CHAPTER XVIII.

Mr. Stevens falls into Bad Hands.

The amiable partner of Mr. Stevens sat in high dudgeon, at being so long restrained from her favourite beverage by the unusually deferred absence of her husband. At length she was rejoiced by hearing his well-known step as he came through the garden, and the rattle of his latch-key as he opened the door was quite musical in her ears.

"I thought you was never coming," said she, querulously, as he entered the room; "I have been waiting tea until I am almost starved."

"You needn't have waited a moment, for you will be obliged to eat alone after all; I'm going out. Pour me out a cup of tea—I'll drink it whilst I'm dressing; and," continued Mr. Stevens, "I want you to get me that old brown over-coat and those striped trowsers I used to wear occasionally."

"Why, you told me," rejoined Mrs. Stevens, "that you did not require them again, and so I exchanged them for this pair of vases to-day."

"The devil you did!" said Mr. Stevens, angrily; "you let them lie about the house for nearly a year—and now, just as they were likely to be of some service to me, you've sold them. It's just like you—always doing something at the wrong time."

"How on earth, Stevens, was I to know you wanted them?"

"Well, there, Jule, they're gone; don't let's have any more talk about it. Get me another cup of tea; I must go out immediately." After hastily swallowing the second cup, Mr. Stevens left his home, and walked to an omnibus-station, from whence he was quickly transported to a street in the lower part of the city, in which were a number of second-hand clothing stores. These places were supported principally by the country people who attended the market in the same street, and who fancied that the clothing they purchased at these shops must be cheap, because it was at second-hand.

Mr. Stevens stopped at the door of one of these establishments, and paused to take a slight survey of the premises before entering. The doorway was hung with coats of every fashion of the last twenty years, and all in various stages of decay. Some of them looked quite respectable, from much cleaning and patching; and others presented a reckless and forlorn aspect, as their worn and ragged sleeves swung about in the evening air. Old hats, some of which were, in all probability, worn at a period anterior to the Revolution, kept company with the well-blacked shoes that were ranged on shelves beside the doorway, where they served in the capacity of signs, and fairly indicated the style of goods to be purchased within.

Seeing that there were no buyers in the store, Mr. Stevens opened the door, and entered. The sounds of his footsteps drew from behind the counter no less a personage than our redoubtable friend Kinch, who, in the absence of his father, was presiding over the establishment.

"Well, Snowball," said Mr. Stevens, "do you keep this curiosity-shop?"

"My name is not Snowball, and this ain't a curiosity-shop," replied Kinch.
"Do you want to buy anything?"

"I believe I do," answered Mr. Stevens. "Let me look at some coats—one that I can get on—I won't say fit me, I'm indifferent about that—let me see some of the worst you've got."

Kinch looked surprised at this request from a gentleman of Mr. Stevens's appearance, and handed out, quite mechanically, a coat that was but slightly worn. "Oh, that won't do—I want something like this," said Mr. Stevens, taking down from a peg a very dilapidated coat, of drab colour, and peculiar cut. What do you ask for this?"

"That's not fit for, a gentleman like you, sir," said Kinch.

"I'm the best judge of that matter," rejoined Mr. Stevens. "What is the price of it?"

"Oh, that coat you can have for a dollar," replied Kinch.

"Then I'll take it. Now hand out some trowsers."

The trowsers were brought; and from a large number Mr. Stevens selected a pair that suited him. Then adding an old hat to his list of purchases, he declared his fit-out complete.

"Can't you accommodate me with some place where I can put these on?" he asked of Kinch; "I'm going to have a little sport with some friends of mine, and I want to wear them."

Kinch led the way into a back room, where he assisted Mr. Stevens to array himself in his newly-purchased garments. By the change in his attire he seemed completely robbed of all appearance of respectability; the most disagreeable points of his physique seemed to be brought more prominently forward by the habiliments he had assumed, they being quite in harmony with his villanous countenance.

Kinch, who looked at him with wonder, was forced to remark, "Why, you don't look a bit like a gentleman now, sir."

Mr. Stevens stepped forward, and surveyed himself in the looking-glass. The transformation was complete—surprising even to himself. "I never knew before," said he, mentally, "how far a suit of clothes goes towards giving one the appearance of a gentleman."

He now emptied the pockets of the suit he had on;—in so doing, he dropped upon the floor, without observing it, one of the papers.

