey. "What is the matter':" asjted my faiher. stooping to look at the old man ne lay on the floor. "What has happened 7" "I was talking to Adams, when he suudenly reeled and fell down unconscious," I explained. "He would be better on the couch," said Mr. Wolsey; and adopting the suggestion we lifted the old man into that position. By this time a servant had returned with some water; aud while I bathed the face of the patient. Mr. Wolsey and my father felt his left side and watched intently for signs cf respira tion, which could with difficulty be discerned. "I am afraid he is going," said my father quietly. Mr. Wolsey, to whom these ominous words were addressed, signified his assent by lightly inclining his head. "O no!" I cried in an agony of fear, oppressed with the consciousnes of how largely I was responsible for this catastrophe; "five minutes ago he was well. He must surely revive soon." My exclamation was Interrupted by the entry of Dr. Thurlow, who at once began a systematic examination of the patient. He felt the old man's pulse and the region of his heart, closed and unclosed his passive hands, lifted one of his eyelids and placed his finger on the eye?an experiment which I could not help but witness, though it horrified me profoundly. These things accomplished, Dr. Thurlow turned to my father and said: "I am sorry to tell you, Mr. Truman, that your old servant is dead." My heart sank within me as I realized the meaning of the doctor's words. This was my first experience of death; and in presence of that awful mystery I seemed to grow older by as many years as minutes had elapsed since the fatal accusation. I could not speak, but stood in a sort of stupor, looking down upon what had so recently been instinct with warmth and motion. All thought of the sequius was banished from my mind, and instead I could think only of the one who had taught me to ride in the green lanes about Holdenhurst when I was a child; who had been first to impress upon me the mimes of the trees, shrubs, flowers and birds common in our neighborhood; and who, so far as I could remember, had never spoken harshly to me. And now that one lay before me dead, he who but for me would doubtless still be performing his customary duties about the place. My reflections were too painful to bear undisturbed, and I broke down utterly. Dr. Thurlow was about to lead rac from the room when ho saw the Turkish daggers which lay on the table. "What are these?" he asked, picking up the weapons. "Has the man died from an injury which has escaped my notice?" and he turned again towards the couch. "Xo. no." I explained: "they have not been unsheated for years. Lock; you will find it so." "Yes." assented Dr. Thurlow. who irsfci'ilBalfj 'ALTER BLOQMFIELD ' iOBXBT Bonseb's Sons. nevertheless thought tt proper to satisfy himself of the truth of uiy statement by making a careful examination of the daggers. "Of what has the old man died?" ' These were the first words that my father uttered after he had been told that his old servant was dead, and his voice was tremulous with suppressed emotion. "I can't say until I have investigated the case more particularly," replied Dr. Thurlow; "but appearances seem to j indicate syncope. His heart has been weas ior a iun^ uuit*. uuu il is uui uu unnatural termination for him; but at the same time I should not have expected it uuless precipitated by some sudden excitement or passion." While Dr. Thurlow was speaking. Mr. Wolsey opened the door, and revealed our servants standing in a group just without. He informed them of the melancholy event which had occurred within, and they returned ! sorrowfully to the kitchen, whispering together as they went; while Mr. Wolsey, my father and I, and Dr. Thurlow, crossed the hall to the dining room, ; the latter carrying the Turkish daggers and aigrette which he had taken from the table, and a large rusted iron key which he had found on the floor close to where Adams had fallen. CHAPTER XXVL HOMELESS. ' "No, Ernest, I am not hard on you; my fault lies on the other side. I have been weak, and am justly punished for my weakness; but I am not too old to 1 reform. Henceforward I will rule in 1 my own house; and anyone, not excepting even yourself, who is indisposed to anKmU +V? o* rnlo mor Kotnbo him. ' ouuuiu iv iauc t u<Vf self elsewhere. Consider well uiy words; they are not lightly spoken." ! "I protest that my conduct towards 1 you has never been anything but thai. ' of an affectionate son. Why has all this trouble fallen upon me? Because 1 I have sought to make peace between 1 ) you and your brother. Was that a ? i bad task to set myself? I have always : believed, and do now believe more 1 j strongly than ever, that your brother 1 j had no hand in the robbery of the ( sequins." My lather smiled faintly, and re- < marked in a somewhat sarcastic tone 1 that he doubted whether I should have i assumed the Christian part of peace- i maker so earnestly in this case if it : had not also been the way to a closer 1 acquaintance with Miss Marsh. His i words aroused the slumbering anger 1 within me, and I replied to them with I more warmth than discretion: 1 "What you say is very true. When i inclination and duty point the same t way, the duty is well performed." 