“Tell me before we fly,” he urged, in a voice thick with some inward turmoil, “do any of your daughters contemplate going on the stage?” “I have no daughters—fly for your life—the Phansigars are upon us!” cried the General. The two men dashed out of the front door of the house. The hour was late. As their feet struck the side-walk strange men of dark and forbidding appearance seemed to rise up out of the earth and encompass them. One with Asiatic features pressed close to the General and droned in a terrible voice: “Buy cast clo’!” Another, dark-whiskered and sinister, sped lithely to his side and began in a whining voice: “Say, mister, have yer got a dime fer a poor feller what—” They hurried on, but only into the arms of a black-eyed, dusky-browed being, who held out his hat under their noses, while a confederate of Oriental hue turned the handle of a street organ near by. Twenty steps farther on General Ludlow and the reporter found themselves in the midst of half a dozen villainous-looking men with high-turned coat collars and faces bristling with unshaven beards. “Run for it!” hissed the General. “They have discovered the possessor of the diamond of the goddess Kali.” The two men took to their heels. The avengers of the goddess pursued. “Oh, Lordy!” groaned the reporter, “there isn’t a cow this side of Brooklyn. We’re lost!” When near the corner they both fell over an iron object that rose from the sidewalk close to the gutter. Clinging to it desperately, they awaited their fate. “If I only had a cow!” moaned the reporter—“or another nip from that decanter, General!” As soon as the pursuers observed where their victims had found refuge they suddenly fell back and retreated to a considerable distance. “They are waiting for reinforcements in order to attack us,” said General Ludlow. But the reporter emitted a ringing laugh, and hurled his hat triumphantly into the air. “Guess again,” he shouted, and leaned heavily upon the iron object. “Your old fancy guys or thugs, whatever you call ’em, are up to date. Dear General, this is a pump we’ve stranded upon—same as a cow in New York (hic!) see? Thas’h why the ’nfuriated smoked guys don’t attack us—see? Sacred an’mal, the pump in N’ York, my dear General!” But further down in the shadows of Twenty-eighth Street the marauders were holding a parley. “Come on, Reddy,” said one. “Let’s go frisk the old ’un. He’s been showin’ a sparkler as big as a hen egg all around Eighth Avenue for two weeks past.” “Not on your silhouette,” decided Reddy. “You see ’em rallyin’ round The Pump? They’re friends of Bill’s. Bill won’t stand for nothin’ of this kind in his district since he got that bid to Esopus.” This exhausts the facts concerning the Kali diamond. But it is deemed not inconsequent to close with the following brief (paid) item that appeared two days later in a morning paper.