Jest as we was leavin the offis Saturday nite I heerd the city editur tell the purlitickal repertoriai liar that he wanted him to hunt up a purlitickal gost, cos the _Buster_ culdn't afford to let a little one-horsed, two-for-a-cent daily, like the _Times_, have the monopolie of the etheriel spirit act, not by a numerous long site. Bout 10 'clock in the evenin I saw the reporter passin our house, on his way to Trinity churchyard, so I run up stairs and borrered one of ma's nite gownds and nite caps, wot she wares wen she's 'mbracin morfeeus. Then I tuk a short-cut down to the seminery. I'd jest got there, and was puttin the last touches to my gostley toilet, wen I seen the reporter comin in the gate. Wen he got purty neer up to were I was I coffed sort o' loud and unearthy like. Well, you'd dide to see him drop his note book and get a fit of Hodeley's shakin malaria. He was jest recoverin and gettin ready to vacate the premises wen I immertated the voice of the feller wot says the long prayers at Oshun grove camp meetin, and sez: “Young mortel noosepaper man, what warntedst thou, encroachin on the peece and quiet of our last restin place, with thy terrestriel note book?” “In the name of John Kelley, the omnippetent boss of the New York Demmercrazey, who are you? Speak!” said the reporter. “Sinse you command me in the name of one of the gods, I will speak. See this brillyant plumage,” sed I, placin my hand where I sit down, “now covered from earthly vue. I am Stalwart Conklin, the stallwart of the Rerpublikan partie, doomed for a sertain time (till '84) to strut arouad on the confines of the perlitickel arena, attended by my humbel page Mctoo.” “Ros, old boy, shake!” sed the reporter, puttia out his baud and givia mine a urthly pull, soon as he found out he warnt talkin to no angel. “Who's goin to be the coming President?” “Lissen, and I'll unfold a tail See yonder rooster, all bedecked in gold?” sed I, pointin to the wether vein on top of the _Tribune_ bildin. “Well, put your hand to it, and you'll behold the man wot my in-flooence is going to carry to the Wite House. If you've got eny spare change, put her up on Winnyfield Skot Hancock, and count Mr. Conklin in Secretarry of State, but don't yer never giv it away, cos I'm play in' a dubbel game. Give us a suck of your bottel, and I'll hie myself thitherward for my nitely game of pennie anty with Genral Grant, who alreddy is awaitin' me behind yonder cloud of Havannah smoke.” “Hold on, Ros, leve us a smell,” sed the reporter, as I shoved the bottel in my pistil pocket, and disserpeered behind a toombstun. This mornin' the intervue come out in the _Buster_, and the hull corpse of noosgathururs of the other papers is detaled in divishuns to wach all the semerneries in the hope of interviewin' the gost of James G. Blame, and the demmercrazey is wilder with inthusiasm than they was after Fouracres got drownded in wiskey out in Oio. CHAPTER X.