"What does this mean, Mr. Pullwool?" demanded the partially honest and entirely puzzled Tom Dicker, when he had discovered by an unofficial count of noses how things were going. "Fastburg has spent all its money for nothing. It won't be sole capital, after all." "I never expected it would be," replied Pullwool, so tickled by the Devil that was in him that he could not help laughing. "I never wanted it to be. Why, it would spoil the little game. This is a trick that can be played every year." "Oh!" exclaimed Mr. Dicker, and was dumb with astonishment for a minute. "Didn't you see through it before?" grinned the grand master of all guile and subtlety. "I did not," confessed Mr. Dicker, with a mixture of shame and abhorrence. "Well," he presently added, recovering himself, "shall we settle?" "Oh, certainly, if you are ready," smiled Pullwool, with the air of a man who has something coming to him. "And what, exactly, will be my share?" asked Dicker, humbly. "What do you mean?" stared Pullwool, apparently in the extremity of amazement. "You said _snacks_, didn't you?" urged Dicker, trembling violently. "Well, _snacks_ it is," replied Pullwool. "Haven't you had a thousand?" "Yes," admitted Dicker. "Then you owe me five hundred?" Mr. Dicker did not faint, though he came very near it, but he staggered out of the room as white as a sheet, for he was utterly crushed by this diabolical impudence. That very day Mr. Pullwool left for Washington, and the Devil left for _his_ place, each of them sure to find the other when he wanted him, if indeed their roads lay apart. LOST IN THE FOG. By Noah Brooks. (_Overland Monthly, December,_ 1868.) "Down with your helm! you'll have us hard and fast aground!"