y, that you don't
know all about that affair of Smith's, as well as I do, eh? Smith? John
A-B-C.? Why, bless me, he's the ma-a-an"--

"_Mr_. Sinivate," said I, imploringly, "_is_ he the man in the mask?"

"No-o-o!" said he, looking wise, "nor the man in the mo-o-on."

This reply I considered a pointed and positive insult, and so left the
house at once in high dudgeon, with a firm resolve to call my friend,
Mr. Sinivate, to a speedy account for his ungentlemanly conduct and
ill-breeding.

In the meantime, however, I had no notion of being thwarted touching the
information I desired. There was one resource left me yet. I would go to
the fountain-head. I would call forthwith upon the General himself,
and demand, in explicit terms, a solution of this abominable piece of
mystery. Here, at least, there should be no chance for equivocation. I
would be plain, positive, peremptory--as short as pie-crust--as concise
as Tacitus or Montesquieu.

It was early when I called, and the General was dressing; but I pleaded
urgent business, and was shown at once into his bed-room by an old negro
valet, who remained in attendance during my visit. As I entered the
chamber, I looked about, of course, for the occupant, but did not
immediately perceive him. There was a large and exceedingly odd-looking
bundle of something which lay close by my feet on the floor, and, as I
was not in the best humor in the world, I gave it a kick out of the way.

"Hem! ahem! rather civil that, I should say!" said the bundle, in one
of the smallest, and altogether the funniest little voices, between a
squeak and a whistle, that I ever heard in all the days of my existence.

"Ahem! rather civil that, I should observe."

I fairly shouted with terror, and made off, at a tangent, into the
farthest extremity of the room.

"God bless me! my dear fellow," here again whistled the bundle,
"what--what--what--why, what _is_ the matter? I really believe you don't
know me at all."

What _could_ I say to all this--what _could_ I? I staggered into an
arm-chair, and, with staring eyes and open mouth, awaited the solution
of the wonder.

"Strange you shouldn't know me though, isn't it?" presently re-squeaked
the nondescript, which I now perceived was performing, upon the floor,
some inexplicable evolution, very analogous to the drawing on of a
stocking. There was only a single leg, however, apparent.

"Strange you shouldn't know me, though, isn't it? Pompey, bring me