e did not quite faint, and there
is peace in the house.

Manfredo, his countenance sullen, brings in the wine. Manfredo is in bad
temper to-night. He uncorks the bottles and lets the wine foam over the
table, the sight of which sends Madame into a state of distress.

"This is all I gets for putting such good livery on you!" she says,
pushing him aside with great force. "That's thirty-nine for you in the
morning, well-laid on. You may prepare for it. Might have known better
(Madame modifies her voice) than buy a nigger of a clergyman!" She
commences filling the glasses herself, again addressing Manfredo, the
slave: "Don't do no good to indulge you. This is the way you pay me for
lettin' you go to church of a Sunday. Can't give a nigger religion
without his gettin' a big devil in him at the same time."

Manfredo passes the wine to her guests, in sullen silence, and they
drink to the prosperity of the house.

And now it is past midnight; the music in the next parlor has ceased,
St. Michael's clock has struck the hour of one, and business is at an
end in the house of the old hostess. A few languid-looking guests still
remain, the old hostess is weary with the fatigues of the night, and
even the gas seems to burn dimmer. The judge and Mr. Snivel are the last
to take their departure, and bid the hostess good-night. "I could not
call the fellow out," says the judge, as they wend their way into King
street. "I can only effect my purpose by getting him into my power. To
do that you must give me your assistance."

"Remain silent on that point," returns the other. "You have only to
leave its management to me. Nothing is easier than to get such a fellow
into the power of the law."

On turning into King street they encounter a small, youthful looking
man, hatless and coatless, his figure clearly defined in the shadows of
the gas-light, engaged in a desperate combat with the lamp-post. "Now,
Sir, defend yourself, and do it like a man, for you have the reputation
of being a craven coward," says the man, cutting and thrusting furiously
at the lamp-post; Snivel and Sleepyhorn pause, and look on astonished.
"Truly the poor man's mad," says Sleepyhorn, touching his companion on
the arm--"uncommonly mad for the season."

Mr. Snivel whispers, "Not so mad. Only courageously tight." "Gentlemen!"
says the man, reproachfully, "I am neither mad nor drunk." Here he
strikes an attitude of defence, cutting one, two, and three with his
small