1 I "That has harrilv Iippii so in this 1 case," said my father. "My purpose was defeated by a natural though uuexpected event; and I am no more responsible for the death of the old man we followed to the grave yesterday than I am responsible for the death of Charles the First. Dr. Thurlow has told you that. Adams' heart was weak, and that it was a miracle he lived so long as be did. It was my ill fate to be the one to accuse him of his crime. Uncle Sam's advice was sound." "Very sound!" echoed my father bitterly. "And nearly all the property found in the old man's room, including the red Turkish chest, was placed there with my consent when all the rest of the house was being overhauled by your uncle's workmen!" "How about the key which Adams was about to give me the moment before his tinal seizure?" "Ay, how about it? Have you not spent two days ineffectually trying to fit it to every lock within these walls? Ernest, you have entirely exhausted my patience. I must absolutely decline to discuss with you again the robbery of the sequins; and I repeat, for the last time, my determination. You may remain here as long as you will, aud all I have is yonrs, provided that you cease to correspond with my brother, his wife, and Miss Marsh. Unless you are prepared to adopt that course you must no longer consider this your home. I daresay it pains you to be told this so bluntly; but you must reflect that a man does not talk in tills way to his only son without . pain to himself, and surely never with- ( out great cause. I, at least, do not." , And with pale face, compressed lips. , and a strange light in his eyes, my , father passed out of the ro<yn. , For a few moments I stood still, , dazed by the importance of the decision , I had so unexpectedly been called upon ( to make. I never for a moment ( doubted that I was very ill-used: on the' contrary, 1 considered myself most unjustly punished. Ever since my uncle was at Holdenhurst my policy had been directed with a view to effect his reconciliation to my father aud the 1 winning of Ccustanee Marsh for my- 1 self; and such desires, I conceived. : were commendable and natural in any ! one circumstanced as 1 was. The terms < imposed by my father as the price ] of his continued friendship and pro- i tectiou were too exacting for me to i entertain. Deeply as it grieved me to i ft finally quit that sequestered spot where I was born, whose 'every nook recalled some pleasant incident or my childhood's happy days when my father had watched over nie With a tender and anxious solicitude such as a man only bestow, on a motherless child. I was prepared to abandon it at ouce and for ever rather thnu renounce the dear girl whose love I had won. It was hard for me to leave my home and live estranged from my lifelong companion and friend, the one to whom 1 owed everything; but even that, hard as it was, would be easier than the alternative offered to me. These considerations brought tears to my eyes, but my purpose was never for a moment weakened. Suddeuly I roused myself from the reverie into which 1 had fallen, and turning to go to my own room, encountered Mr. Wolsey at the door. "What is all this trouble between you and your father, Ernest?" asked the old gentleman. "You had better inquire for the particulars where you learned the fact," I answered testily; for I could not help thinking that Mr. Wolsey was in some measure responsible for the present resolute attitude of my father; that he had been exerting his influence to annul the friendship ?l-,-v u nvicfAtl trnon mV \ V LI IL" LI liU nuru CAJO ivu wvk?