University of Virginia Library

THE PATRIOT'S IGNOBLE REPULSE.

HE was a stranger to Danbury, and somewhat inebriated, we are sorry to say. Where he came from, and where he was going, were facts that did not transpire while he was among us. His first appearance was in the bank. There was an old gentleman at the patrons' desk, laboriously indorsing a check. The stranger went up to him, and slapped him on the back without ostentation. The old gentleman's pen was just in the act of completing the tour of the letter Z. The jar sent it up to the north-west corner of the paper, and thence drove it into the desk. The writer turned about in unmitigated astonishment.

"What do you want, sir?" he demanded, with his spectacles reeling around on the end of his nose from the effect of the shock.

"I come to see you about Taylor," said the stranger.

"Taylor? What Taylor?"

"Zach., of course; President, you know," explained the stranger with an agreeable smile. "Lays down there now; not a stone to mark his grave, by Jinks!" and the stranger's face suddenly grew serious.

"What do I know about that?" said the old gentleman, grabbing up the pen.

"Ain't you going to do any thing about it?"

demanded the stranger, catching hold of the desk to steady himself.

"Go way! you're drunk!" pettishly exclaimed the old gentleman, discovering this and the horrid scratch on the check both at the same time.

"Drunk yourself, you ole fool!" retorted Mr. Taylor's friend, looking about for the man who stood back of the counter when he came in. Not seeing him, however, he gave the old gentleman a cordial invitation to go soak himself, and departed. The moment he got outside of the door, the cashier of the bank appeared from under the counter, and gazed absently at the ceiling.

The stranger next went into Morrill's toy-store. Mr. Morrill, who is a thin, tall person, was endeavoring to sell a lady a horse and wagon artistically constructed of tin, and elaborately colored.

"Good-afternoon," said he with a merchant's seductive smile.

"How are ye?" responded the stranger. "Are you the proprietor?"

"I am."

"Glad to see you. Will you just step one side a moment? I want to see you on special business."

Mr. Morrill took the new-comer to the end of the room, and then looked anxiously at him.

"You are nicely fixed here, I imagine," said the stranger, peering around. "Dolls with yaller hair, painted dogs, primers, tops, etcettery. Did you

ever think," he suddenly added, "that while you stood in the midst of all this glitter, like a god in a barrel of ice-cream, the grave of Pres. Taylor has no stone to mark the spot?"

"You'll excuse me, sir," said Mr. Morrill, nervously glancing toward the waiting lady; "but you spoke of a matter of importance."

"Ain't it a matter of importance that the grave of the illustrious dead should be hid away under weeds like a bag of stolen apples?"

"I know, sir," said Mr. Morrill soothingly. "But you see I'm very busy just at present, and while I naturally feel a deep interest in Mr. Taylor's affairs, still there's a lady here to purchase a horse and wagon."

"Of course you are a man of feeling," gracefully complied the stranger. "Just gimme ten cents, and I'll see that Zach. Taylor has an obelisk over his mound before night."

"You'll have to excuse me;" and Mr. Morrill moved back to the lady.

"Ain't you goin' to give me ten cents, you old shrimp?" demanded the stranger with an uncomfortable rise to his voice.

"What do you mean?" gasped the mortified and greatly astonished merchant.

"I want ten cents for the illustrious dead," yelled Mr. Taylor's friend.

"You go out of this store, or I'll put you out," threatened Mr. Morrill.

"You'll put me out, will you, old flat-stomach?" derisively snorted the stranger. "You'll pick me right up an' drop me in the gutter, I suppose, you old lath, and the grave of a president as bald as your skull. Gimme ten cents, I say, or I'll cut off your ears, and shove you under the door."

Mr. Morrill was struck dumb with horror.

"By Godfrey!" suddenly ejaculated the stranger, smiting his forehead in a paroxysm of grief, "to think of Zach. Taylor down there waiting for an obelisk,—a little tiny obelisk,—and his only authorized agent snapped up by two quarts of bones in a borrowed suit of clothes! I won't stay in a town like this. I won't stay a minute longer. I shall go back of some freight-house and break my heart, and be laid away with laurel and spices."

And he straightway departed. An hour later he was sitting on a plank in the lock-up, waiting for a freight-house and laurel and spices to come along.