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Pullman herald. (Pullman, W.T. [Wash.]) 1888-1989, December 22, 1888, Image 6

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II CHRISTMAS time.
WHAT CAME OF KILLING A UICTI UNCLE.
By MARK LEMON.
I.
"Dance with me, Letty Green," said
George Poynter, to a pretty girl with
blue eyes and "hair that shamed the
morn."
Her ample ball dress was of the purest
■white muslin, fastened at the sleeves and
round the waist with blue ribbon —bluer
than her eves.
"Yes," answered Letty, "I want to
dance with you."
The dance at an end, Letty tried to
smooth her golden curls into order with
her little hands, and then, opening her
pretty blue eyes to their full, said:
"George Poynter, I should like some
orange."
"Yes, Letty," said the young gentle
man addressed; "and there's lemonade
and negus and such a sponge cake."
"I liko dancing with you better than
any one, Letty," said George, to his pretty
partner.
"Do you? Why?" replied Letty, her
voice rather obstructed by the sponge
cake.
"I think it is because I like you—you
are so pretty," replied the young gallant.
"You musift say that, or mamma will
Bcold you, Georgy. She. scolds every
one who tells me I am pretty," said the
young lady.
But the" words had been spoken, and
from that night until the end of the
Christmas holidays, George and Letty
said they were sweethearts.
IL
Some four or five years had passed and
Letty Green and her mamma wen
pitting together under the veranda of
their pretty cottage, working, ar?u talk
ing of a pleasant day they had spent at
Mr. Poynter's, when Master George came,
he said*, to bid them good-by, as he was
returning to school on the following
morning.
"And I want to ask you a favor, Mrs.
Green, and Letty a favor," said George,
coloring slightly.
Mrs. Green would grant it, of course,
and so would Letty, if she could.
"I want Letty to ride Rufus, my pony,
whilst lam at school. Papa has no use
for it, and it carries a lady beautifully."
"But to accept this proposal would give
co much trouble."
"Not in the least, Tom—that's our
groom—says it won't, and papa says it
won't, and I say the same; so please say
you'll use the pony. Straps, the harness
maker, will lend a side saddle."
Mrs. Green accepted George's offer, as
Letty was rather fragile, and pony
riding had been declared to lw good for
her; but Mrs. Green's income would not
allow of the expense, she said. There
were people who called Mrs. Green a
mean woman, and hinted that she loved
money better than her child.
George Povnter went to school very
cheery, because he had made such a cap
ital arrangement about his pony, and he
often thought, when the weather was
fine, of Kufus. and wondered if Letty
were riding him. George had not for
gotten, perhaps, that years—years ago
he and Letty had called themselves
sweethearts.
More years had passed, and brought
(heir changes. George and Letty were
nlone together in a small l>ook room iv
Mrs. Green's house, the windows open
ing to the garden. George was attired
in deep mourning, and there were strips
of black ribbon here and there on Letty's
white dress. They had been talking of
death and sorrow until both had l>ecoine
silent. After a time Letty took George's
hand, and said:
"Dear George, you must strive to
meet your great affliction with a brave
spirit—indeed you must."
"I hay do strive," replied George,
looking away from Letty; "but remem
ber what has come to me. Two years
ago my father died. A year before that
villain, Jackson, ruined my father —
broke his heart—killed him. 0 Letty!
what have I done to deserve this? \Vhat
can I dor"
"Trust still to tho father of the father
less," replied Letty, "We do not know
why great afflictions are permitted to
overtake us any more than we can tell
why great good comes to us when we
least expect or deserve it, dear George.
You are young, clever, good and have
many friends, and one —who is more
than a friend."
She raised George's hand to her lips
when she had said this (they were truo
Bwcethearts now), and he—what could
he do but press her to his bosom, and
kiss her cheek burning with blushes.'
Mrs. Green had !>een walking in tho
garden, evidently busy witli herthoughts.
She had stopjied near tho book room
window, near enough to hear what the
sweethearts were saying to each other,
and she appeared" to be mado more
thoughtful by what she heard.
When Mr. Foynter was a thriving mer
chant Mrs. Green had been more than a
consenting ]Kirty to her daughter's ac
ceptance of George Poynter's attentions
—indeed, sho had by" several indirect
means encouraged tho young people to
think lovingly of each other. But now
matters were changed. Master George,
as he was generally called, had neither
houses nor lands, nor had ho "ships gone
to a far countrie," and Mrs. Green was
perplexed how to act. She knew that
Lettv loved her first sweetheart, and
■would perhaps love him more now that
ho was poor.
