“—mandragora Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep Which thou owd’st yesterday!”
here roared our Climax just in my ear, and shaking his fist in my face all the time, in a way that I couldn’t stand, and I wouldn’t . I left the Misses Cognoscenti immediately, went behind the scenes forthwith, and gave the beggarly scoundrel such a thrashing as I trust he will remember to the day of his death.
At the soirée of the lovely widow, Mrs. Kathleen O’Trump, I was confident that I should meet with no similar disappointment. Accordingly, I was no sooner seated at the card-table, with my pretty hostess for a vis-à-vis, than I propounded those questions the solution of which had become a matter so essential to my peace.
“Smith!” said my partner, “why, not General John A. B. C. ? Horrid affair that, wasn’t it?—diamonds, did you say?—terrible wretches those Kickapoos!—we are playing whist , if you please, Mr. Tattle—however, this is the age of invention, most certainly the age, one may say— the age par excellence —speak French?—oh, quite a hero—perfect desperado!— no hearts , Mr. Tattle? I don’t believe it.—immortal renown and all that!—prodigies of valor! Never heard!! —why, bless me, he’s the man—”
“Mann!— Captain Mann!” here screamed some little feminine interloper from the farthest corner of the room. “Are you talking about Captain Mann and the duel?—oh, I must hear—do tell—go on, Mrs. O’Trump!—do now go on!” And go on Mrs. O’Trump did—all about a certain Captain Mann, who was either shot or hung, or should have been both shot and hung. Yes! Mrs. O’Trump, she went on, and I—I went off. There was no chance of hearing anything farther that evening in regard to Brevet Brigadier-General John A. B. C. Smith.