"Fold these up," said he, handing to Kinch the suit he had just taken off, "and to-morrow bring them to this address." As he spoke, he laid his card upon the counter, and, after paying for his new purchases, walked out of the shop, and bent his steps in the direction of Whitticar's tavern.

On arriving there, he found the bar-room crowded with half-drunken men, the majority of whom were Irishmen, armed with bludgeons of all sizes and shapes. His appearance amongst them excited but little attention, and he remained there some time before he was recognized by the master of the establishment.

"By the howly St. Patherick I didn't know you, squire; what have you been doing to yourself?"

"Hist!" cried Mr. Stevens, putting his fingers to his lips; "I thought it was best to see how matters were progressing, so I've run down for a little while. How are you getting on?"

"Fine, fine, squire," replied Whitticar; "the boys are ripe for anything.
They talk of burning down a nigger church."

"Not to-night—they must not do such a thing to-night—we are not ready for that yet. I've made out a little list—some of the places on it they might have a dash at to-night, just to keep their hands in." As Mr. Stevens spoke, he fumbled in his pocket for the list in question, and was quite surprised to be unable to discover it.

"Can't you find it, squire?" asked Whitticar.

"I must have lost; it on the way," replied Mr. Stevens. "I am sure I put it in this pocket," and he made another search. "No use—I'll have to give it up," said he, at length; "but where is McCloskey? I haven't seen him since I came in."

"He came here this afternoon, very far gone; he had been crooking his elbow pretty frequently, and was so very drunk that I advised him to go home and go to bed; so he took another dram and went away, and I haven't seen him since."

"That's bad, very bad—everything goes wrong this evening—I wanted him to-night particularly." "Wouldn't the boys go out with you?" suggested Whitticar.

"No, no; that wouldn't do at all. I mustn't appear in these things. If I'm hauled up for participation, who is to be your lawyer—eh?"

"True for you," rejoined Whitticar; "and I'll just disperse the crowd as soon as I can, and there will be one peaceable night in the district at any rate."

Not liking to give directions to the mob personally, and his useful coadjutor McCloskey not being at hand, Mr. Stevens came to the conclusion he would return to his home, and on the next evening a descent should be made upon the places marked on the list.

Taking out his watch, he found it would be too late to return to the store where he had purchased his present adornments, so he determined to start for home.

The coat that temporarily adorned the person of Mr. Stevens was of peculiar cut and colour—it was, in fact, rather in the rowdy style, and had, in its pristine state, bedecked the person of a member of a notorious fire company. These gentry had for a long time been the terror of the district in which they roamed, and had rendered themselves highly obnoxious to some of the rival factions on the borders of their own territory; they had the unpleasant habit of pitching into and maltreating, without the slightest provocation, any one whom their practised eyes discovered to be a rival; and by such outrages they had excited in the bosoms of their victims a desire for revenge that only awaited the occasion to manifest itself.

Mr. Stevens, in happy unconsciousness, that, owing to his habiliments, he represented one of the well-known and hated faction, walked on quite leisurely; but, unfortunately for him, his way home lay directly through the camp of their bitterest and most active enemies.

Standing in front of a tavern-window, through which a bright light shone, were a group of young men, who bestowed upon Mr. Stevens more than passing attention. "I'm blest," exclaimed one of them, if there ain't a ranger! now that it a saucy piece of business, ain't it! That fellow has come up here to be able to go back and play brag-game."

"Let's wallop him, then," suggested another, "and teach him better than to come parading himself in our parts. I owe 'em something for the way they served me when I was down in their district."

"Well, come on," said the first speaker, "or he will get away whilst we are jawing about what we shall do."

Advancing to Mr. Stevens, he tapped that gentleman on the shoulder, and said, with mock civility, and in as bland a tone as he could assume, "It's really very obliging of you, mister, to come up here to be flogged—saves us the trouble of coming down to you. We would like to settle with you for that drubbing you gave one of our boys last week."

"You must be mistaken," replied Mr. Stevens: "I don't know anything of the affair to which you allude."

"You don't, eh! Well, take that, then, to freshen your memory," exclaimed one of the party, at the same time dealing him a heavy blow on the cheek, which made the lamplights around appear to dance about in the most fantastic style.

The first impulse of Mr. Stevens was to cry out for the watchman; but a moment's reflection suggested the impolicy of that project, as he would inevitably be arrested with the rest; and to be brought before a magistrate in his present guise, would have entailed upon him very embarrassing explanations; he therefore thought it best to beg off—to throw himself, as it were, upon their sympathies.

