From the Adams House he posted to Louisburg Square, where the Trevors were living in great style. Slightly acquainted with Miss Trevor, he found no difficulty in being admitted to her presence. After rattling over a few commonplace topics, he came to the object of his mission. "Have you seen Bliffins lately?" "Not very," replied the fair one, languidly. "Dying, ma'am, dying." "Is it possible?

The "enclosed" was an invitation to a grand ball given by the Trevors on the ensuing night. After overwhelming his friend with anathemas, Bliffins rushed wildly from the Dog and Thistle, and enlisted in the second dragoons. Jack Withers, who had never before looked out for number one, now became so "obliging" as to take care of that neglected personage.

"Ahem! your name on short or long paper isn't exactly what it used to be," said Bill, rather unfeelingly, perhaps. "True, true," returned Jack, in a more subdued tone; "I haven't got many friends left in the synagogues." "But what you have done, Jack," continued Bliffins, with enthusiasm, "emboldens me to trespass yet further on your patience."

"Pooh, pooh! you flatter me," said Jack, blushing like a peony; "I've never done any thing for you." "Yes, you have, and you know it," persisted Bliffins. "Didn't you fight Lieutenant Jenkins, of the Salamander, when I ought to have fought him myself? Haven't you endorsed my notes when nobody else would back my paper?" "I'll do it again, my boy," said Jack, with a gush of enthusiastic feeling.

"I'm eternally obliged, Jack." "Not the least, my boy always ready to serve my friends. By the way, have you got any money about your clothes? I invited you to take coffee, but I forgot my purse in my other trousers no change, you know." "There, get this V changed," said Bliffins, handing him a bank note. Jack took the note and walked up to the counter.

Do you know what it was about?" "I'd forgotten." "Why, it was all about horseracing, pugilism, and cock fighting, you jackass!" "Letter for Mr. Bliffins!" said the waiter, entering with another epistle. Bliffins read it aloud. "Mr. William Bliffins.

Well, one dreary, desolate afternoon in March, when the barbs of all the vanes in the city were looking pertinaciously eastward, and people were shivering over anthracite grates, Jack Withers "might have been seen," as James would say, seated in the little back parlor of the coffee room in School Street, sipping Mocha with his particular friend Bill Bliffins, who had an especial claim upon his kindness, from the fact that he had already extricated Bill from scrapes innumerable.

My friend, sir, William Bliffins unfortunate young man reduced in circumstances good family good blood grandfather in the revolution soil of Bunker Hill irrigated with the blood of Bliffins but you know all that run through his fortune on the town not a penny hard case." "Do you solicit charity, sir, for your friend?"

"Yours, respectfully, , "Governor of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts." "You're an impostor!" shouted Bliffins. "Is this your friendship?" "I can't help it," said Jack, ruefully. "I'm innocent I did the best I could for you." "How did he know any thing about my penmanship?" "I showed him this note," said the unhappy Jack, producing the document. "That note? You've ruined me!