hey were, and more worthy of the name of friends, the
evening might have been worth recording, but it is sufficient to say
that they all came; acted as usual, spoke as usual, felt as usual,
"favoured the company" with songs, as usual, and--ah--yes--enjoyed
themselves as usual till about half-past eleven o'clock, when they all
took their leave, with the exception of Miss Deemas, who, in
consideration of the coldness of the weather, had agreed to spend the
night with her "dear friend."

Miss Deemas was one of those unfortunates with whom it is impossible for
any one to sleep. Besides being angular and hard, she had a habit of
kicking in her slumbers, and, being powerful, was a dangerous bedfellow.
She knew this herself, and therefore wisely preferred, when visiting
her friends, to sleep alone. Hence it happened that Miss Tippet and
Emma went to bed in the back room with the green hangings, while Miss
Deemas retired to the front room with the blue paper.

There is a common fallacy in naval matters founded on poetical license,
to the effect that the mariner is separated from death by a single
plank; whereas, the unpoetical truth is, that the separation consists of
many hundreds of planks, and a solid bulwark of timbers more than a foot
thick, besides an inner "skin," the whole being held together by
innumerable iron and oaken bolts and trenails, and tightened with oakum
and pitch. We had almost fallen into this error--or poetical laxity of
expression--by saying that, on the night of which we write, little did
Miss Tippet know that she was separated from, not death exactly, but
from something very awful, by a single plank; at least, by the floor of
her own residence, and the ceiling of the house below--as the sequel
will show.

That same night, David Boone, gaunt, tall, and cadaverous as of old, sat
in his back parlour, talking with his friend Gorman.

"Now, Boone," said the latter, with an oath, "I'm not goin' to hang off
and on any longer. It's more than seven years since we planned this
business, the insurances have been effected, you've bin a prosperous
man, yet here you are, deeper in my debt than ever."

"Quite true," replied Boone, whose face was so pale that he might have
easily been mistaken for a ghost, "but you know I have paid up my
premiums quite regular, and your interest too, besides clearin' off some
of the principal. Come, don't be hard on me, Gorman. If it had not
been that trade has got worse of