"Stop, gentlemen—stop—for God's sake, stop," he cried, as soon as he could regain the breath that had been almost knocked out of him by the tremendous blow he had just received—"don't kill an innocent man; upon my honour I never saw you before, nor ever assaulted any of you in my life. My dear friends," he continued, in a dolorous tone, "please let me go—you are quite mistaken: I assure you I am not the man." "No, we ain't mistaken, either: you're one of the rangers; I know you by your coat," replied one of the assaulters.

It now flashed upon Mr. Stevens that he had brought himself into these difficulties, by the assumption of the dress he then wore; he therefore quickly rejoined—"Oh, it is not my coat—I only put it on for a joke!"

"That's a likely tale," responded one of the party, who looked very incredulous; "I don't believe a word of it. That's some darned stuff you've trumped up, thinking to gammon us—it won't go down; we'll just give you a walloping, if it's only to teach you to wear your own clothes,"—and suiting the action to the word, he commenced pommelling him unmercifully.

"Help! help!" screamed Mr. Stevens. "Don't kill me, gentlemen,—don't kill me!"

"Oh! we won't kill you—we'll only come as near it as we can, without quite finishing you," cried one of his relentless tormenters.

On hearing this, their victim made a frantic effort to break away, and not succeeding in it, he commenced yelling at the top of his voice. As is usual in such cases, the watchman was nowhere to be seen; and his cries only exasperated his persecutors the more.

"Hit him in the bread-crusher, and stop his noise," suggested one of the party farthest off from Mr. Stevens. This piece of advice was carried into immediate effect, and the unfortunate wearer of the obnoxious coat received a heavy blow in the mouth, which cut his lips and knocked out one of his front teeth.

His cries now became so loud as to render it necessary to gag him, which was done by one of the party in the most thorough and expeditious manner. They then dragged him into a wheelwright's shop near by, where they obtained some tar, with which they coated his face completely.

"Oh! don't he look like a nigger!" said one of the party, when they had finished embellishing their victim.

"Rub some on his hands, and then let him go," suggested another. "When he gets home I guess he'll surprise his mammy: I don't believe his own dog will know him!"

A shout of laughter followed this remark, in the midst of which they ungagged Mr. Stevens and turned him from the door.

"Now run for it—cut the quickest kind of time," exclaimed one of them, as he gave him a kick to add impetus to his forward movement.

This aid was, however, entirely unnecessary, for Mr. Stevens shot away from the premises like an arrow from a bow; and that, too, without any observation upon the direction in which he was going.

As soon as he felt himself out of the reach of his tormentors, he sat down upon the steps of a mansion, to consider what was best to be done. All the shops, and even the taverns, were closed—not a place was open where he could procure the least assistance; he had not even an acquaintance in the neighbourhood to whom he might apply.

He was, indeed, a pitiable object to look upon The hat he had so recently purchased, bad as it was when it came into his possession, was now infinitely less presentable. In the severe trials it had undergone, in company with its unfortunate owner, it had lost its tip and half the brim. The countenance beneath it would, however, have absorbed the gazer's whole attention. His lips were swelled to a size that would have been regarded as large even on the face of a Congo negro, and one eye was puffed out to an alarming extent; whilst the coating of tar he had received rendered him such an object as the reader can but faintly picture to himself.

The door of the mansion was suddenly opened, and there issued forth a party of young men, evidently in an advanced state of intoxication. "Hallo! here's a darkey!" exclaimed one of them, as the light from the hall fell upon the upturned face of Mr. Stevens. "Ha, ha! Here's a darkey—now for some fun!"

Mr. Stevens was immediately surrounded by half a dozen well-dressed young men, who had evidently been enjoying an entertainment not conducted upon temperance principles. "Spirit of—hic—hic—night, whence co-co-comest thou?" stammered one; "sp-p-peak—art thou a creature of the mag-mag-na-tion-goblin-damned, or only a nigger?—speak!" Mr. Stevens, who at once recognized one or two of the parties as slight acquaintances, would not open his mouth, for fear that his voice might discover him, as to them, above all persons, he would have shrunk from making himself known, he therefore began to make signs as though he were dumb.

"Let him alone," said one of the more sober of the party; "he's a poor dumb fellow—let him go." His voice was disregarded, however, as the rest seemed bent on having some sport.

A half-hogshead, nearly filled with water, which stood upon the edge of the pavement, for the convenience of the builders who were at work next door, caught the attention of one of them.

