It was evening at the Tehama. The apothecary, whose shop
formed the south-eastern corner of that edifice, had lighted
his lamps, which, shining through those large glass bottles
in the window, filled with red and blue liquors, once supposed
by this author, when young and innocent, to be medicine of
the most potent description, lit up the faces of the passers-by
with an unearthly glare, and exaggerated the general redness
and blueness of their noses. Within the office the hands of
the octagonal clock, which looked as though it had been
thrown against the wall in a moist state and stuck there,
pointed to the hour of eight. The apartment was nearly
deserted. Frink, “the courteous and gentlemanly manager,”
and the Major, had gone to the Theatre; having season tickets,
they felt themselves forced to attend, and never missed
a performance. The coal fire in the office stove glowed with
a hospitable warmth, emitting a gentle murmur of welcome to

[figure description] Page 255.[end figure description]

the expected wayfarers by the Sacramento boats, interrupted
only by an occasional deprecatory hiss, when insulted by a
stream of tobacco juice. Overcoats hung about the walls, still
moist with recent showers; umbrellas reclined lazily in corners;
spittoons stood about the floor, the whole diffusing that nameless
odor so fascinating to the married man, who, cigar in
mouth and hot whiskey punch at elbow, sits nightly until
twelve o'clock in the enjoyment of it, while the wife of his
bosom in their comfortable home on Powell street, wonders
at his absence, and unjustly curses the Know Nothings or the
Free and Accepted Masonic Fraternity.

Behind the office desk, perched on a high, three-legged
stool, his head supported by both hands, the youthful but literary
John Duncan was deeply engaged in the exciting perusal
of the last yellow-covered novel, “Blood for Blood, or the
Infatuated Dog.” He knew that, in a few moments, eighty-four
gentlemen “in hot haste,” would call to inquire whether
the Member of Congress had returned, and was anxious to
find out what the “Robber Chieftain” did with the “Lady
Maude Alleyne” before the arrival of the Sacramento boat.
The only other occupant of the office, was a short, fleshy gentleman
with a white hat, dark green coat with brass buttons,
drab pantaloons, short punchy little boots and gaiters.

These circumstances might be noted as he stood with his
back to the door, gazing intently upon one of those elaborate
works of art with which the spirited proprietor has lately seen
fit to adorn the walls of the Tehama. It represented a lady
in a ball dress, seated on the back of a large dray-horse (at

[figure description] Page 256.[end figure description]

least eighteen hands high), and holding a parrot on her right
forefinger, while at her horse's feet kneeled a man in the
stage dress of Mercutio, doing something with five or six
other parrots. The piece was called “Hawking,” had a fine
gilt frame and glass, and in certain lights, answered the purpose
of a mirror, and was therefore a very pretty object to
gaze upon. In fact, the short, stout gentleman was adjusting
his shirt collar, which was of prodigious height, and had a perverse
inclination to turn down on one side, by its reflection.

As he turned from this employment, he exhibited one of
the most curious faces it is possible to conceive. Unlike most
fat men, whose little eyes, round, red cheeks, wart-like noses
and double chins, convey but little meaning or expression,
this gentleman's face was all expression. He wore a constant
look of the most intense curiosity. Inquisitiveness sat
upon every lineament of his countenance. His small, green
eyes protruding from his head, surmounted by thin but well-
defined and very curvilinear eyebrows, looked like two notes
of interrogation; his nose, though small, was sharp at the
end like a gimlet, and his little round mouth was constantly
pursed up into an expression of inquiring wonder, as though
the most natural sound that could fall from it, should be,
“O-o-o-o! come now, do tell.” In fact he was one of those
beings created by a wise but inscrutable Providence, for no
other purpose apparently but “to meddle with other people's
business,” and ask questions.

His name was Bogle, and with Mrs. Bogle, whom he had
married two years before, because, having exhausted all other

[figure description] Page 257.[end figure description]

subjects of inquiry in conversation with her, he had finally
asked her if she would have him, and a little Bogle, who had
made its appearance some three months since, and already
“took notice” with an inquiring air painful to contemplate,
he occupied, for the present, “Room No, 31.”

Bogle would have made a fortune in no time, if he had
lived in the blessed era when the promise “Ask and ye shall
receive” was fulfilled; and so well was his disposition understood
by the frequenters of the Tehama, that they invariably
left the vicinity when he looked askant at them; his presence
cleared the room as quickly as a stream from a fire engine,
or a mad dog could have done it. Brushing some remains of
snuff from his snow white vest—Bogle took snuff inordinately—
he said it sharpened up his faculties—he turned upon the
hapless Duncan—who had just got the “Lady Maude” into
the cave, where the skeleton hand dripped blood from the
ceiling—“John, what time is it?” John looked at the
clock with a slight groan, “Five minutes past eight, Mr.
Bogle.”

“What time will the boat be in?”

“In a few moments, Mr. Bogle.”

“Will the General come down to-night?”

“I don't know, Mr. Bogle.”

“How old a man do you take him to be now?”

“Fontaine she screamed!—that is, I don't know, Mr
Bogle.”

“How much does he weigh?”

“The skeleton!—indeed, I don't know, sir.”

[figure description] Page 258.[end figure description]

The conversation was here suspended by the sudden arrival
of a stranger. He was a large man, of stern and forbidding
aspect, exceedingly dark complexion, with long, black
hair hanging in unkempt tangles about his shoulders, and
with a fierce and uncompromising moustache and beard,
blacker than the driven charcoal, completely concealing the
lower part of his face. His dress was singular; a brown hat,
brown coat, brown vest, brown neck cloth, brown pantaloons,
brown gaiter boots. In his hand he carried a brown carpet
bag, and beneath his arm a brown silk umbrella. Hastily he
inscribed his name upon the Register, “General Tecumseh
Brown, Brownsville,” and, for an instant, seemed to fall into
a brown study. Bogle was on the qui vive; he looked over
the General's shoulder.

“From Sacramento, sir?” said he.

The General gazed at Bogle, sternly, for a moment, and
replied, “I am, sir.”

“I see, sir,” said Bogle with a cordial smile, “you live in
Brownsville; may I inquire if you are in business there?”

The General gazed at Bogle more sternly than before,
and shortly answered, “You may, sir.”

“Well,” said Bogle, “are you?”

“Yes, sir,” replied General Brown in a stentorion voice,
at the same time advancing a step toward his fat little inquisitor,
“I have lately made a fortune there.”

“Oh!” said Bogle, nimbly jumping back as the General
advanced, “How?”

“By minding my own business, sir!” thundered the

[figure description] Page 259.[end figure description]

General, and turning to Duncan, who had forgotten the
“Lady Maude” in the charms of this conversation, said,
“Give me my key, sir, and the moment a young man calls
here to inquire for me, send him up to my room.”

So saying, and grasping the key extended to him, General
Brown turned away, and, casting a look of fierce malignity
at little Bogle, who tried to conceal his confusion by taking
a pinch of snuff, retired, taking with him as he went, the only
brown japanned candlestick that stood among the numerous
array of those articles, provided for the Tehama's guests.”

“Well,” said Bogle, “of all the Brown—where did you
put him, John?”

“No. 32,” replied that individual, returning to “the
cave.”

“Thirty-two!” exclaimed Bogle, “Goodness! Gracious!
why that joins my room, and the partition is as thin as a
wafer.”