Mrs. Green was relieved from her per
plexity more agreeably than she de
served t^ have been, as George Poynter
called the next day, bringing with him a
letter from liis uncle, rich old Silas
Cheeseman. promising to provide for liis
only sister's only son, and hinting that
George might by good conduct look to be
heir to all liis thrifty savings.
Silas was a bachelor, having been
blighted in his youth. He then took to
loving money, and had been a most suc
cessful wooer, as those clever Jpeople
■who know everybody's business but
their own declared old Silas Cheese
man to be worth his hundred thousand
pounds—"more or less."
Uncle Silas had also procured a situa
tion for George in tho neighboring town
of St. Gnats—merely a probationary sit
uation, as clerk to a timber merchant,
■who was under pecuniary obligations to
Silas. All this was very cheering, and
very kind of Uncle Silas, although Mr.
Bawk, the timber merchant, was indeli
cate enough to surmise that George was
placed in his establishment as a spy, and
to watch the interests of his uncle.
George would have scorned such ;; posi
tion for all Uncle Silas had to give.
IV.
Before we pass on to the events of the
next few years, we will intrc Juoe ('liaun
cev Gibbs, a friend of George Poynter.
Chauncey —his patronym of Gibbs was
rarely mentioned Chauncey was a good |
• natural; good for nothing, unsettled,
amusing fellow, who contrived to live a
gypsy kind of life on £200. a year, stead
fastly refusing to.encumber himself with
any employment or to incur responsibili
ties more (to quote Chauncey) than his
hat would cover. He was a native of St.
Gnats and known to everybody in the
town, but he had no regular abiding
place, as he chose to wander at will, and
George Poynter would not have been sur
prised to have received one of Chauncey's
brief letters dated from London, Paris,
Vienna or Pekin. He mostly affected
England, however, and London espe
cially in the winter. When money was
scarce Chauncev walked; when he was
in funds he availed himself of any cheap
conveyance which offered, sometimes
never inquiring its destination, but
making himself equally at homo wher
ever he was stranded. At Christmas time
he alwayn returned to St. Gnats, and
was a welcome guest at many hospitable
tables in that thriving town, making his
headquarters, however, with his old
friend and school chum, George, Poyn
ter. He had written to announce his
return to St. Gnats for the Christmas
approaching the end of the two years
which had intervened since George
Poyntor had assumed the r.tool of office
at Mr. Bawk's, and supplies of tobacco
and bitter beer were already secured for
the welcome pected guest.
Chauucey had a favorite lounge ii:
London, a tobacconist's in an out of the
way street in the neighborhood of St.
Mary Axe.
The proprietor was a beadle, or some
official of that character, to one of the
companies, and the tobacco business was
conducted during the early part of the
day by the beadle's wife and daughter.
It was Chauncey"s pleasure to sit on a
snulT tub in front of the counter and
smoke, in turn, all the varieties of to
bacco sold at the beadle's*, beguiling the
time, also, with animated conversations
with the daughter, whose powers of
repartee were more ready than refined.
It la not our intention to chronicle more
than Chauncey's parting interview and
what came of it. as slang from a wo
man's lips is our abhorrence.
Chauncey was about to leave the shop
after one of his long sittings, when the
younger lady said:
"You won't sco mo again, I expect,
Mr. Chauncey; I'm going to be married.'"
"You married!"
"Yes, me; why not, I should like to
know':" asked the lady, a little piqued.
"I'm sure I envy the happy man," re
plied Chauncey. "Its not the. Scotch
man at the shop door, is it' 1'
"Well, I'm sure!'' said the young lady,
and without another word slie bounced
into tlio little parlor aft the back of tlie
shop.
"Now you've regularly offended
Becky," said Mrs. Beadle, "and such
old friends as you was —and she to l>e
married to-morrow, and so respectable."
"Well, I'm glad to hear that," said
Chauncey. ""Where's the wedding to lxv
I'll buy a bundle of water cresses and
strew her way into church as axi apology
for my rudeness."
"Oli! she won't want no apology from
you—she knows what you are Mr. Chaun
cey; but she's to be married at 10 to-mor
row, at St. Mary Axe's, but wo don't
want it spoke of, as the bridegroom's
nervous," said Mrs. Beadle, in a whisper.
"I'll bo there in time," replied Chaun
ccy. "I supjK>se her father will give her
away—in full costume, cocked liat, (stall,
and all th.it."