*wM ? uncle and me. Without waiting to hear any further remark from him, I passed my interrogator abruptly and continued my way to my room. No sooner was I in assured solitude than I sat down, and resting my aching head on my hands, endeavored to impartially review the whole course of my life, which consisted, I found, of two periods?nearly twenty years of happy, careless indifference, and six months of high hopes, grave anxieties and bitter disappointments, the division being marked by my introduction to uncle Sam. The shorter of the two periods seemed the longer, the flight of time being appreciated for the importance rather than the number of its events. For two hours did I wrestle with myself and suffer indescribable anguish of spirit, vainly desiring the Ugh? and guidance which I knew not where nor how to seek. The purest, most loving, most ! disinterested, most generous being I had ever known was Constance Marsh, and to her would I go to oho hfld IDflde tO become my wife. Would that I bad j accepted ber advice, aud abandoned all hope or thought of the cursed se- j Quins! But the mischief was past and j irreparable, and I could oniy resolve j lhat never again?no, not even though ; the clearest conceivable indications j af success were placed before me? would I so much as lift my band for i the recovery of a treasure the very j aame of which must ever be asso- i elated in my mind with misery. My resolution was taken: I would j certainly leave home. Indeed, there ; was nothing else for me to do, my j father's terms being precise, and such , is I could not bring myself to accept; | ret did I love my father as well as I i aad ever done, and the thought that [ was now going away from HolJenlurst, perhaps never to return-^that , possibly I had looked upon my father's face for the last time?cut ne to the heart. I sat down at a :able and wrote upon a sheet of paper, which I could only dimly see, a few lines addressed to my father, rerretting that my conduct during the last few months had been such as he .*oukl not approve, especially as that conduct had been based upon a sincere belief in its righteousness, a beief which I still entertained; and :herefore, by his own ruling, Holdenlurst was no longer my home. I losed with many endearing expressions, not forgetting to state that should he ever desire to see me, it ivould be my pleasure no less than ny duty to come to him. My painful task completed, I folded he note, and rose to pack a handbag. \s I did so the looking-glass revealed ny face and startled me, so pallid ind haggard had I become. I observed my appearance for but a moDent, and then hurried forward my scanty preparations for departure, fet a few minutes later, and I had eft the house with no more than I ;ould conveniently carry, coming away jnobserved through a door which led :rom the garden into an orchard, and hence along the footpath which jerved us as a convenient short cut nto the Bury road. It was early morning, and the au:uinnal mist which obscured the fields tvas slowly disappearing before the ising sun. When I reached the bend >f the road I turned to take a last ook at my old home, but it was enveloped in the mist and could not be seen. Resuming my journey at a ?reat pace, I endeavored by rapid tvalking and clear thinking to emerge "rom the mental depression which had esulted. as I (lid not even then loubt, from my errors of judgment 10 less than my peculiar circumstances. Clear thinking! Alas! that was a power which had never been nine; and it seemed there was 110 way for me to attain tt but through [he cruel discipliue afforded by a succession of blunders and consequent lisasater. To be continued. Hungary's Big Towns. Hungary has eleven towns of 50,000 inhabitant or more, according to the recent ceusus. Budapest has 732,000, Szegcdin 103,000, Maria Theresiopol >2.000, Debrcczin 75,000, Presburg Co,>00, Hodmerovasarhely 01,000. Iveiskemet 57,000. Arad 50,000, Temesvar 53,000, Groswardein and Klausenburg 50,000 each. Agram, in Croatia, has 1)1,000 Inhabitants. ffloldehhii 1-% by K? J CHAPTER XXVL Continued. As I progressed along the lonely road. I mercilessly dissected and criticised my pasc conduct, resolving -with all the strength of will I could exert to be henceforth more sceptical in all things, more deliberate in action, and more secretive. The voluntary and generous declarations of Constance Marsh absolved me, I thought, from my former cherished resolve not to marry unless my resources were at least as great as those of my wife; and I would therefore at once return to America, claim the hand and heart I had won, and while endeavoring in all things to gratify my youthful wife, devote a large part 01 my time auu mean6 to some work for the general good*. Reconciliation with my father could uot fail to come about after the lapse of a little time; aud as friendship is no less contagious than enmity, might it not reasonably be hoped that the peacemaking would be yet further extended? In this mood I arrived at Bury St. Edmund's, and having walked up Abbeygate street, turned aside into the Butter Market, and entered an inn there, where not many minutes afterwards I was