; his cheek-bones hide his ears, so tusky and prominent are
the former, and tipped with a varnish of red, like corns on old folks'
feet; he has a nose which is so long and bony that it seems to have
been constructed in sections, like a tubular bridge, and to
communicate with itself by relays of sensation. A straight, mournful,
twinkling, yet aristocratic man was Andrew Waples, "befo' de waw, sah!
befo' de waw!"

He had no sooner arrived at Saratoga than he met some ancient boon
companions, who took him off to the lake, exploded champagne, filled
his lungs with cigar-smoke, and sent him to bed, the first night, with
a decided thirst and no occasion to say his prayers. For it was
Andrew's intention, being a mournful man of the Eastern Shore, to pray
on every unusual occurrence. Piety is relative as well as real, but
Andrew Waples on this occasion jumped into bed, said hic and amen, and
"times befo' de waw," and went to sleep in the somnorific air of the
Springs.

He awoke with a dry throat, a disposition to faint and surrender his
stomach, and an irresistible propensity to walk abroad and drink of
the waters. He looked at his watch: it was two o'clock, and Saturday
night. "Alas!" said Andrew Waples aloud, "the bars are closed. Even
Morrissey has gone to bed, and the club-house is in darkness, but
perhaps I can climb over the gate of some spring company, or find a
fountain uninclosed. Yes, there is the High Rock Spring!"

He drew on his clothes partly, slipped his feet in slippers, and wrote
on a piece of paper, which he conspicuously posted on the gas bracket:

"Andrew Waples, Gentleman (befo' de waw), departed from the United
States Hotel, at two o'clock A. M., precisely. If any accident happens
to him, seek at the High Rock Spring, or thereabouts."

It was a sad, green, ghostly moonlight streaming through the elms as
Andrew Waples walked up Broadway. The moon appeared to be dredging for
oysters amongst the clouds, circling around there by bars, islets, and
shoals. Bits of spotted and mackerel-back sky swam like hosts of
menhaden through the pearly sheen of the more open aerial main. The
leaves of the tall domes and kissing branches of the elms, that peeped
on either side into open windows of people asleep and told across the
street to each other the secrets there, were now themselves heavy as
if with surfeit of gossip and they drooped and hardly rustled. Not a
tipsy waiter lurked in the shadows, not a skylarking co