"He will do all things that is proper,
Mr. Chauncey," paid Mrs. Beadle, with
much dignity, and Becky at that moment
calling ••Mother!' 1 in rather an hysterical
tone, Chauncey was allowed to lind his
Wav out of the shop as he pleased.
On the following morning Chauncey
was at the church of St. Mary Axe a
quarter of an hour before the time ap
pointed for the ceremony which was to
unite Miss Beadle and somebody to their
lives' end.
A hale old gentleman l>etween 60 and
70, perhaps, was the next arrival. Having
made some very confidential communi
cation to the old pew opener, he was con
ducted, evidently i:i great trepidation, to
tho vestry, and there immured until the
arrival oi' the tobacconist and family —
but without the emblematical Scotch
man. Chauncey concluded, therefore,
that Miss Beadle had captivated the old
gentleman now awaiting his doom in the
condemned cell called the vestry.
The Beadle was in mufti, but his cos
tume still partook of the splendor of his
office, and a canary colored waistcoat
with glittering buttons of ruby glass ren
dered him somewhat conspicuous even
in the gloom of St. Mary Axe. His gen
eral expression and bearing was that of
v tempered indignation, as though he
were about to consent to tho infliction of
some injury which he could avoid if he
pleased. A word, a look, might have
provoked him to have torn tho license
from the parson's hands and to have
dragged his daaghter from the altar.
lie was therefore allowed to walk up the
aisle unmolested.
Mrs. Beadle was very lively on her en
trance to the church—more lively, per
haps, than black tea. and the occasion
warranted; but, whatever had been the
stimulating cause of her cheerfulness, it
ran in plenteous drops from her eyes as
she approached the altar, and must have
been exhausted entirely by tho end of
tho ceremony. Niobo weeping for her
children would have been a dry nurse
compared with Mrs. Beadle.
Mis 3 Beadle was resigned, as became
her to bo at 81. With closed eyes and
drooping head she leaned upon her
mother's arm until, with pardonable
confusion, she released her hand to put
up her parasol as she drew near tho altar.
Chauncey rushed to her relief, and with
some difficulty possessed himself of the
incumbrance, and as there were no at
tendant bridesmaids tho impudent fellow
attached himself to the wedding party,
to be, as he said, "generally useful and
to pick up tho pieces."
Theceremony proceeded with all proper
solemnity, but there was some associa
tion with the name of one of tho con
tracting parties which made Chauncey
fairly start, and then determine to wit
ness the signing of the certificate, to
satisfy a doubt which had suddenly en
tered his mind.
The wedding party retired to the ves
try when "Amazement" liad ended the
ceremony, and proceeded to sign the reg
isters attesting the union which had just
been solemnized. Mr. Chauncey Gibbs
being, as he said, a friend of the family,
signed also, and there road—what had
better be revealed in the next chapter.
V.
Any one had only to have walked
down the High street of St. Gnats tc
have known that Christmas was at hand.
The grocers' windows were overrunning
with lusciousness; the butchers' shop.
--■ choke full of beef and mutton
that the butchers themselves would have
to cut their way oat into the street; the
poulterers had laid in such stocks of tur
geeseand chickens, that Mr. Bab
riage's calculating nwiohino could aloen
hove computed them—mere human in
tellect would have failed. Tho window
frames of the houses seemed sprouting
with holly and "the ivy green," and no
doubt but mistletoe hung, kiss provok
ing, within.
Mrs. Green had mAde every room in
her cottage an anagram of her name, as
it was holly decked everywhere. Nor
was the sacred bough forgotten—"on
the young people's account," she said,
•'though Xetty and Georgo had long
ceased to want an excuse for a kL?;."
George Poynter was waiting the ar
rival of his friend, Chauncey Cibbs. A
glorious tire blazed within the grate; the
table was spread to welcome the coming
guest, for whose delectation a faultless
rampstuak pie was browning in the oven.
The train, punctual to its time, was
beard screaming into the station close
by, and in a few minutes after the two
friends were together.
If yon are hungry it is tantalizing to
listen to the particulars of a dinner you
are not to share; if you are sated, you
are bored by tho recapitulation of dain
ties you care not to touch, and therefore
we will allow the friends to take their
meal in peace. Neither wiil wo join
their after revel when two or three old
cronies came in and made a night of it,
onti] George and Chauncey sought their
beds fairly tired out with jollity.
When breakfast was over tho next
morning, and Chauncey found that
George had excused himself from at
tendance at the timber yard, he said:
"I am glad you can give the morning
to me, as I have some news for you that
may. perhaps, surprise and annoy you."
