w Chief, can
plentifully supply.

After this the choice vintage of France, or its gooseberry counterfeit,
flows feebly; Johnny with gleeful alacrity stripping off the leaden
capsules, twisting the wires, and letting pop the corks. For the
stranger guest has taken a wallet from his pocket, which all can
perceive to be "chock full" of gold "eagles," some reflecting upon, but
saying nothing about, the singular contrast between this plethoric
purse, and the coarse coat out of whose pocket it is pulled.

After all, not much in this. Within the wooden walls of the Choctaw
Chief there have been seen many contrasts quite as curious. Neither its
hybrid landlord, nor his bar-keeper, nor its guests are addicted to take
note--or, at all events make remarks upon--circumstances which elsewhere
would seem singular.

Still, is there one among the roystering crowd who does note this; as
also other acts done, and sayings spoken, by Phil Quantrell in his cups.
It is the Colossus who has introduced him to the jovial company, and
who still sticks to him as chaperon.

Some of this man's associates, who appear on familiar footing, called
him "Jim Borlasse;" others, less free, address him as "Mister Borlasse;"
while still others, at intervals, and as if by a slip of the tongue,
give him the title "Captain." Jim, Mister, or Captain Borlasse--
whichever designation he deserve--throughout the whole debauch, keeps
his bloodshot eyes bent upon their new acquaintance, noting his every
movement. His ears, too, are strained to catch every word Quantrell
utters, weighing its import.

For all he neither says nor does aught to tell of his being thus
attentive to the stranger--at first his guest, but now a spendthrift
host to himself and his party.

While the champagne is being freely quaffed, of course there is much
conversation, and on many subjects. But one is special; seeming more
than all others to engross the attention of the roysterers under the
roof of the Choctaw Chief.

It is a murder that has been committed in the State of Mississippi, near
the town of Natchez; an account of which has just appeared in the local
journal of Natchitoches. The paper is lying on the bar-room table; and
all of them, who can read, have already made themselves acquainted with
the particulars of the crime. Those, whose scholarship does not extend
so far, have learnt them at secondhand from their better-educated
associates.

The murdered man is called