sitting in a private room at a table spread with writing materials. The letter which poor old Adams had brought from Chevington on the day of his death had not yet been acknowledged. It was an inquiry by Mrs. Butterwell for the address of the Rev. Mr. Evau Price. "That gentleman," wrote Mrs. Butterwell. "I once or twice had the pleasure to hear preach in the little church at Holoenhurst Minor, and his manners impressed me as everything that was V i "? ~ rigut ana proper jij a curig j tiiuu?sum charming elucidations of Scriptural difficulties! such admirable discrimination in his bearing toward proprietors, tenants and peasantry! I have long intended to beneiit ibis very deserving young man as soon as the opportunity to do should arise, and the living of Kingsthorpe being vacant just now in consequence of the death of the Rev. Mr. Obadiah Hornblower (poor dear man, he was only seventytwo, and till this year was never troubled with bronchitis in summer!) I huve decided to offer it to Mr. Price. The living of Kingsthorpe is worth nominally ?1200 a year, but owing to the badness of the times ibe income is now not much over ?800. It is a great depreciation, of course, but in these days the living is still regarded as a good one, and I have received hundreds of letters from unbenedced clergymen begging for the preferment some of them written as soon as it became known that Mr. Hornblower was not likely to recover. Do pray oblige me with Mr. Price's present address, for I shall not offer the living to any one I else until he has rejected it." As I pondered over Mrs. Butterwell's letter the bitter things?bitter chiefly because 'they were true?which Mr. Price had said of the Truman family when conversing with Constance Marsh at Tarrytown, were vividiy reproduced by my memory, and I thought, too, bow persistently he had continued his suit after be had plainly perceived that I was preferred to him. Though I could not entertain these recollections without some bitterness, and in a foolish moment was half tempted to withhold all knowledge of the coveted preferment from my rival, my better self prevailed. No; I would not inaugurate my new course of conduct with a splenetic freak; I should be forgiving and charitable, and would write a friendly though brief note to Mr. Price, enclosing therewith Mrs. Butterwell's letter. This done I wrote another'note informing Mrs. ButterWell of my action in the matter. And now I had to communicate with pncle Sam. What should I say to him? Of the failure, or worse than failure, of the course he had advised, he knew bt present nothing. For a long while I paused and stared vacantly upon a blank sheet of paper with my pen grasped ready to record ray thoughts; but, alas! those thoughts were too painful and too chaotic for me to give them coherent expression, so after much waste of time I contented myself with inditing two telegrams. One was to my uncle, and merely stated tiiat my mission had failed, and I was on my way to New York; the other, addressed to Miss Marsh, van thus: "My otvn! No treasure but you. Returning to claim your promise. Yoir loving Ernest" CHAPTER XXVII. AT THE WINDSOR HOTEL, NEW TO*K. On a certain Sunday in the month of October the good steamship Campania was made fast to her berth at the quay in New York City, and the delighted passengers, hastily abandoning the floating palace which had so quickly and luxuriously transported them from the old to the new world, hurried hither and thither, greeting the friends who awaited them, inquiring after luggage, or hailing hackney carriages. One passenger, however, quickly made his way through the eager; irst/HHaOM " r?vi7 ALTER BLOOMFIELD bet Bjmxib's Sok? throng, and as he had no other Impedimenta than a small handbag, and was oblivious of the bawling of the expressmen, he was the first whom the Customs officials permitted to pass into the street. The weather was superb, the season being what Americans call their "Indian summer." The excessive heat of summer had passed away, but its brilliance remained, and there was a delightful coolness in the air. The foliage had put on a golden tint of extreme beauty, the sky was cloudless, and all external conditions of a sort to exhilerate humanity. But the gloom which had taken possession of me when I embarked at Liverpool had steadily increased during the voyage, I J x T V? o t?