Pool Parlor, corner of 94th Street and Lenox Avenue, nor does Mike Murphy, driver for the Jordan Condensed Milk Trust, know why a seemingly drunken man jumped upon his white horse's back and careened madly down the street. Irvington Washing. Cupid's Countersign GOLDEN tresses, pleading eyes, Raven tresses, whispers low, Echoes from the ballroom far, By those arms that round me twine, Guilty? Hear me maidens two 'Tis no wonder human hearts Ne'er a maiden need repine; Р. В. М. A Communication DITOR of MORNINGSIDE: Respected Sir: It was with the sincerest regret that I found upon reading the first installment of your so-called prize story in your last issue, supposedly by Anthony Dope, that here again was but another case of literary piracy, so much the more lamentable than any of the preceding ones, in that it proved a violation of, an inroad upon, that most sacred repository of a man's bosom, his own life-story confided in the greatest secrecy to only his esteemed and trustworthy friends. As such I have always believed myself entitled to class Mr. A. Dope-until recently he showed himself capable of this ruthless betrayal of his friend's confidence-a confidence, sir, which is protected merely by that code of honor current universally among gentlemen, not, alas! by government copyright. I shall not now designate Mr. Dope by his proper name, lest such a designation scandalize the tender sensibilities of your subscribers. Suffice it for the knowledge of the general public that I have sent that honorable gentleman my card, with a request "to know what he intends to do about it;" for I am determined, sir, that either his blood or mine shall dye the greensward, as a consequence of his most unnatural treachery. Also as a means toward preventing a further perversion of the truth and as a vindication of my own honesty I append a true account of the conclusion of the adventure, to which A. Dope was pleased to affix his signature, and in which it was my good fortune, so it turned out, to appear as chief actor and not the person named, James Place. I remain yours, most respectfully, HOMER LYTTLETON, LL.D. THE CONCLUSION OF THE HOUSE ON THE STREET. I must admit that as far as the facts are concerned, A. Dope, pirate, was accurately correct in his statements. Impelled by the naturally inquisitive, adventure-loving spirit of my character, I did so far forget myself as to ring the bell of an unknown dwelling-house, and after vain attempts to extricate myself from the desperate situation I was drifting into at last found myself labeled with the fantastic title of Sir Armitage Plunk, entering a room the occupants of which I had never yet seen nor had ever heard of in the course of my extended career. You may imagine me panic-stricken when the softest, most flute-like voice in the world greeted me from the interior of this terra incognita with a "Come in; come in." Trembling, all the blood in my body propelled at a fearful rate of speed through my temples by the rapid aortic contractions of my heart, I pushed open the door Pray do not ask me what I beheld. In fact, for a moment things were quite blurred before my eyes; and it was some time e'er I obtained a fair notion of my surroundings. I am under the impression that the room about me was most lavishly furnished in the modern style. All around there was a great confusion of multicolored cushions, scarfs, Turkish hangings, a cozy-corner studded with Oriental instruments of warfare, daggers and bolo-knives. (I Iwould not have been loath at that moment to have extricated myself from my distressing situation even at the pain of an exit by one of these outlandish instruments.) The walls were papered with a medley of representations of goddesses and Italian madonnas and saints; and although mine eyes were turned to them appealingly, not one descended to my rescue, not one offered to wrap me in a cloud and carry me off, out of my misfortunes. Having wandered over wall and ceiling, my despairing orbs now sought the floor, studying the multitudinous and amazingly involved carpet designs. Then I braced up. "Homer Lyttleton," said I to myself, "either carry this thing through creditably or, by God, cut and run!" I raised my eyes to their ordinary level, only to cast them down once more. For there on a couch, imbedded in a hillside of blossoming cushions, reclined a fair young lady, delicate of complexion, with a sweetly-turned mouth of red, and hazel eyes. (These are details culled from later acquaintance.) "Sir Armitage Plunk," I stammered, introducing myself with an apologetic smirk. "Miss Bastoné, I presume?" Miss Bastoné, 'twas she, arose quickly, tripped over to me most cordially. Indeed, there was that in her glad welcome turned me cold with embarrassment, 'twas so sweet and confiding. She held out both her hands to me, yet strangely faltered and looked down. "I am so happy to see you, Armitage-Sir Plunkthat is Sir Armitage She paused in confusion. What could I do? Here was a very charming young lady standing before me expecting, from all appearances, to be kissed. Evidently in my new character it was my duty as well as right and prerogative so to do. I am proud to say I acted in such a manner that England need not have blushed to own me as a member of her ancient nobility. In short, I stooped and kissedher hand. As Sir Armitage Plunk I could not do less; as H. Lyttleton I dared not, alas! do more. A sunny smile flitted across her lips at this formal act of courtesy, which led me to believe I could almost have dared-and then she broke out laughing; her mirth was quite immoderate, and her throat, to use Daudet's pat description, rippled like a bagful of pearls. A trifle disconcerted, I waited for her to have done, which was not long, for of a sudden she turned serious again. "And how was your trip, Armitage?" she asked. "Oh! I will call you Armitage, though we have never met before, because-because-you know-” She paused for some reason of modesty unknown to me and blushed. Although still quite at sea I said what was most obvious, which is always safest. "Oh! Let me call you "Gertrude," she prompted, and once more laughed queerly, whether at my assumed English accent or not I was puzzled to make out. "It's a sweet name," I mused. "Nonsense," cried Miss Bastoné. "I've detested it ever since I was baptized." I I began to feel myself more safe, out of the region of dry facts on this footing of social persiflage. plucked up courage. "Then let me call you Angelica," I cried. "And that may prove a misnomer." "I doubt it," said I. "I am sure of it; and she turned away from me and walked over to a little tea-table, leaving me stranded in the middle of the room. Then, apparently quite oblivious of my presence, she busied herself brewing some tea in a tea-caddy on the table. This unaccountable and sudden exhibition of acridity where before I had experienced so much tenderness, where in my character as Lord Plunk I felt myself entitled to extended tenderness, made me furious, and I indignantly gave her my back for prospect and commenced examining the pictures and ornaments hanging about the walls. I wonder now why it never occurred to me that this was a splendid opportunity for escape. Remarkable how all my desire of flight was clean vanished! On the contrary, even while I examined a Rosetti swan-lady with greatest critical care, I was longing to hear again the sound of that voice and get another flash of those eyes. "I don't suppose your Lordship cares for any tea?" She was beside me, holding out a demi |