FIRST DISCOVERIES OF THE CLUB.

"He who fights and runs away,
Will live--"

A. NONYMOUS.

Pursuant to the resolutions unanimously adopted on the evening before,
the Elephant Club met to proceed, under the direction of some
experienced hunter, to scrutinize their ponderous game. Being duly
equipped with all the arms and ammunition required for an expedition of
so perilous a nature, they sallied forth. They dragged no heavy,
ponderous artillery, they wore no clanking swords, they rallied under no
silken banner, and marched to no inspiriting music; but they tramped
along, their only rallying-flag being a yellow handkerchief round the
hat of Mr. Myndert Van Dam, who had thus protected his "Cady" from any
injury from a sudden shower; their only martial music was the shrill
pipe of Mr. James George Boggs, who whistled "Pop goes the Weasel," and
for arms each one had a hickory cane, and in the breast pocket of his
overcoat, a single "pocket-pistol," loaded, but not dangerous. Mr.
Remington Dropper had assumed the leadership, and was to conduct the
party on their cruise.

[Illustration]

They had proceeded but a short distance when Mr. Boggs called out to the
party to observe the motions of a queer-looking character, who was
approaching at a distance of a half block. He was stepping on the edge
of the sidewalk with his gaze fixed upon the gutter, and in apparent
unconsciousness of the existence of anything but himself. He was lank,
lean, and sallow. His clothes were quite dilapidated, his beard and hair
long. A smile on his face seemed to indicate his entire satisfaction
with himself. He was a marked character, and after a moment's sight at
the individual, inquiries were made of Mr. Boggs as to who he was.

"That is more than I can say," was Boggs's response. "I have known him
by sight for years, and he has always appeared the same. He belongs to a
class of beings in New York, a few specimens of which are familiar to
those who frequent the principal thoroughfares, and are known by the
ornithological appellation of "gutter-snipes." I have often talked with
him, but he knows nothing of his own history; or, if he does, chooses
not to reveal it. He is a monomaniac, but perfectly harmless, and calls
himself Nicholas Quail. I have learned from other sources a few facts of
his history. He sleeps anywhere and everywhere, and eats in the same
localities. Nobody ever harms him, all being familiar with his whims. As
far