the hour that had connected poor Sinclair with
the proprietor of that late magnificent and extravagant establishment,
was a natural movement. I cursed, and proceeded on my walk. I had not,
however, advanced a few steps, before, looking back, I became aware of a
light gleaming from one of the windows of the house. I returned. Some
information might be gained from the servant left in charge of the
place; possibly a clue to the mystery in which, without any valid
reason, I had myself become entangled. I found the door of the mansion
ajar. I knocked, but no one answered; I repeated the summons with as
little success, and then I walked boldly in--and up-stairs, in order to
place myself at once in communication with the apartment in which I had
perceived the faint illumination. Opening the drawing-room door, I
perceived, as much to my disgust as astonishment--the Yahoo!

That dark gentleman was drunk; there was no doubt of it. He was sitting
at a table that was literally covered with food, of which he had taken
to repletion. His coat was off, so was his cravat, and the collar of his
shirt unbuttoned. Perspiration hung about his cheeks, and his face
looked very oily. Decanters of wine were before him; a pewter jug of
ale; and bottles containing more or less of ardent spirits. There was a
wild expression in his eye, but the general glow of his visage was one
of fuddled sottishness. He saluted me with a grin.

"Who the debil are you?" he politely asked.

"I was looking," I answered, "for a servant."

"D--n him serbant," exclaimed the Yahoo, speaking in his drunkenness
like a very nigger. "I gib him a holyday. What are you got to say to
dat? What do you want?" he proceeded. "Sit down. Enjoy yerself. What do
you take? Deblish good rum, and no mistake."

_Hold a candle to the Devil_ is a worldly maxim, which I had never an
opportunity of practising to the letter until now. Much might be learned
by humoring the monster--nothing by opposing him. I sat down and drank
his health.

"Thankee, old boy," said he. "I'm deblish glad to see you, upon my soul.
Gib us your hand. How many are you got?"

"Two," said I.

"That's a lie," replied the nigger hastily. "I see four. But neber mind,
I'm not partickler. Gib us two of 'em. I say, old boy," he continued,
"don't you eat nothing? D----d sweet. Sure to make you sick. Him drink
much as him like."

"You wait the general's return, I presume?" said I, in the vain hope of
eliciting some