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Updated: May 5, 2025
The brush had worked easily, the weather had lent a helping hand; all had been peace and quiet. Ofttimes, when I was happiest, somehow Muffles's solitary figure rose before me, the tears coursing down his cheeks, and with it that cold silence a silence which only a dead body brings to a house and which ends only with its burial.
Muffles's garden was filled with visitors: some celebration or holiday had called the people out. Muffles, in expectation, had had the piano tuned and had sent to town for an orchestra of three. The cornet and bass-viol had put in an appearance, but the pianist had been lost in the shuffle.
Muffles's bar occupied the whole side of this front room, and the cavity once filled with big, generous logs, blazing away to please the host's distinguished guests, held a collection of bottles from Muffles's cellar a moving cellar, it is true, for the beer-wagon and the grocer's cart replenished it daily. The great garden in the rear of the old mansion has also changed.
Say, Bowse" the intimacy grew as the young man's talents loomed up in Muffles's mind "tell de gentleman what de boss said 'bout yer printin'." "Said I could print all right, only there warn't no more work." There was a modesty in Bowser's tone that gave me a better opinion of him. "Said ye could print all right, did he? Course he did and no guff in it, neither.
Often a number of these combinations would meet in Muffles's back room and a quiet little game would last until daylight. The orders then were for quarts, not pints. On one of these nights the Captain of the Precinct was present in plain clothes. I learned this from Bowser from behind his hand. One night Muffles was awakened by a stone thrown at his bedroom window.
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