ravat, or the
pearl gray of your trousers blends with the bright blue of your
waistcoat, and lends additional brilliancy to that massive oroide
watch-chain which you wear."

To my surprise, the Man from Solano did not strike him. He looked at
the ironical Dashboard with grave earnestness, and then said quietly:--

"Then I reckon you wouldn't mind showin' me in thar?"

Dashboard was, I admit, a little staggered at this. But he recovered
himself, and, bowing ironically, led the way to the box. I followed him
and the Man from Solano.

Now, the belle in question happened to be a gentlewoman--descended from
gentlewomen--and after Dashboard's ironical introduction, in which the
Man from Solano was not spared, she comprehended the situation
instantly. To Dashboard's surprise she drew a chair to her side, made
the Man from Solano sit down, quietly turned her back on Dashboard, and
in full view of the brilliant audience and the focus of a hundred
lorgnettes, entered into conversation with him.

Here, for the sake of romance, I should like to say he became animated,
and exhibited some trait of excellence,--some rare wit or solid sense.
But the fact is he was dull and stupid to the last degree. He
persisted in keeping the conversation upon the subject of the lost
baggage-checks, and every bright attempt of the lady to divert him
failed signally. At last, to everybody's relief, he rose, and leaning
over her chair, said:--

"I calklate to stop over here some time, miss, and you and me bein'
sorter strangers here, maybe when there's any show like this goin' on
you'll let me--"

Miss X. said somewhat hastily that the multiplicity of her engagements
and the brief limit of her stay in New York she feared would, etc.,
etc. The two other ladies had their handkerchiefs over their mouths,
and were staring intently on the stage, when the Man from Solano
continued:--

"Then, maybe, miss, whenever there is a show goin' on that you'll
attend, you'll just drop me word to Earle's Hotel, to this yer
address," and he pulled from his pocket a dozen well-worn letters, and
taking the buff envelope from one, handed it to her with something like
a bow.

"Certainly," broke in the facetious Dashboard, "Miss X. goes to the
Charity Ball to-morrow night. The tickets are but a trifle to an
opulent Californian, and a man of your evident means, and the object a
worthy one. You will, no doubt, easily secure an invitation."

Miss X. raised h