"Indeed!" replied George. "What
is it?"
"I would not touch upon it last night,
although I think some immediate action
should be taken by you or your friends,"
continued Chauncey, looking very ser
ious.
"Pray speak out," said George.
"Oh yes. I must do that, for I have
no tact, m ver had, to make an unpleas
ant matter agreeable. Have you heard
from your uncle lately.-"
"Yes, two days ago—principally on
Mr. Bawk's business," replied George.
"My old boy, your uncle neve r in
tended you any good when he shut you
up in that log house of Hawk's. He put
you there for his own seliibh purpose and
nothing else."
"Why do you say that?" asked George.
"He has led you to suppose that you
were to be Ilia heir some, day, has he
not?''
"He has never said that in direct terms;
hut he certainly has hinted at such a pos
sibility."
"Then he's an old scamp, if ho don't
deserve a harder name," said Chauncey,
thumping the table. "Two days ago he
did his best to disinherit you. You may
stare, but I saw with my own eyes, heard
with my own ears, that old ra.camufiin
marry a bouncing woman of thirty."
"Marry! L'ncie Silas, marry!'
"Fast "as St. Mary Axe could do it, to
a snuffseller's daughter;" and then
Chauncey, to the astonishment of his
friend, narrated what wo already know
of the wedding at which ILr. Chuuixey
bad so officiously assisted.
"This is indeed v terrible Mow," said
George, "an unexpected blow."
"Ye*; I nni afraid, knowing the hands
he has fallen into, that he wont have a
will of his own when a few months have
parsed," said Chauncey. "1 found out
bow the matter came about. Old Silas
was very ill. and wouldn't have a doctor;
but—a beadle. I call him—got at him,
and then introduced bis daughter as
nurse. They first physicked him nearly
to death, aiid then brought him round
with bottled porter. They told the old
fool they saved his life, and ho be
lieved it;" and out of gratitude, and the
want of a nurse, he proposed to Miss
Hitch-dried, and married her."
"This hits me harder than you know,
Chauncey—much harder. Poor Letty
and I can never hope now"
"Oh, nonsense!'' replied Chauncey.
"Keep your uncle's secret, as he will if
he can. marry Letty. and let Mother
Green storm afterwards."
George shood his head, and then
said:
"Chauncey, you advise that which is
dishonorable."
'•All fair in love, old boy," replied
Chauncey, with a laugh; "and if I were
you, to gain the woman who loves me,
"whom I love, I'd kill my uncle."
"Great heaven! what do you say? Bui
I scei _yoii were joking. No; my course
is perfectly clear so far as Mrs. Green
and Lettv'aro concerned. Igo to them
at once, and tell what has taken place.
If 1 am forbidden to continue my visits
by Mrs. Green aha shall be obeyed.
Letty, I know, will be always true to me:
and when 1 can make a homo for her, 1
can claim her with honor."
"Devilish pretty speech," said Chaun
cey," and all right.! have no doubt. I
still say, kiil old Silas Cheeseman, and
get married; or, stay—perhaps—yes—
you shall write to him. now that he's
honeymoon struck—tell ! irn you want
tofoUew his example, a i require ten
tlioi: md pound;) to do it."
"1 understand this nonsense, Chaun
cey," replied George, with :v sad smile.
"Your friendly chaff is will meant: but
my case is very serious. And so good-by
for an hour of two. You will rind me
hero after that time."
The road to Mrs. Green's cottage never
seemed so long before to George Poynter
as it did now that he felt his fate. The
happiness, for a time at least, of his dar
ling Letty depended upon the interview
he was seeking with her mother. He
was not without some justification for
the misgivings which beset him, as Mrs.
Green had more than twice or thrice
casually hinted at what a mother's course
should"be to prevent a child "marrying
into poverty." Indeed, she had once told
"him, when Letty was not present, how
glad she was when his uncle's recognition
of hUti produced such a favorable turn in
George's for! unes, as it had spared them
all the pain which she should have felt it
her duty to have inflicted. The crisis
had only been deferred. There were tears
from Mrs. Green—regrets and pity; but
there were were also cold, cruel words,
which were not to be gainsaid, unless
Lettv could disobey the mother who had
loved her all her life, and lived only to
see her happy.
George spared his Letty and her mother
any contest as to the decision to be made.
