in
1854 with a commission as second lieutenant in the ----first Cavalry.
For nearly six years he did his duty in that state of life in which it
pleased the Secretary of War and General Scott to call him; he had
crossed the plains one bleak winter to a post in the Rocky Mountains,
and he had danced through two summers at Fort Adams at Newport; he had
been stationed for a while in New Mexico, where there was an abundance
of the pleasant sport of Indian-fighting--even now he had only to make
believe a little to see the tufted head of a Navajo peer around the
columns supporting the Lion of Saint Mark, or to mistake the fringe of
_facchini_ on the edge of the Grand Canal for a group of the shiftless
half-breeds of New Mexico. In time the ----first Cavalry had been
ordered North, where the work was then less pleasant than on the
border; and, in fact, it was a distinct unwillingness to execute the
Fugitive Slave Law which forced John Manning to resign his commission
in the army, although it was the hanging of John Brown which drew from
him the actual letter of resignation. Before settling down to other
work, for he was a man who could not and would not be idle, he had
gratified his long desire of taking a turn through the Old World.
Larry Laughton had joined him in Holland, where he had been making
researches into the family history, and proving to his own
satisfaction at least that the New York Mannings, in spite of their
English name, had come from Amsterdam to New Amsterdam. And now,
toward the end of April, 1861, John Manning and Laurence Laughton
stood on the Rialto, hesitating _Fra Marco e Todaro_, as the Venetians
have it, in uninterested question whether they should go into the
Ghetto, among the hideous homes of the chosen people, or out again to
Murano for a second visit to the famous factory of Venetian glass.

"I say, John," remarked Larry as they lazily debated the question,
gazing meanwhile on the steady succession of gondolas coming and going
to and from the steps by the side of the bridge, "I'd as lief if not
liefer go to Murano again, if they've any of their patent anti-poison
goblets left. You know they say they used to make a glass so fine that
it was shattered into shivers whenever poison might be poured into it.
Of course I don't believe it, but a glass like that would be mighty
handy in the sample-rooms of New York. I'm afraid a man walking up
Broadway could use up a gross of the anti-poison goblets befor