/17 *r Uaan nhlo < I UUU Ul (lUica x uju uaiuij ....... , j to endure my own communings. After the exhaustive consideration of my i position and prospects engendered by i eight days of self-sought Isolation in i my cabin, the vista before me did not i appear nearly so rosy as I had at first pictured it Thoughts of the death of < Adams cow tormented me more than was the case immediately after that tragic event. Though I could not in j Justice reproach myself with having killed the old man, and was comforted by the positive evidence of Dr. Thurlow to that effect, yet I well knew that at best my act had hastened the old man's decease, and who could say by how much? As I reflected how delicate was the distinction between my act and manslaughter I suffered pangs ( of remorse. Consideration, too, of my ; other affairs was not calculated to af- , ford me much relief. Here was a , young Englishman with little or no ex- , perience of the world, homeless, heir : to a small impoverished estate which ( he would probably not inherit for thir- , ty years, owner of 200 pounds and a iw, rwiKo r. fnnio tn vpw York to marry a young lady worth millions of dol lars! Why, the idea seemed too pre- j posierous for anyone but a dreamer ? to entertain. But the die was cast. , and the course entered upou must be , persevered in to the end. Had It been possible for me to live my days over j again I should probably have made ( other and equally disastrous errors. , Though it was Sunday, and the great ] stores were closed, Broadway was thronged with well-dressed, prosperous j looking people, not much unlike such ( as one seas in the principal thorough- | fares of European capitals. After a j loug sea voyage a walk is essential to | most pcopie for adjusting the physical equilibrium which has been so rudely j disturbed. I found it so, and grasp- , 1ng my hand sachel bent my steps up . town as I had done on the occasion of ] my first coming to New York. Not , long afterward I paused before my un- ( cle's house, and was struck with con- < sternation when I obser^d that the , blinds were ail drawn down and the j shutters closed. Sounds of much unbolting and un- j barring reacnea me Deiore me uw* . was opened in response to my sum- , tnons, and then I was informed by a , man servant, whose face I remem- ] bered, that Mr. Truman was staying } at the Windsor Hotel, and had left \ word that he would like me to call , upon him there. "Are Mrs. Truman and Miss Marsh 1 with him?" I inquired, greatly sur- < prised at this Intelligence. "I believe not," replied the man. looking aside in a strange way that j discouraged further questioning. How- | ever, I inquired of him the where- , abouts of the Windsor Hotel, and < being informed that it was close at hand on Fifth avenue, I went there as quickly as I could, more perturbed , than ever. When I presented my card j to the clerk who had charge of the entrance hall of that colossal hotel, he , at once deputed a waiter to conduct ^ me to my uncle's apartments, at the ] same time telling me that Mr. Tru- ^ man had remained indoors the whole . of yesterday in expectation of my arrival. j "Ah!" exclaimed uncle Sam, as he i laid his cigar on the mantelpiece and } advanced to meet me, "you are the man I need! I received your cable- { gram, and would have replied to it had it been possible, but you were already ^ on the water. I perceive you are well, so lose no time in telling me as briefly as you can about those infernal se- ^ quins, for I am in haste to tell you something of Infinitely greater importance." My uncle's manner alarmed me. He 1 seemed to be laboring und^t- sup- ; pressed excitement, and as he resumed ? his cigar and walked up and down the ? large room, his whole aspect impressed 1 me as strangely different from the self- c possessed, confident man who had ex- \ cited ray boyish wonder. Could it be f that the enormous resources of this x able financier had at last been broken 9 by a combination for that purpose ; such as one not unfrequently hears of t c in the country of his adoption? I f could not conceal my fear, and gave 1: timid expression to it. "No, no," said uncle Sam. impatiently, as a forced smile overspread his features: "nothing of the kind. Get a on with your story." .1 To hear was to obey. At no time I was uncle Sam a man to trifle with, t ind least of all at the present monjpn^ tVhen I had completed my account of ny mission to England be paused In 'rent of me (for during my recital he lad not once ceased to pace the room), md throwing away the end of hi* :igar said: ^ "It is as I supposed. Though yon ire probably now farther off than ever 'rom the recovery of the sequins, and he result of your expense and trouble s merely the addition of another inhabitant to the unknown world. I aave as little doubt as ever that the )ld man bad the gold, and that he has t>estowed it where it will rest until it Is discovered by some other thief 4nd now please oblige me by never mentioning