erman looked up and said,

"Hello, Harry."

[Illustration: JOE MIDDLES]

"Who are you?" asked Keyser.

"Who am I? Why, Joe Middles, of course. Who'd you think I was?"
remarked the fisherman.

"You ain't Joe Middles, for he's dead. I went to his funeral
yesterday."

"Funeral!" exclaimed the fisherman as he stepped ashore. "Well, now,
by George! maybe that explains the thing. I've been bothering myself
the worst kind to understand something. You know that I remember being
at home in bed, and then I went to sleep somehow; and when I woke up,
it was dark as pitch. I gave a kick to stretch myself, and knocked the
lid off of this thing here--a canoe I thought it was; and then I set
up and found myself out here in the river. I took the lid to split
into paddles, and I saw on it a plate with the words 'Joseph Middles,
aged sixty-four;' and I couldn't imagine how in thunder that ever got
on that lid. Howsomdever, I pulled over to the shanty and got some
lines and bait and floated out again, thinking while I was here I
might as well get a mess of fish before I got home. And so it's a
coffin, after all, and they buried me yesterday. Well, that beats the
very old Harry, now, don't it? I'm going to row right over to the
house. How it'll skeer the old woman to see me coming in safe and
sound!"

Then the resurrected Mr. Middles paddled off. The cemetery company
failed the following month, from inability to sell the lots.

CHAPTER XXII.

_JUSTICE, AND A LITTLE INJUSTICE_.

The administration of justice in this county is chiefly in the hands
of Judge Twiddler; and while his methods generally are excellent, he
sometimes makes unpleasant mistakes. Mr. Mix was the victim of one
such blunder upon a recent occasion. Mr. Mix is bald; and in order to
induce his hair to grow again, he is using a very excellent article
of "hair vigor" upon his scalp. Some time ago he was summoned as a
juryman upon a case in the court, and upon the day of the trial, just
before the hour at which the court met, he remembered that he had not
applied the vigor to his head that morning. He had only a few minutes
to spare, but he flew up stairs and into the dark closet where he kept
the bottle; and pouring some fluid upon a sponge, he rubbed his head
energetically. By some mishap Mr. Mix got hold of the wrong bottle,
and the substance with which he inundated his scalp was not vigor, but
the black varnish with which Mrs. Mix decorated her shoes. H