There flourished in the village life of Washington two old blokes—no other word can properly describe them—Jack Dade, who signed himself “the Honorable John W. Dade, of Virginia;” and Beau Hickman, who hailed from nowhere and acquired the pseudonym through sheer impudence. In one way and another they lived by their wits, the one all dignity, the other all cheek. Hickman fell very early in his career of sponge and beggar, but Dade lived long and died in office—indeed, toward the close an office was actually created for him. Dade had been a schoolmate of John Tyler—so intimate they were that at college they were called “the two Jacks”—and when the death of Harrison made Tyler President, the “off Jack,” as he dubbed himself, went up to the White House and said: “Jack Tyler, you’ve had luck and I haven’t. You must do something for me and do it quick. I’m hard up and I want an office.” “You old reprobate,” said Tyler, “what office on earth do you think you are fit to fill?” “Well,” said Dade, “I have heard them talking round here of a place they call a sine-cu-ree—big pay and no work—and if there is one of them left and lying about loose I think I could fill it to a T.” “All right,” said the President good naturedly, “I’ll see what can be done. Come up to-morrow.” The next day “Col. John W. Dade, of Virginia,” was appointed keeper of the Federal prison of the District of Columbia. He assumed his post with _empressement_, called the prisoners before him and made them an address. “Ladies and gentlemen,” said he; “I have been chosen by my friend, the President of the United States, as superintendent of this eleemosynary institution. It is my intention to treat you all as a Virginia gentleman should treat a body of American ladies and gentlemen gathered here from all parts of our beloved Union, and I shall expect the same consideration in return. Otherwise I will turn you all out upon the cold mercies of a heartless world and you will have to work for your living.” There came to Congress from Alabama a roistering blade by the name of McConnell. He was something of a wit. During his brief sojourn in the national capital he made a noisy record for himself as an all-round, all-night man about town, a dare-devil and a spendthrift. His first encounter with Col. John W. Dade, of Virginia, used to be one of the standard local jokes. Colonel Dade was seated in the barroom of Brown’s Hotel early one morning, waiting for someone to come in and invite him to drink. Presently McConnell arrived. It was his custom when he entered a saloon to ask the entire roomful, no matter how many, “to come up and licker,” and, of course, he invited the solitary stranger. When the glasses were filled Dade pompously said: “With whom have I the honor of drinking?”