He promised to obey Mrs. Green in all
she required of him; but he promised
Letty also, when they were left alone,
that" his love never should change, nor
should a doubt ever have place in his
thoughts that she could change one tittle
in her love for him. And as he held her
to his beating heart—not for the last time,
no! no!—he told her how he would strive
to make a home for both—that their pro
bation would be short if a bravo resolu
tion could only find the means to work
with. And they would come —they al
ways did; for hail not they been promised
by the one which could not lie?
"roor hearts! they parted very sadly;
but a good angel was already burying
i himself for then reunion. And such on
angel!—durance? Gibbs!
"He wont write to old Silas?" Then I
will," said Channccy, half aloud, win n
( tei lire liad loft him. "Ho won't kill his
I uncle — an old fool? Then I will." lie
opened the tang blr.de of his penknife
and — trimmed a quill which ho found on
i George's desk.
There were paper and ink, as may be
supposed, and there was also the ready
| writer, Chauocey, who began:
"St. Gnats, Dee. 20, 18—.
"DKAU SiX—A:; my friend, Mr.
George Poynter, is unfortunately suffer
ing at this lime from a severe wow in
his chest —(-That's perfectly true') —I
have placed myself at his service: and
although I shall not express myself aa he
would hare done on the subject— ('That's
true again, I fancy')—l hope you will
take the will forth? deed. News has
I reached us here, dear sir— ('Hell
! like that dear sir')—that after many
years of deliberate calculation—('No,
I not calculation')—consideration, you
j have discovered that man was not made
| to live alone, and therefore, with a wise
I regard for your own happiness, you have
sought connubial felicity at the altar of
Si. Mary Axe. ('Very goodf muttered
I Chauncey;'the name of the church will
! show that hii secret is known to us.') I
j know not whether it is your wish that
j your blissful union should be made gen
ii-rally know n; but I cannot hesitate (on
the part of my friend, I mean) to offer
you my sincerest congratulations, and to
v. i h you all the happiness you deserve.
('That's true; and 1 should like to add,
all you are likely to find.') 1 am aware
I that what you have done must neces
sarily interfere largely, if not entirely,
with those expectations which you once
lor twice —(-Shall I say promised? No*)—
I encouraged me to entertain — ('What
would old Georgo say to that?) —and
though 1 descend from the clouds*
('Good figure that') —to the substratum
of daily ti.il and permanent anxiety, I
shall know that you are sitting happy at
your domestic hearth, smoking the pipe
I of peace —("It wants something else to
', round oil the sentence')—and —and—
('Oh, blow it!')— rocking the cradle,
'•May I request—if not asking too much
at this blissful period of your life —a line,
Ito tell me that! mayaddtomy affection-
I ate remembrances an Aunt Cheeseman?
"i remain, dear - ir,
"Your affectionate nephew,
"For Geohge Poyhteh."—
Chaunccy paused. "It won't do to sign
my name, or Mrs. C. will remember it.
Yes —I have it —they never beard the
name of C. Oibbs."
Having sealed and directed his letter,
2hauncey proceeded to post it.
In traveling down from London
Chauncey had learned that a projected
branch railway from St. Gnats was in
high favor with ail the moneyed interest
of the place; and when ho suggested the
propriety of killing old Silas he had this
railway in his mind, as on the following
day the allotment of shares was to take
place. Chauncey knew—as he knew
everybody—Mr. Golding, the hanker and
chairman pro tern, of the projected com
pany. Without the least misgiving or
hesitation he called upon that highly re
spectable gentleman, and, after a few
minute;;'interview, gave the con\ crea
tion an extraordinary twist, or jerk, as
thus:
'•You've heard of the great windfall to
our townsman, George Poynter, I sup
pose," Baid Chauncey. "No? Well, per
haps it was hardly ti> be expected, seeing
what a retiring fellow he is."
'•What is itV" asked Mr. Golding. '-He
is a young man for whom I h;>ve the
greatest respect. 1 shall he glad to hear
of any goad fortune to him."'
"Ana it is a good fortune! His uncle,
you know, w;:s immensely rich," said
( frauncey. '-The old bachelor is no more
i —went oil three days ago—and my friend
George was long ago his appointed heir."
"Silas Cheeseman gone!"' remarked
Mr. Golding, with a shrug; "a very
money getting man; and must have died
very rich—very rich."
"'E-nor-itioi •-:-!>' rich! Single man many
years; no expenses, you know," said
(lhaunct y. "I witnessed the last moments
of the <M bachelor at St. Mary A.\<\
Went off quite composedly after his will
was accomplished. By (he bye. it strikes
me you might secure the interest of young
Georj .
