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Now, don't sir! Don't expose me! Just this once !
This was the first and only time, I 'll swear,-
Look at me,-see, I kneel,—the only time,
I swear, I ever cheated, -yes, by the soul
Of Her who hears—(your sainted mother, sir !)
All, except this last accident, was truth-
This little kind of slip !—and even this,
It was your own wine, sir, the good champagne,
(I took it for Catawba,—you ’re so kind)
Which put the folly in my head !

“ Get up ?” You still inflict on me that terrible face ? You show no mercy ?-Not for Her dear sake,

The sainted spirit's, whose soft breath even now Blows on my cheek—(don't you feel something, sir ?) You 'll tell ?

Go tell, then! Who the devil cares What such a rowdy chooses to ...

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Well, sir, I hope you 've done it now! Oh Lord ! I little thought, sir, yesterday, When your departed mother spoke those words Of peace through me, and moved you, sir, so much, You gave me—(very kind it was of you) These shirt-studs—(better take them back again, Please, sir !)—-yes, little did I think so soon A trifle of trick, all through a glass too much Of his own champagne, would change my best of

friends Into an angry gentleman !

Though, 'twas wrong. I don't contest the point; your anger 's just :


Whatever put such folly in my head,
I know ’t was wicked of me. There 's a thick,
Dusk, undeveloped spirit (I ’ve observed)
Owes me a grudge-a negro's, I should say,
Or else an Irish emigrant's; yourself
Explained the case so well last Sunday, sir,
When we had summoned Franklin to clear up
A point about those shares in the telegraph :
Ay, and he swore . . or might it be Tom Paine ? ..
Thumping the table close by where I crouched,
He'd do me soon a mischief: that 's come true !

Why, now your face clears ! I was sure it would ! Then, this one time . . don't take your hand away, Through yours I surely kiss your mother's hand .. You 'll promise to forgive me ?—or, at least, Tell nobody of this ? Consider, sir ! What harm can mercy do? Would but the shade Of the venerable dead-one just vouchsafe A rap or tip! What bit of paper 's here ? Suppose we take a pencil, let her write, Make the least sign, she urges on her child · Forgiveness ? There now! Eh? Oh! 'Twas your

foot, And not a natural creak, sir ?

Answer, then! Once, twice, thrice . . . see, I'm waiting to say

" thrice !" All to no use ? No sort of hope for me? It 's all to post to Greely's newspaper ?

What? If I told you all about the tricks ?
Upon my soul !—the whole truth, and nought else,
And how there's been some falsehood—for your part,
Will you engage to pay my passage out,
And hold your tongue until I 'm safe on board ?
England 's the place, not Boston—no offence!
I see what makes you hesitate : don't fear!
I mean to change my trade and cheat no more,
Yes, this time really it 's upon my soul !
Be my salvation !-under Heaven, of course.
I'll tell some queer things. Sixty Vs must do.
A trifle, though, to start with! We 'll refer
The question to this table ?

How you 're changed ! Then split the difference ; thirty more, we'll say. Ay, but you leave my presents! Else I 'll swear 'Twas all through those : you wanted yours again, So, picked a quarrel with me, to get them back! Tread on a worm, it turns, sir! If I turn,

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