began to be thronged almost
before it was dark. A few came in to be shaved, while many more passed
through the shop into the little bar-room beyond. What was curious, some
went in who appeared never to come out again; Mr. Stackridge among the
number.

It was not to get shaved, nor yet to get tipsy, that this man visited
Jim's premises. The moment they were alone together in the bar-room, he
gave the proprietor a knowing wink.

"Many there?"

"I reckon about a dozen," said Jim. "Go in?" Stackridge nodded; and with
a grin Jim opened a private door communicating with some back stairs,
down which his visitor went groping his way in the dark.

Customers came and went; now and then one disappeared similarly down the
back stairs; many remained in the barber's shop to smoke, and discuss in
loud tones the exciting question of the day--secession; when, lastly, a
boy of fifteen came rushing in. His face was flushed with running, and
he was quite out of breath.

"What's wanting, Carl?" said the barber. "A shave?"

This was one of Jim's jokes, at which his customers laughed, to the
boy's confusion, for his cheeks were as smooth as a peach.

"I vants to find Mishter Stackridge," said the lad.

"He ain't here," said Jim, looking around the room.

"It is something wery partic'lar. One of his pigs have got choked mit a
cob, and he must go home and unchoke him."

This was what Carl had been directed by the farmer's wife to say to the
barber, in case he should profess ignorance concerning her husband.

"Pity about the pig," said Jim. "Mabby Stackridge'll be in bime-by. Any
thing else I can do for ye?"

Carl stepped up to the barber, and said in a hoarse whisper, loud enough
to be heard by every body,--

"A mug of peer, if you pleashe."

"I got some that'll make a Dutchman's head hum!" said Jim, leading the
way into the little grog room.

"That's Villars's Dutch boy," said one of the smokers in the
barber-shop. "Beats all nater, how these Dutch will swill down any thing
in the shape of beer!"

This elegant observation may have had a grain of truth in it, as we who
have Teutonic friends may have reason to know. However, the man had
mistaken the boy this time.

"It is not the peer I vants, it is Mr. Stackridge," whispered Carl, when
alone with the proprietor.

Jim regarded him doubtfully a moment, then said, "I reckon I shall have
to open a cask in the suller. You jest tend bar for me while I am gone."

He descended