"How, my dear ax?' asked Mr. Gold
ing; "we are always glad to secure ;i good
client"
"And with such wealthrsaid Chaun
cey. --You iili.)f shares in the St. Gnats
Junction to-morrow, do you not?"
"Yes,**repliW <11(> banker; "and the
applicationsexceed anything I ever knew;
tho shares will 1» eve or six premium
before to-morrow is ever."
"That's your plan, then! Secure him a
thousand."
•■ \ thousand!" exclaimed Mr. Golding.
"Well, half a thousand—cay five hun
dred—for George l'oynter; I'll let him
' know whose influence he has to thank
for them. You'll be the banker of his
immense wealth—his friend—adviser."
"But he has not applied," said Mr.
Golding.
'•But you have. What'fi a paltry fivo
j hundred to you in comparison to after
| .Toj n _ or to turn? He won't care for the
! money, but the friendliness of the thing,"
■■ said Chauncey, with a flourish of the
liand, as though be were proposing the
! merest trifle of a sacrifice.
"And you, my dear sir?" asked Mr.
Goliling.
"Oh, nothing: I want nothing; and
you may rely upon my secrecy."
Mr. Golding pressed Chauncey's hand,
and thanked him for the friendly sug
tion.
Mr. Goliling had but one confidant,
Mr. Baxter, who at that moment entered
the bank, and was announced as being
there.
"Do you object to my naming the mat
ter to my friend Baxter?—great influence
at the board," baui Golding.
"Not in the least: perhaps he may help
I you to make the allotment a thousand,"
replied Cliauncey. .
"Oh, impossible, my good friend, said
the banker. "Show in Mr. Baxter."
Chauncey's communication having
been repeated to Mr. Baxter, the diplo
matist thought he had better retire; but
lie had not gone many yards from the
bank when Mr. Baxter overtook him.
"Delighted to hear what you have told
us concerning your friend Poynter —an
excellent young man, and deserves all he
gets."
"I am sure of that," said Chauncey,
"whatever good it may be."
"He'll reside at St. Gnats, I suppose?"'
"Yes," answered Chauncey.
"And will want a house suitable to his
new position?"
"Yes."
"Now I am wanting to sell Prospect
House yonder—fine garden, abundance
of water and all tlxat—would it suit him,
do you think?"
Chauncoy was rather posed by this in
qniry, and said therefore. -Perhaps."
••I think it would; £3,500 is what I ask
—sad could get it, but I dislike the man. j
You know Capt Ranger?—of course you
must." said Baxter, with emphasis.
Chauiicey did not and would not know
Capt. Ranger.
"lie v a troublesome fellow, and 1
should be glad if ho would leave the
place." said Mr. Baxter. "If Mr. Poyn
ter will buy ho shall have the prefer
ence."
Chauncey saw no objection to that, [
and promised to speak to his friend if
Mr. Baxter would make the offer in writ-
ing; but £3,000, he thought, would be the j
utmost that Mr. Poynter would give for
;i house.
Mr. Br.xter paused for a moment, anil
as they were opposite his counting house
lie invited Chaunoey in. and subsequently
gave him :i letter to Mr. George Poynter,
containing an unconditional offer of I
Prospect llou.se for £3,000. Chauneey i
carefully pot away the letter and bade ;
Mr. Baxter good day.
Poor George had returned to his lodg
ing when Chauneey had transacted all
the important business we have recorded, j
and not all las Mend's good spirits eoukl
rouse him from almost despondency.
"My old boy." said Chaunoey, "you'll i
sink down, down, if you show the white
feather in this way. You're young enough
to work, and like it —I never did."
"It is not hard work —hard fighting
with the world, that I am fearing; it is
the effect of this days cruel trial upon j
poor Letty."
And then George told Chauneey all that
Lad passed.
"Well, you would be so hastily honor
able," replied Chauncey: "you had lirtier
been advised by me —waited a day or
two until you had killed yo-<r uncle."
George looked at his friend and saw a '
cunning twinkle In his eye; but Chaun- |
coy hail his own reasons for saying no,
more on the subject
George was very ill the next morning
—too iil to go to the timber yard: so!
