oftly but stoutly cushioned with leather, and
yawned to receive nodding tenants and send them comfortably to sleep
amid the fragrant clouds of the after-dinner pipe or cigar.

At one end of the room was Marcus Wilkeson's library, consisting of
about five hundred volumes, of poems, novels, travels by land and sea,
histories, and biographies, which the owner dogmatically held to be all
the books in the world worth reading. The admission of a new book to
this select company of standard worthies, Mr. Wilkeson was vain enough
to regard as a high compliment to the author, and as a final settlement
of any disputes which might have been abroad as to its merits.

On another side of the room was a grand piano, open, and covered with
the latest music, and sometimes played on in a surprisingly graceful
manner by the fat fingers of Matthew Maltboy. On the walls hung some
pictures, that were not unpleasant to look at. There were two portraits
of danseuses, with little gauzy wings, and wands tipped with magic
stars; one large, full-faced likeness of a pet actress, taken in just
the right attitude to show the rounding shoulders, the lightly poised
head, and the heavy hair, to the best advantage; some charming French
prints, among them "Niobe and her Daughters" and "Di Vernon;" and a half
dozen pictures of the fine old English stage-coach days. Over the
fireplace were suspended several pairs of boxing gloves, garnishing the
picture of a tall fellow in fighting attitude, whose prodigious muscles
were only a little smaller than those of all the saints and angels of
all the accredited masterpieces of ancient art. A pair of foils and
masks, neatly arranged over each corner of the mantelpiece, completed
the decorations of the room.

The three bachelors had gone into housekeeping by way of experiment, as
a relief from the tedium and oppression of hotels and boarding houses,
and as an escape from female society, which was beginning to pall even
upon the huge appetite of Matthew Maltboy.

But two weeks of this self-imposed exile--with no female society but
Miss Philomela Wilkeson, and Mash, the cook--proved rather too much for
Matthew's fortitude. He yawned audibly.

"I understand you," said Marcus; "you are sick of this."

"Well--hum--it's a little prosy at times." Maltboy yawned again.

"Incorrigible monster!" cried Marcus. "What shall we do with him, Top?"

The person addressed swung back the rebellious cowlick from his
forehead, as