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Tiffles had observed, in his travels, that the idiot which Providence assigns to every town and village, is not always the biggest fool in it. This idiot might have sufficient intellect to turn the crank of the panorama, and render muscular aid in other respects. At any rate, he was able-bodied enough. "My lad," said Tiffles. "Stoop, if you please, sir." "Very good.
Marcus Wilkeson was happy in his contented bachelorhood, in the happiness of his niece and of all around him, and in the clearing up of the "Minford enigma." Wesley Tiffles was happy because happiness was his constitutional disposition, under all circumstances and in all weathers.
Tiffles had selected, as his first field of active operations, the State of New Jersey. New Jersey, then Pennsylvania, then the West those were the great topographical features of his campaign. For his initiatory performance, he had chosen a quiet little town less than thirty miles from the city, on a line of railway.
For when he opened the door, and disclosed to the three bachelors the well-known laughing eyes, hopeful face, and spare figure of Wesley Tiffles, they hailed him with enthusiasm. He was a walking cure for despondency, although he sometimes charged too high, in the shape of borrowed money, for his professional services.
"Them are the performers," said one boy to another "Wonder what that feller with the big hat does?" observed a second. "Turns the crank, guess," was the response. Patching pulled his hat farther over his eyes, and smiled gloomily at Tiffles, "They little think who I am," he murmured. "What a solemncholy mug that tall chap's got," said another youthful citizen.
If they exhibit only small portions of their heads above the surface, that is not my fault. It is the nature of the beasts, you know." "Ha! ha! That is what I call Art concealing Art," said Overtop. "So it is," returned Tiffles; "and it will be appreciated, I doubt not, by those who affect the school of Severe Simplicity in painting." "One thing more," said Marcus Wilkeson.
Walking with the nervous and unreasonable quickness of city men, they soon arrived at Mrs. Grail's. The good lady was sitting at one of her front windows, sewing. As she looked into the street, her face was seen to have a sad and thoughtful expression. She came to the door in response to a sharp ring by Wesley Tiffles, who was tentative of bellpulls. Mrs.
The policeman escorted Marcus Wilkeson and his counsel, and Tiffles and Patching, to the carriage which brought them, and which still stood in front of the house, an object of tragic interest to a large crowd of men, women, and children, who had remained about the doorway during the inquest, and could not be dispersed by the policemen. "Which is he?"
He hoped that the ingenious gentleman would ask many more such questions. By these judicious remarks, Overtop gained one fast friend for his client on the jury. Wesley Tiffles was then examined. He commenced with an eloquent dissertation on the rights of man, and his own rights in particular, but stopped when he saw that the reporters tucked their pencils behind their ears, and waited for facts.
Tiffles made several beginnings of excellent snake stories, of which he was the hero, but was checked by the tumult. Finding the snakes were not popular, he determined to try the tigers, lions, and other beasts of prey farther on. He coughed once emphatically, and the canvas moved like clockwork.
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