Chauncey offered to see Mr. Hawk, and,
if business pressed, to supply George's
place for a day or two. Mr. Hawk de
clined Mr. Chauncey's services, and was
so excessively polite and anxious in his
inquiries about Mr. George that Chaun
cey thought the story of yesterday had
reached Mr. Bawk. ;
It was not bo; but Capt. Ranger had '
been to the timber yard to see Mr. Poyn
ter, and had surprised Mr. Bawk by as
suring him that his clerk must have come
into money, as he had bought Prospect
boose at a sum which be (Capt. Han
ger) had refused to give. Be had,
however, left a commission with Mr.
Bawk; and Chauncey wormed out of the I
timber merchant the following particu
bus:
Captain Ranger, it appeared, had mar
ried a lady with money—not always a
desirable exchange for a man's life —and ,
the lady never allowed him to forget fhe j
pecuniary part of their engagement. She
had taken a fancy—the word is not i
strong enough—a longing for Prospect,
House, and the captain had undertaken
to obtain it: but, being fond of a bar
gain, ho had disgusted Mr. Baxter with '
a tiresome negotiation, and the house
had slipped from him. To confess this
to Mrs. Captain Banger would bo to in
voke a-conjugal tempest; and in bis ex
tremity he'had come to Mr. Bawk to in
tercede with his clerk to transfer hi:
purchase.
"Well," said Chaunecy, "George is a
good natored fellow—too good naturcd—
and I will undertake to say that the cap-;
tain shall have Prospect House for iii
000." ' ;'
"Four thousand pounds!' 1 exclaimed
Mr. Bawk.
"And not one shilling less," said!
Chaunccy firmly. ''The house is worth
it as it stands; "but compute its value to I
Captain Ranger, and it is cheap at any!
money."
Mr." Bawk pleaded to a stono agent
when ho tried to soften Mr. Chauncey;
and Captain Ranger coming into the
counting house at the moment, heard the
terms proposed, raved like a maniac for
ten minutes, and then consented to be j
swindled—robbed, tor the take of peace
and quietness.
Chauncey could be a man of business
when be pleased, and lie was now in a
business mood, lie therefore trotted off j
the angry captain to an attorney's, made !
the transfer, and secured a prospective
£1,000 for his friend George by killing
bia uncle.
As the day wore on. Chauncey v.-iitod
upon Mr. Golding, and found that gen-1
tleman writing to Mr. Poynter, and ex- ,
pressing the great pleasure it gave turn
to hand him a tetter of allotment for Oik;
shares En the St. Gnats Junction, etc. etc.
etc. Railway; adding a hope that the firm
of Golding, Silverton & Co. might bare
Mr. Poynter's name on their books as an
honored client.
Cbauncey undertook to deliver the let
ter, and to use his influence with his
friend to make the only acknowledgment
ho could for such disinterested gener
osity.
Poor George, was very ill at case when
his friend Chauncey returned, and at
first was disposed to bo angry at what he
felt to be his inconsiderate raillery.
"I am serious, old boy, quite terious,"
said C'hauncey, throwingGolding's letter
and the transfer on the table. "I have
killed old Silas Cheoseman, and there are
some of the proceeds of the transaction.
Open—read end satisfy yourself."
George opened the envelope containing
the transfer, and then Mr. Golding's let
ter. He was in a mist. He thought he
was delirious and had lost his reason; and
Chauncey was a long time making him
comprehend how he had come to be pos
sessed of —
Profit on transfer '.. £l.nno
Profit ud OOU shares, premium 5 per share... 2,500
Total £3,500
and all by killing old Sila's Cheeseman!
Poor George was hard to satisfy that
these large gains were honorably come
by, and when lie went to Bleep he dreamt
that he had robbed the bank and had set
Prospect House on fire. The following
morning brought a letter from Uncle
Silas.
The poor old dotard expressed himself
so pleased at his nephew's forgiveness of
an act which he had thought would have
provoked only revilings and wicked
wishes, that he enclosed a check for £1,
--000 and his avunclar blessing.
Was ever another fortune made by
such means?
Georgo had all the money; Mr. Golding
begging his retention of the shares, as his
commercial acuteness might be dam
aged by a disclosure of the trick which
had been practised upon his cupidity,
and Capt. Ranger was submissively satis
fied, having told his cara sposa that he
had bought Prospect House a decided
bargain.
Mrs. Green would have had to endure
many mortifying reflections had it rot
been Christinas time when Letty :•:;!
George, and all other estranged friends
are willing to forget their old grievances
and, in thankfulness that such a srawx
was vouchsafed ' to erring man, hum!.!
imitate the Great For^iver. |
A Christmas Group-
The shining holly hangs npon tho well, <r
Its scarlet clusters gleaming in tne light
Of ruddy firo K low, and the welcomo sound
Of silver laughter; rtpptei through iho room,
From youthful voices, "hil-st tho mistletoe
Its white, trauparent beadlets temptingly
Hongs o'er their sunny heads.