"Let's make him jump into this," he exclaimed, at the same time motioning to Mr. Stevens to that effect. By dint of great effort they made him understand what was required, and they then continued to make him jump in and out of the hogshead for several minutes; then, joining hands, they danced around him, whilst he stood knee-deep in the water, shivering, and making the most imploring motions to be set at liberty.

Whilst they were thus engaged, the door again opened, and the fashionable Mr. Morton (who had been one of the guests) descended the steps, and came to see what had been productive of so much mirth.

"What have you got here?" he asked, pressing forward, until he saw the battered form of Mr. Stevens; "oh, let the poor darkey go," he continued, compassionately, for he had just drunk enough to make him feel humane; "let the poor fellow go, it's a shame to treat him in this manner."

As he spoke, he endeavoured to take from the hands of one of the party a piece of chip, with which he was industriously engaged in streaking the face of Mr. Stevens with lime, "Let me alone, Morton—let me alone; I'm making a white man of him, I'm going to make him a glorious fellow-citizen, and have him run for Congress. Let me alone, I say."

Mr. Morton was able, however, after some persuasion, to induce the young men to depart; and as his home lay in a direction opposite to theirs, he said to Mr. Stevens, "Come on, old fellow, I'll protect you."

As soon as they were out of hearing of the others, Mr. Stevens exclaimed,
"Don't you know me, Morton?"

Mr. Morton started back with surprise, and looked at his companion in a bewildered manner, then exclaimed, "No, I'll be hanged if I do. Who the devil are you?"

"I'm Stevens; you know me."

"Indeed I don't. Who's Stevens?"

"You don't know me! why, I'm George Stevens, the lawyer."

Mr. Morton thought that he now recognized the voice, and as they were passing under the lamp at the time, Mr. Stevens said to him, "Put your finger on my face, and you will soon see it is only tar." Mr. Morton did as he was desired, and found his finger smeared with the sticky article.

"What on earth have you been doing with yourself?" he asked, with great surprise; "what is all this masquerading for?"

Mr. Stevens hereupon related his visit at Whitticar's, and detailed the events that had subsequently occurred.

Mr. Morton gave vent to shouts of laughter as he listened to the recital of his friend. "By George!" he exclaimed, "I'll have to tell that; it is too good to keep."

"Oh, no, don't," said Mr. Stevens; "that won't do—you forget what I came out for?"

"True," rejoined Mr. Morton; "I suppose it will be best to keep mum about it. I'll go home with you, you might fall into the hands of the Philistines again."

"Thank you—thank you," replied Mr. Stevens, who felt greatly relieved to have some company for his further protection; "and," continued he, "if I could only get some of this infernal stuff off my face, I should be so glad; let us try."

Accordingly they stopped at the nearest pump, and endeavoured to remove some of the obnoxious tar from his face; but, unfortunately, the only result obtained by their efforts was to rub it more thoroughly in, so they were compelled to give up in despair, and hasten onward.

Mr. Stevens rang so loudly at the door, as to quite startle his wife and the charity-girl, both of whom had fallen into a sound sleep, as they sat together awaiting his return. Mr. Morton, who, as we have said before, was not entirely sober, was singing a popular melody, and keeping time upon the door with the head of his cane. Now, in all her life, Mrs. Stevens had never heard her husband utter a note, and being greatly frightened at the unusual noise upon the door-step, held a hurried consultation with the charity-girl upon the best mode of proceeding.

"Call through the key-hole, ma'am," suggested she, which advice Mrs.
Stevens immediately followed, and inquired, "Who's there?"

"Open the door, Jule, don't keep me out here with your darned nonsense; let me in quick."

"Yes, let him in," added Mr. Morton; "he's brought a gentleman from Africa with him."

Mrs. Stevens did not exactly catch the purport of the words uttered by Mr. Morton; and, therefore, when she opened the door, and her husband, with his well-blacked face, stalked into the entry, she could not repress a scream of fright at the hideous figure he presented.

"Hush, hush," he exclaimed, "don't arouse the neighbours—it's me; don't you know my voice."

Mrs. Stevens stared at him in a bewildered manner, and after bidding Mr. Morton "Good night," she closed and locked the door, and followed her husband into the back room. In a short time he recapitulated the events of the night to his astonished and indignant spouse, who greatly commiserated his misfortunes. A bottle of sweet oil was brought into requisition, and she made a lengthened effort to remove the tar from her husband's face, in which she only partially succeeded; and it was almost day when he crawled off to bed, with the skin half scraped off from his swollen face.