this matter to me again, Tor I do assure you I am most heartily dek of it." My uncle took two cigars from his pocket. One of them he threw to me icross the table, and having lit the pther he again paced the room. A minute or two elapsed before he spoke. When at last he did so It was with intense bitterness. "Of all that you have done or failed to do that which vexes me most is pour forwarding Mrs. ButterweU's letter to Price. But I don't blame you in 'inf Wfitr. (t irnrvwsihlp that VOU could know of the deep hatred I was so soon to bear to that unspeakable humbug. The fault* is my own for having, in the exercise of my natural generosity. foolishly suffered myself to befriend one of his canting, hypocritical casie. When I picked that unconscionable beggar out of the Suffolk mud he was not tcu cents ahead of his debts, and the utmost racking of his wits produced him ;;u income abput one-hf.h as much as I pay my cook." Uncle Sam paused a moment, puffed forth a cloud of smoke in a way suggestive of ineffable contempt, and re sumed: "As you know. I brought him here and gave him the management of a newspaper I own, paying him largely for his inefficient discharge of duties which I had to teach him. He attached himself to Connie, and did hi* best to win her, but Connie, with prudence worthy of her father, would i have none of him. When you appeared jpon the scene and gained almost without effort the prize for which he had contended in vain, he made the girl for whom he used to profess the most extravagant regard the victim of his revenge. His inability to injure her Without injuring Jirs. lrumau aiiuiue in a greater degree did not derer the villain. His method was this. Knowing that Constance was devoted to her sister, and that anything which would , rrouble one must needs disquiet the ither, he showed her (in your presence, 'A i understand) a letter he had received from another pestilent Suffolk parson, exposing Annie Wolsey?the writer, a ?raven-hearted windbag named Fuller, having got his information from old Wolsey or your father. Connie, wiier than most women, kept her knowledge to herself, and Price, suspecting this from the fact that there was no upset n my house, forwarded Fuller's letter to my wife." The malicious leer upon Mr. Price's face at the moment when I last looked upon him was pictured iu my memory ind not likely to be forgotten. That it was the outward and visible sign of i diabolical nature I had never doubted, and his strictures upon my family in that occasion helped to confirm the opinion, but none the less was I as ton- et\ isbed to learn in what circuitous tvays this man had worked to injure people who, so far from giving him my cause for enmity, had done much % to earn bis gratitude. As my uncle igaln paused I ventured to congratulate him on the futility of Mr. Prlce'S-^J ict, seeing that Mr. Fuller's letter contained nothing which aunt Gertrude lid not already know. "My affairs are hardly as smooth as that," continued uncle Sam, forgetful if, or diplomatically Ignoring, a pre- , rlous declaration he had made. "My 1 tvlfe has left me, and I cannot induce tier to return Home except Dy suostan- i tlal assurances that I have finally ceased to correspond with Annie Wol? sey." "Good heavens!" I exclaimed, in # ?reat affright. "Do you know where 3he has gone? Is Constance with aer?" "Don't talk so loud. I am not deaf, ind there is no necessity for Informing I ;verybody; the affair is sufficiently tnown already. You have no cause j .'or alarm. I shall give my wife the J insurances she demands, and in a day I ?r two at farthest she will reassume I aer rightful position. It la a pity you forwarded that old lady's letter to w lim." "Where Is my aunt and Connie?" I $ tsked bluntly. 'In Orange, at a house where their 7 'ather used to live." "Is that far from here?" j "Only a few miles. Orange is in New m rersey. the other side of the North M Etiver." f J A sigh of relief escaped me when 1^^ leard these words. To know that I 1 t??e Ort nnor tn niv Hpflr PrinstflnCP WAS is one faint streak of light in a dark ^ iky. I lit the cigar which I had been lervously twirling between my fingers luring the progress of this conversa* j iou, and took a seat by the open winlow. Uncle Sam. too, became some- J vhat calmer and seated himself oppoite to me. A long pause ensuetl which '] vas at last broken by uncle Sam sud- j lenly breaking out into a loud laugh^fl luite in his old style. I looked up lim in surprise. To be continued. Peanut Vender?"Say, pard, l/.e&ri W good joke a few minutes ago.'' Blind 1 erry?"Well, don't tell me about it 1 couldn't see the point until after J iusine8s hours."?Chicago News. JB