Mr. Keepum sits, his hair fretted back over his lean forehead, before a table covered with papers, all indicating an immense business in lottery and other speculations. Now he deposits his feet upon it; leans back in his chair, puffs his cigar, and says, with an air of indifference to the speaker: “I shall not be able to attend to any business of yours to-day, Madam!” His clerk, a man of sturdy figure, with a broad, red face, and dressed in rather dilapidated broadcloth, is passing in and out of the front office, bearing in his fingers documents that require a signature or mark of approval. “I only come, sir, to tell you that we are destitute—” Maria pauses, and stands trembling in the doorway. “That’s a very common cry,” interrupts Keepum, relieving his mouth of the cigar. “The affair is entirely out of my hands. Go to my attorney, Peter Crimpton, Esq.,—what he does for you will receive my sanction. I must not be interrupted to-day. I might express a thousand regrets; yes, pass an opinion on your foolish pride, but what good would it do.” And while Maria stands silent and hesitating, there enters the office abrubtly a man in the garb of a mechanic. “I have come,” speaks the man, in a tone of no very good humor, “for the last time. I asks of you-you professes to be a gentleman-my honest rights. If the law don’t give it to me, I mean to take it with this erehand.” (He shakes his hand at Keepum.) “I am a poor man who ain’t thought much of because I works for a living; you have got what I had worked hard for, and lain up to make my little family comfortable. I ask a settlement and my own-what is due from one honest man to another!” He now approaches the table, strikes his hand upon it, and pauses for a reply. Mr. Keepum coolly looks up, and with an insidious leer, says, “There, take yourself into the street. When next you enter a gentleman’s office, learn to deport yourself with good manners.” “Pshaw! pshaw!” interrupts the man. “What mockery! When men like you-yes, I say men like you-that has brought ruin on so many poor families, can claim to be gentlemen, rogues may get a patent for their order.” The man turns to take his departure, when the infuriated Keepum, who, as we have before described, gets exceedingly put out if any one doubts his honor, seizes an iron bar, and stealing up behind, fetches him a blow over the head that fells him lifeless to the floor. Maria shrieks, and vaults into the street. The mass upon the floor fetches a last agonizing shrug, and a low moan, and is dead. The murderer stands over him, exultant, as the blood streams from the deep fracture. In fine, the blood of his victim would seem rather to increase his satisfaction at the deed, than excite a regret.