“He would rather hug his partner than worry puppies,” was the ready rejoinder.
“When did you meet your great father-in-law, Dr Johnson, ursa major?” asked a would-be wit.
“Mr Bruin desires me to give you a pot of his grease to make your whiskers grow,” said the conductor, handing an elegant little bear’s grease pot out of the pouch that hung by Bruin’s side.
“Give me one! give me one!” shouted a number of ladies at the same time.
“For a hug a-piece,” shouted the bear in propria persona, forgetting his disguise.
“It is Tom Thorne! ’tis Mr Thorne!” shouted out a number of voices; and the bear was soon patted, caressed, and rifled of all the contents of his pouch by the fair triflers, no longer afraid of a hug from bear like Tom Thorne. Amid the fun and merriment created by this incident, a smart explosion was heard, followed by wreaths of aromatic smoke from pastiles ignited by the explosion caused by opening the elegant little grease pot given to the beardless youth. The proprietress of every one of Bruin’s little presents now became a heroine.
Great was the curiosity displayed to know the contents, and great was the glee and satisfaction as curious little devices or bonbons, wrapped up in love-verses, were extracted from the elegant little receptacles; and not till the music struck up, and Bruin led Anita Mendoza as his partner to the head of the country-dance, was the usual routine of the ball room resumed. All pretensions to etiquette had vanished; and good-humour, mirth, and jollity reigned triumphant throughout the evening. Many thought Bruin’s lot not only bearable but even enviable, judging from the easy and smiling reception with which his attentions were welcomed by courtly lady and stately dame. The supper that followed was as merry as the dance; and our hero, divesting himself of his bearish accoutrements, was as much the source of amusement in the supper-room by his jokes as in the ball-room by his tricks. Refreshing himself with copious draughts of champagne, he appeared to find no difficulty whatever in allaying hunger in the absence of young unicorns.
But the merriest night must have a close, and the clearest head will get dizzy under the influence of champagne; and Tom, finding himself unusually excited, and unwilling to detract from the éclat of his previous debout, slid unperceived out of the room.
CHAPTER III.
About the time our story commences, 1841, Rosas was beginning that system of terrorism, espionage, confiscation, and secret assassination, which has since made his government so notorious abroad and so dreaded at home. The Monte Videans were in his province of Santa Fé, in the north; and his political opponents, the Unitarians,[6] were supposed to be plotting in the capital: but Rosas not a man to stick to the common modes of war. If he could not inspire confidence among friends, he could at least inspire terror among his foes. A club, calling themselves the friends of public security, the sons of liberty, or some such name, but called by others “Masorcheros,” was established, and many enrolled themselves in this murderous body to save themselves. Rosas betook himself to the encampment he called the “sacros Ingares,” holy places; and thence issued secret orders to his myrmidons, to whose fury the town was completely abandoned.