_Mr. B._ But my dear sir--my good young friend, what was I to do? Hear me--listen--leave go--you'll tear my coat--let go, or she'll be back, and then I'm lost! Do you hear, you rascal! You'll tear my coat--there go my suspenders--there goes something else! I'll have you arrested for intent to do grievous bodily battery and commit violent matrimony--let go!

_Artist._ You old rascal--you old polypus--you old humbug--you are ruining me! (Rushes to one side and returns with club or stick. A fight ensues. Old gent strikes an att.i.tude with umbrella.)

_Mr. B._ Come on, Mac what's your name! and d.a.m.ned be he who first cries hold--enough!

_Artist_ (aside). I'll be hanged if the old buffer ain't swearing!

(Aloud.) By all the powers I'll be revenged! As sure as my name is Puttyblow I will be re-ve-n-ged! (Is about to rush at old gent.)

_Mr. B._ Pause, rash man! Did you say Puttyblow?

_Artist._ I did.

_Mr. B._ Have you a strawberry mark on your left arm?

_Artist._ Nature has ornamented me in the manner you describe.

_Mr. B._ Are you short-sighted in your left eye?

_Artist._ Such is my affliction.

_Mr. B._ Do you snore at nights?

_Artist._ So I have been informed by the people over the way, who have sent over several times to expostulate with me in the most offensive terms possible.

_Mr. B._ And sleep late in the morning?

_Artist._ I do.

_Mr. B._ (rushing forward.) My long-lost son!

_Artist._ Excuse me for one moment. Have you a gooseberry bush on your left arm?

_Mr. B._ Gooseberry? No--no--not specially.

_Artist._ Do you wear corns or paper collars?

_Mr. B._ Well, I've had chilblains.

_Artist._ Are you subject to hydrophobia?

_Mr. B._ Well, not precisely; but I've been run over by a Broadway omnibus.

_Artist._ Are you in the habit of committing suicide?

_Mr. B._ Well--I--I--don't know--I travel on the Hudson River Railroad sometimes.

_Artist._ Come to my arms, my long-lost father!

[They embrace.

_Mr. B._ Bless you, my boy--bless you! bless you!

Enter _Lady_. Artist sees her, and struggles to escape from Mr. B.'s grasp.

_Artist._ Let go--let me go--drat it all, let go.

_Mr. B._ Bless you, my boy--bless you!

_Lady._ I have left my portemonnaie in your studio--will you be kind enough to let me have it?

_Mr. B._ Young woman, spare me!

_Lady_ (to Artist). Pray protect me from this venerable ruffian.

_Mr. B._ (aside.) Venerable ruffian! Come, now, that is what the boys call rather rough. (Aloud.) Then you don't love me?

_Lady._ If you insult me further, I shall inform my father.

_Mr. B._ Then you have a father?--wonderful! Are you sure of it--no deception? What is his name? Where does he live? Tell me quick--quick--do not deceive me!

_Lady._ My father, sir, is General MacSlasher, who will not allow his daughter to be insulted with impunity.

_Mr. B._ MacSlasher! The brave MacSlasher, who married my half-cousin Columbia Ann, of Pickleville, Indiana?

_Lady._ Indeed, it is true.

_Mr. B._ Come to my arms, my long-lost niece! No, not niece; cousin--second cousin--oh, hang the relationship! Come to my arms, any way! But hold--you are the richest heiress in New York. I have the deeds in my pocket to prove it. By the will of your late grandfather Grampus you are the sole possessor of six blocks on Broadway, Trinity Church, Erie Railroad, two steamboats on the Hudson River that won't burst, and vast territories on Coney Island.

_Artist._ Good gracious!

_Mr. B._ Happy hour--auspicious moment! to have thus met my son and niece on the same day. Puttyblow, my son--no longer Puttyblow, but Bullywingle--this is the lady I have destined for you for ten long years, if I could only have found you. She is rich and beautiful. I know you love each other; and if you don't, make believe you do, or you'll spoil the play. Bullywingle, junior, embrace your bride! Take her and be happy! Bless you, my children--bless you!

Grand tableau. Mr. Puttyblow and Miss MacSlasher embrace. Mr.

Bullywingle opens his umbrella, and, standing on one leg, holds it over them.

CHAPTER XVI.

It may be remembered that in a recent chapter we mentioned being in a _tranquil mood_, and, while in that condition, calling on our friend Nix, and further, that Nix introduced us that same evening to some ladies with brown eyes.

Since that event the _tranquil_ moods have come over us periodically, with rapidly increasing virulence. So much so that latterly we have found it desirable to dispense with the c.u.mbrous ceremony of going round to call for Nix. The fact is we have taken a great fancy to _that_ boy Little Pickle; he is certainly a very fine boy.

It occurs to us at this moment that we have not yet given a name to this family. Their real name is one of those which recall old revolutionary times directly it is uttered. One of those names which, to ourself at least, at once summons up a picture of marching ranks of men in three-cornered hats and yellow breeches, toiling forward with glistening muskets over their shoulders, past rows of quaint gabled houses. We cannot give the real name, of course--that is out of the question--so we will call them Adams, because that is not their name. Then we will subdivide them as follows: Mrs. Adams, Bud, Blossom, and Berry. We christen them thus because these were the t.i.tles they received in a little floral and pomological game we once played.

The Adams family were going to give a party. We were called in as consulting engineer, to suggest attractions. We readily accepted the office. The reader knows our system and will easily guess our first order. Objects to provoke conversation!