Dennis, Wagstaff, and Overdale, as usual, had been investigating in company, Overdale taking the lead, and Wagstaff taking notes, and all three occasionally taking egg-noggs.
A unanimous call was made for Wagstaff's notebook, which was immediately forthcoming.
The reading of Mr. Wagstaff's notes was prefaced by statements on the part of Dennis and Overdale which made the following facts apparent to the club. The previous evening the three went into a Greenwich street bar-room, on the invitation of Overdale to pay a visit to Delmonico's, to get a piece of pie and some cigars. Whilst partaking of the order, a singular person entered the room. His beauty was decidedly of the yard-stick character. He was long as a projected Iowa railroad, and as symmetrical as a fence-rail; his face was as expressionless as the head of Shakspeare which is seen on the drop-curtain of the Broadway Theatre, surrounded by a triple row of attenuated sausages. His square and angular shoulders made him resemble a high-shouldered pump, while his arms moved with as much ease and grace as the handle to the same. Long, black hair, parted in the middle, was soaped down until the oleaginous ends reposed upon the unctuous collar of his seedy coat. His shirt-collar, guiltless of starch, was unbuttoned at the neck and laid far back over his vest, doubtless to display a neck which, had it been cut off, was long enough to tie.
He had seated himself, and had settled down into a misanthropic quiet, when a little stubby man, with one eye—the very ideal of a Washington market butcher—happened to enter. As soon as the first-mentioned subject saw him, he jumped up, rushed at the stubby man, and had hardly touched him, before a blow from the fist of the stubby man caused him to collapse on the floor. The stubby man followed up his success by pulling the nose of his fallen enemy, and threatening to give him a "tolerable shake-up, if he ever came round his shop agin'."
The conflict was brief, as it soon drew in quite a crowd, and amongst others a policeman. The tall man was pointed out as the aggressor, but the stubby man said "he didn't want to appear agin' the crack-brained cuss; that he guessed he (the said cuss) had got the worst of it."
But the assembled multitudes were not satisfied. They thought it was due to them that they should have an explanation, and as the tall individual seemed anxious, and the stubby individual didn't make any objections, a ring was formed to give the parties a chance to be heard.
The stubby man said that while the other was "exercisin' his jaw, he'd have some ham'neggs;" whilst he was eating, the tall individual told his story, which was one of blighted hopes, disappointed expectations, unrequited love, and unappreciated genius. Wagstaff's notes of his words read as follows:
"'My name is Julius Jenkins, and I have a cousin named Betsey Brown; I love my cousin Betsey; have always loved my cousin Betsey, from the time when as children we tore in loving partnership our mutual pantalets and petticoats (for these legs once wore pantalets, and their symmetry was hidden from admiration by petticoats), looking for blackberries in a cedar-swamp; from the time we sucked eggs together in the barn-yard and 'teetered' in happy sport upon the same board; from the time we built playhouses in the garden and made puppy-love behind the currant bushes; from those happy days of rural felicity until the present time, my cousin Betsey has been the ideal of my soul. We used to eat bread and milk out of the same bowl, dig angleworms with the same shovel, go fishing in the same creek, steal apples from the same orchard, and crawl through the same hole in the fence when the man chased us. Through all my lonely life the memory of cousin Betsey has been my guardian angel. I have been exposed to dire temptations; once I was reduced to such extremity that I was about to earn my dinner by sawing wood, but my cousin Betsey seemed to rise before me and say, "Julius, don't degrade yourself;" and I didn't. I cast the saw to the earth, and begged my dinner from a colored washerwoman. I once accepted a situation as a clerk in a retail grocery. I stayed a week, but on every barrel of sugar, on every bar of soap, in every keg of lard, in each individual potato, in every bushel in all the cellar, I saw the reproachful face of my cousin Betsey; it rose before me from the oily depths of the butter-firkin, and from the cratery interior of the milk-can; the very peanuts rose up in judgment against me, and had on each separate end a speaking likeness of my cousin Betsey, which said, "Julius, don't degrade yourself;" I couldn't stand it; in the darkness of night I packed up my wardrobe (comprising one shirt of my own and two I borrowed from a neighboring clothes-line), helped myself to the small change, and vanished; I became a painter, I executed a portrait of my cousin Betsey; I asked a critical friend to see my masterpiece; he gazed a moment, and then asked me which was the tail end; the dolt! he thought I meant it for a pig; I wrote poetry to my cousin Betsey, but the printer returned it because I spelled Cupid with a K, and put the capitals at the wrong end of my words; the uninformed ass; he did not understand the eccentricities of genius; I became an actor, and attempted Othello; at the rise of the curtain I was saluted with a shower of onions from appreciative friends, and at its fall I was presented by the manager with a brush, to which he added his gratuitous advice that I should keep the paint on my face and go into the boot-blacking business; I turned composer, but could never get my "Bootjack Waltz" published, or my oratorio of "The Ancient Applewoman" before the public; at last my cousin Betsey came to live in the city, and I thought once more to possess her love, but I found a rival; a one-eyed butcher; I wrote letters to her; I know that they should have been tied with blue ribbon, but necessity dictated cotton twine; I sent her presents; not so valuable as I could have wished; my intention was good but my means were limited; I could have wished to offer gold and jewels, but I could never afford more than a string of smelts, or half a pint of huckleberries; I resolved to serenade my cousin Betsey; I procured a violin, strung with the daintiest filaments ever made from the bowels of the most delicate female feline infant; I repaired beneath her window and commenced my song, but the butcher came to the window, threw down a dime, and told me to go away; he took me for an organ-grinder; I indignantly stamped the money into the earth, but thought again, picked it up and purchased some brandy to nerve me for a
desperate deed; I had resolved to see that butcher, to meet that butcher, to challenge that butcher, to fight that butcher, to conquer that butcher or to die; yesterday I went to that butcher's shop to execute my design, but he kicked me out. To day I came in here in despair; who should come in but the butcher; now was my chance; I rushed at him, but my personal strength was not equal to the task; he boxed my ears, pulled my nose, and I was cheated out of my revenge, simply because I wasn't able to lick him. Now I demand of this intelligent assembly, as a matter of right, the instant annihilation of the one-eyed butcher now present, the author of all my miseries, that my Betsey may be restored to me.'