The man's face and hands wanted washing. This was Mr.
Persimmon, postmaster. The secrets of his popularity were: First, his
addiction to dirt; second, his eccentricities of dress, heretofore
enumerated; third, a reputation for political craft and long-headedness,
not wholly unfounded, as his ingenuity in procuring the passage of
resolutions supporting the policy of the Administration, in all the
conventions of his party since he became postmaster, fully proved. This
political sage walked about town with Post-Office documents and
confidential communications from Washington sticking out of all his
pockets, and under the edge of his hat. He had a slight stoop in the
shoulders, which the local wits said had increased since he undertook to
carry the Administration.

"Professor Wesley?" remarked Persimmon, extending a grimy hand. "Happy
to see you."

"Your most obedient," said Tiffles, a little stiffly, for the fifteen
dollars annoyed him. It was a small sum to borrow, but a large one
to pay.

"Have you such a thing as a morning newspaper about you?" asked the
postmaster. "Our bundle missed the train. As you may naturally imagine,
sir, I am anxious to see how the grand mass meeting went off last night
in your city. Perhaps you wos there?"

Tiffles had never attended such a thing in his life; although he was
aware that two or three grand mass meetings were held every week about
all the year round, and a dozen nightly in times of political
excitement. "No," said he; "but will you be good enough to tell me how
much you hired this room for?"

Persimmon thought how culpably ignorant some people were of the great
political movements of the day, but did not say so. Descending from
politics to the subject in hand, he replied:

"Oh! fifteen dollars, of course. You will find it stated in my last
letter to you." At this moment (no one of the three observing the act),
the long-headed postmaster tipped a slight wink to Mr. Boolpin, who
returned that signal of mutual understanding.

Tiffles handed the letter to the postmaster, pointing out the figure 5.

"Can I believe my eyes?" said the postmaster. "True enough, it is a 5.
Confound my absent-mindedness in not puttin' down a 1." It may here be
said, that similar instances of mental aberration were discovered in Mr.
Persimmon's accounts toward the close of his official term.

Tiffles was staggered, as he reflected that it would take sixty full
tickets to pay the single item of re