n another
part of the hall; they had evaded him successfully. Similar experiments
were tried on other nights, but they all ended in the same way.

Four years ago there died in Washington an old gentleman who had been
employed for thirty-five years in the Library of Congress. The quarters
of that great book collection, while housed in the Capitol, were
distressingly restricted, and much of the cataloguing was done by the
veteran mentioned in a sort of vault in the sub-cellar. This vault was
crammed with musty tomes from floor to ceiling, and practically no air
was admitted. It was a wonder that he lived so long, but, when he came
to die, he did it rather suddenly. Anyhow, he became paralyzed and
unable to speak, though up to the time of his actual demise he was able
to indicate his wants by gestures. Among other things, he showed plainly
by signs that he wished to be conveyed to the old library.

This wish of his was not obeyed, for reasons which seemed sufficient to
his family, and, finally, he relinquished it by giving up the ghost. It
was afterward learned that he had hidden, almost undoubtedly, $6000
worth of registered United States bonds among the books in his
sub-cellar den--presumably, concealed between the leaves of some of the
moth-eaten volumes of which he was the appointed guardian. Certainly,
there could be no better or less-suspected hiding-place, but this was
just where the trouble came in for the heirs, in whose interest the
books were vainly searched and shaken, when the transfer of the library
from the old to its new quarters was accomplished. The heirs cannot
secure a renewal of the bonds by the Government without furnishing proof
of the loss of the originals, which is lacking, and, meanwhile, it is
said that the ghost of the old gentleman haunts the vault in the
sub-basement which he used to inhabit, looking vainly for the missing
securities.

The old gentleman referred to had some curious traits, though he was by
no means a miser--such as the keeping of every burnt match that he came
across. He would put them away in the drawer of his private desk,
together with expired street-car transfers--the latter done up in neat
bundles, with India-rubber bands.

Quite an intimate friend he had, named Twine, who lost his grip on the
perch, so to speak, about six years back. Mr. Twine dwelt during the
working hours of the day in a sort of cage of iron, like that of
Dreyfus, in the basement of the Capitol. As