"Oh, yes; but I'd like a change."
"Very well; we'll put you in No. 16."
I was the "lodger in the room adjoining," and didn't, therefore, wish to appear on the premises and be known by the man, as the getter up of a suspicion against him. I did not come home to dinner, and kept out of the way till after dark.
When I returned to the hotel, I was relieved to find that the bereaved parents had departed with the dead body of their child. But the whole company were now at liberty to laugh at what had occurred to their hearts' content, and to laugh at me in particular. I stood it that evening, as well as I could; but finding, on the next day, that it was renewed with as keen a zest as ever, concluded to close up my business on the spot, and leave the place—which I did.
THAT JOHN MASON.
"WHAT kind of people have you here?" I asked of one of my first acquaintances, after becoming a denizen of the pleasant little village of Moorfield.
"Very clever people, with one or two exceptions," he replied. "I am sure you will like us very well."
"Who are the exceptions?" I asked. "For I wish to keep all such exceptions at a distance. Being a stranger, I will, wisely, take a hint in time. It's an easy matter to shun an acquaintanceship; but by no means so easy to break it off, after it is once formed."
"Very truly said, Mr. Jones. And I will warn you, in time, of one man in particular. His name is John Mason. Keep clear of him, if you wish to keep out of trouble. He's as smooth and oily as a whetstone; and, like a whetstone, abrades every thing he touches. He's a bad man, that John Mason."