"A hundred and three thunder—"
"A hundred and three dollars!" cried the country gents, in one breath, all starting to their feet, and putting on their hats.
The clerk explained it, clear as mud; the trio "spudged up" the amount, looked very sober, and walked out.
"Come, boys," said Smith, "let's go to the theatre."
"Guess not," says "the boys." "B'lieve we'll go home for to-night, Mr. Smith." And they made for their lodgings.
If those country gents were asked, when they got home, any particulars about the "elephant," they'd probably hint something about getting a glimpse of him at the Astor House.
The Advertisement.
Sit down for a moment, we will not detain you long, our story will interest you, we are sure, for it is most commendable, brief, and—singularly true.
A poor widow, in the city of Philadelphia, was the mother of three pretty children, orphans of a ship-builder, who lost his life in the corvette Kensington, a naval vessel, built in Kensington for one of the South American republics, and launched in 1826. The South Americans being short of funds, the Kensington, after years of delay, was sold to the emperor of all the Russias, and sailed for Constradt in 1830. Some forty of the carpenters, who had built the vessel, went out in her; she had immense, but symmetrical spars—carried vast clouds of canvass—was caught off Cape Henlopen in a squall—her spars came thundering to the deck, and poor Glenn, the ship builder, was among the slain.