The mirage lifts Long Point into view. Oooo. Come up and see the beautiful sight. I can’t promise a view to-morrow. Truly, JEHIEL TOWNER. That evening found Mr. Henry early in the presence of Mr. Towner, inquiring diligently as to the great _natural_ phenomenon which had brought the land of the Canucks so distinctly to view. “Yes, yes, it became visible last night about twelve o’clock, when Drury’s team came in from Girard bearing three fugitives. They are down in the ‘Retreat Himrod,’ and must be put across the lake in the shortest and safest possible manner, for parties in town are on the lookout for them, as all are liberally advertised. I believe you are just the man to undertake the transportation. Will you do it?” “Are they to go from the ‘Retreat,’ as usual?” “Not as usual. So close a watch is kept for them that it is thought best to send them off and have them shipped from some point along the beach.” “There’s a big risk, Towner.” “Yes, a chance to pay a thousand dollars and see the inside of the ‘Western’ without charge. But you know you are to have nothing to do with runaway niggers. I will just send you some ‘passengers’ to forward. Shall they be sent?” “I shrink from no humanitarian work. Let them come.” A few preliminaries were settled and the parties separated. The next night Hamilton Waters, a nearly blind mulatto, long a resident of Erie, guided by a little boy, drove into Mr. Henry’s yard and unloaded a cargo which the receiver thus describes: “The old man brought me three of the strangest looking passengers you ever saw. I can, to-day, remember how oddly they looked as they clambered out of the wagon. There was a man they called Sam, a great strapping fellow, something over thirty years old, I should say. He was loose jointed, with a head like a pumpkin and a mouth like a cavern, its vast circumference always stretched in a glorious grin; for no matter how bad Sam might feel, the grin had so grown into his black face that it never vanished. I remember how, a few nights after, when the poor fellow was scared just about out of his wits, that his grin, though a little ghastly, was as broad as ever. Sam was one of the queerest characters I ever met. His long arms seemed like wrists, his long legs all ankles; and when he walked his nether limbs had a flail-like flop that made him look like a runaway windmill. The bases upon which rested this fearfully and wonderfully made superstructure were abundantly ample. Unlike the forlorn hope who ‘One stocking on one foot he had, The other on a shoe,’