As this remark did not necessarily require any reply, I made none. I now began to suspect that I was mistaken in the estimate of the character of my interrogator that he was neither the captain of a band of pirates nor the leader of a press-gang; and it being my first essay at carrying out a system of falsehood, I was terribly frightened at the dilemma in which I was involved. I lost my presence of mind, and instead of frankly avowing the truth, as policy, as well as principle, would have dictated, I came to the conclusion to stick by my story, and carry out the deception to the end of the chapter. But my mortification, my confusion, my chagrin, at being subjected to this unforeseen cross-examination, can hardly be conceived. I envied the condition of the wretch standing by the gallows with a noose around his neck. After a brief pause, my tormentor continued "Do you recollect me?" "No," said I, promptly; and glad of a chance to speak a little truth, I added, "To the best of my knowledge, I never saw you before in my life." "Ha! Ha! Ha!" My friend seemed greatly amused. "Can it be that I have changed so much within a few short years? You knew me well enough once, John, when I lived opposite your father's house. I am Lewis Brown." And in a friendly, but somewhat patronizing manner, he held out his hand. "Indeed," said I, grasping his proffered hand, "Lewis Brown! I never should have recognized you." "Yes," said Brown, "six years WILL make a change in one's appearance. I should never have recognized you as John Lordick. How is your sister, Bertha, and all the rest of the folks?" "Well, quite well." "Whom did your sister marry?" "She is not married yet," said I. "Not married yet! Why, she must be at least twenty years old. When I left home, she was a beautiful girl even then a belle. Not married, and in Saba! But she will be, soon, I suppose." "Perhaps," said I. "Ah! Ah! She is engaged, I see. Who is the happy man?" "Indeed, I don't know," I exclaimed, wishing the inquisitive fellow at the bottom of the Red Sea, with a twenty-four pound shot fastened to his feet. "What has become of your cousin, Mark Haraden? Is he as lively and good-humored as ever?" This Lewis Brown, delighted at having met with an old acquaintance, seemed bent on getting all the information and gossip about his old cronies, that chance had thrown in his way. Fearing I might perpetrate some palpable absurdity in my fabulous statements, as in the case of my "sister Bertha," I resolved to kill off all his friends and relations in detail, without ceremony or remorse. And therefore I replied to the question about Mark Haraden by saying, "O! Mark was capsized by a squall while going in a boat from St. Martin to St. Bartholomew with a load of sugar, and all hands were lost." "Poor fellow! Poor fellow! I am sorry to hear this; but life's uncertain. Where is Nicholas Ven Vert now?"