f it were in this country," said Mr. Middleton, "I would engage to
get him out. I would secure a writ of habeas corpus, or devise other
means to speedily release him. But unfortunately, I am not admitted to
practice in the dominions of Oman. But I do not pity the young man.
One could well be willing to suffer incarceration in a tower of
vermillion, if he knew he were an object of solicitude to one so fair
as yourself. One could wear the gyves and shackles of the most
terrible tyranny almost in happiness, if he knew that such lovely eyes
grew moist over his fate and such beauteous lips trembled when they
told the tale of his imprisonment."

Now such gallant speeches were all very well in the days of
knee-breeches and periwigs, but in this age and in Chicago, they are
an anachronism and the two young ladies started as if they had
suddenly observed that Mr. Middleton had on a low-cut vest, or his
trousers were two years behind the times, and somewhat curtly and
coolly making their adieus, they sailed rapidly away, leaving Mr.
Middleton--who was not the most obtuse mortal in the world--to
savagely fill with large pieces of banana pie the orifice whence had
lately issued the words which had cut short his colloquy with the two
beauties. He deeply regretted that in his association with Prince
Achmed he had fallen into a flowery and Oriental manner of speech and
resolved henceforth to eschew such fashion of discourse.

The clocks were solemnly tolling the hour of midnight when Mr.
Augustus Alfonso Brockelsby rubbed his eyes and sat up in the
revolving chair in the main office of his suite. Mr. Middleton was
standing near, hastily putting away a razor. A warm odor lay on the
still air of the room.

"Hello, isn't it daylight yet?" asked Mr. Brockelsby. The hot cakes
that had but lately been applied to his shaven crown, seemed to have
dispelled the fogs of intoxication and he was master of himself.

"It is twelve o'clock," said Mr. Middleton.

"Twelve! Why, it was three when I left the banquet table. Twelve!"

"Twelve," said Mr. Middleton, pointing gravely to the clock on the
desk.

"It--is--twelve. Don't tell me it is the day after."

"I am compelled to do so. You were at the banquet of the Sons of
Andrew Jackson's Wars, twenty-four hours ago."

"Great Scott!" exclaimed Mr. Brockelsby, thrusting his hands through
his hair, or rather making the motion of doing so. "Great Scott!" he
repeated, "I am bald-headed. What the