Now kith and kin
Are grouped in circle round the cheery beartb.
Each tolling bis experience of the year.
For somo thero be that only meet at Yule.
The grey hdred grandsuire sagely nods his head
"What time tho prattlo of tho four-year old—
The golden tressed youngling of the flock-
Is poured into his enr; and on his knees,
Eager to prate, doth she, wee fairy, sit,
The household darling of a score of hearts.
In yonder snus armchair sits grandmamma.
Whilst teavear Tommy steals beside her knee,
Knowing full well, tho bright eyed, saucy rogu*
The hidden soft spot In the old dame's heart;
And wttfc a loving, half regretful gaze,
Look oa the children's pareDts, carried back
To tha "lang syne' when they themselves wirt
blest
In childhood's happy, glad unconsciousness
Of His to come; and so, forgetting Time,
They In their treasured blossoms bloom again.
—a. h. a"
SeixiDg a Christinas Chauce.
Bo you blame him:
Tito mince pio was a Chris*mas favor
ite in the time of tho poet Hc-rriek, who ,
wrote of it:
The while the meet Is a-shredding
For the rare mince pie,
Ami :he plums stand by
To f.U the paste that's a-kneeding.
The Day Before Christmas.
' Fat Turkey — ye been living high
lately. Wonder what's the matter.
1 What is this Christmas business any
-1 way?
! Thin Turkey (who has consumption}—
: You will know before night; la,_ta!
_ »« « ■
Sweet and Bitter. _
, llow swe=», and fresh the soft spring air—
A bain.. an appetizer. . 1
It male's we feel like— but. <h' whew!
Consaru the fertilizer!
—Burlington Free Press, i
•■ -^
A Stranger Among Strangers*" 4
New York BelleDo you know that HT29
as New York is there are only four hundred
I people there v.ho can claim to really belong
to the elite'
Omaha J«.in—Shouldn't wonder. It's th«
1 loneliest placo 1 ever cot into.— Vaxtbt-'7
World. *
i i;tiu';'<. Diploma*
That EUi.-l is an artist. "
All must admit with crrace: ■:'.'.
How could one em doubt it
Who'd ever seen tier face? - -
. -i-oadon Tfe! Etui i
SPICE OF THE SEASON.
The Christmastime comes on apace aad
charity begins, to hum.
The prettiest thing in a stocking Chril?
; mas morning is a pretty girl's foot. f!z.
When Kris Kringle comes down the
chimney it soots Kris and the children as
; well.
Santa Claus is s-iid to be of German-Bft. i
i Kin. His favorite oath, we presume in.'
j "By Chimney.",
! The pawnbroker knows that Christmas
is coming;, and so does the young man and
so does the girl.

A facetious divine got so many Christ
mas slippers that he said: "Do ladies
. think me a centipede?"
A Christmas bel'e—The girl with the
ring in h-r voice who will always chime
in when anything is told.
With many people Christmas presents
! will only come through the imagination,
which will enable them to exhibit great
presents of mind.
| There is nothing the matter with the !
; small boy who presents his mother with a
pair of felt slippers for Christmas. He is
; just a smart boy, that's all.
The custom of having a rousing Christ
mas dinner.is not only an ancient one, but
it is the most universal of any custom
known to the civilized world. .-,
Talk about oil trust rubber trusts, coal
; rusts, etc., as much as you like, but what
; we -want about holiday time is a turkey
or goose trussed.— Boston Courier.
Remember that a Christmas gift gains
nothing in significance by being costlr,
and that to seek to outdo others in pecu
niary outlay, simply because you have the
means, is vulgar. ■ ■, . , . t i
"Ah, my son," said the ministet. 'Tro
glad to see you in the Sunday-«choo< ■»*
---•V, s this your first Sunday?' "Yes,
VI- "H °V do jou like itr "Oh. guess
i t«P » d »v until after the Christmas
tree. — Tia-BUa *
i m f^il tnia? approaches, the j(S^m
man who has been toasting his toes anT
lounging on the best parlor sofa, tries to
get ud a quarrel with his girl so as to es
pr^rkrUPtinKhimsel£ on *Cta?BtnSSi
Monetary: Clarksby-«'Good morning,
Gadbv "V 5; ?, h°PpinK- I Mr?
ly" M g adby °? 'change late.

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