“The General!” That’s his name, from the roof to the cellar of the vast Treasury; crooked, crotchety, great-hearted; nobody swears so loud, or is so generous, or just, as “the General.” Every afflicted soul, from the women, poor and old, who stand by the printing-presses under the scorching roof, to Mary Walker, whose devotion to “her principles,” in the form of a pair of hideous little pantaloons, causes her justly to shed tubs of tears,—all are sure of a hearing, and of redress, if possible, from “the General.” His face is as astonishing as his signature. It is a Lincolnian face in this, that its best expression can never be transferred to a picture. In life it is rugged, ugly at first glance, genial at the second. The eyes twinkle with humor and kindness; the wide mouth shuts tight with wilfulness and determination; the whole expression and presence of the man indicate energy, honesty, and power. General Spinner is an object of personal curiosity to all sight-seers who visit Washington. Dick and Dolly having puzzled their eyes for an hour, studying some fresh legal tender note, to discover by what process of evolution and convolution the remarkable signature which it bears is fashioned, when they came to the Capital, proceeded to the Treasury to see, not only the man who makes it, but how he makes it. Bluff, and even snappish at first approach, after a little wilful snarling, our General subsides into the most amiable of mastiffs. He is an exception to the official class, in his hate of exclusiveness and his never-failing accessibility. Indeed, he would have far less to irritate him, if he made himself more unapproachable and remote. As it is, all sorts of tormenting people, finding it perfectly easy to “get at him,” do not neglect the privilege, and altogether keep him pretty thoroughly “wrought up” with their never-ending and perpetually conflicting woes. Dicky and Dolly, fresh from their farm, who ask for no “place” in any “division” whatever, who have no alert grievance grumbling for redress, who wish for nothing but, “Please, sir, _will_ you just show us _how_ you make it—that queer name?” are sure to be gratified in the very jolliest fashion. The General stabs the old pen with three points down into the pudding-like ink which sticks to the bottom of the broken-nosed pitcher, and proceeds to pile it up in ridiculous little heaps at cross angles on a bit of paper. The result of his “piling,” which Dick and Dolly watch with breathless interest, is his signature, which our happy friends bear off in triumph to show to the “folks at home.” “Yes, sir, the autograph of the Treasurer of the United States! and we saw him make it, we did! A queer lookin’ man, but good as pie, I can tell you; has a feelin’ for folks, as if he wasn’t no better than them, if he does take care of all the money of the United States Treasury, which, I tell you, is a heap!”