“Ez the artist walked along th’oo the park he heard a scream, follered be a beautiful girl who run down the road pursued be a ferocious dog. The paper sayd the great hound was in the act o’ leapin’ at her to catch her be the neck ’hen the stranger run for’a’d an’ grabbin’ the brute be the th’oat throttled the life outen him. The anymal’s fiery breath, the paper sayd, was blowin’ in the artist’s face ’hen his hands closed on the furry neck. It was a mighty close shave, I should jedge. A minute later Lord Desmon run up all out o’ wind. The dead beast was his _M-e-p-h-i-s-t-o_. He thot a heap o’ the hound, an’ the paper sayd that ’hen he looked on the still quiverin’ body of his dead companion he swore to be _a-v-e-n-g-e-d_. An’ ez he looked up at the stranger that young man knowd Lord hed it in fer him. “Alice Fairfax couldn’t thank the artist enough, an’ nawthin’ ’ud do but he must come up to her house an’ meet her pap. ’Hen the ole man hear the story he wouldn’t hev it any other way but that the stranger must stop with them. The paper sayd that he quickly pushed a button----” “He done what?” cried the Patriarch. “He pushed a button an’----” “Pushed a button! Well, mighty souls!” the G. A. R. Man exclaimed. “What a fool thing to do.” “He pushed a button an’ one o’ the hands appeared. This felly’s name was Butler an’ he was employed jest a purpose to do chores ’round the house. The ole man give him orders to hev Reginal’ Deeverox’s--that was the artist’s name--trunk brought up from the tavern an’ put in the spare room.” “I ain’t got it clear yit,” the Miller interposed. “Ef ole man Fairfax pushed one o’ his own waistcoat buttons how in the name o’ all the prophets ’ud Butler feel it?” “Don’t ye s’pose he might ’a’ pushed one o’ Butler’s waistcoat buttons?” replied the Loafer. “That’s a pint o’ no importance. The main thing is that Deeverox put up at Fairfax’s an’ from that day things went wrong with Lord. “Reginal’ was a wonderful good-lookin’ chap He was six-foot tall an’ wery soople. He’d long, curly hair that flowed over his shoulders like a golden shower, ez the editor put it. His bearings was free an’ noble. Now Lord was no slouch either, an’ with his money he was pretty hard fer a poor painter to beat, yit----” “Joe Dumple hed th’ee hundred a year an’ a fifty-acre farm,” the Patriarch cried, “but choosin’ between him an’ the painter, Bill Spiegelsole’s widdy tuk----” “I’ve told ye afore that this here Deeverox was a portrate painter, an’ ye can’t settle this question be referrin’ to the Spiegelsoles any way. Ez I was sayin’, Reginal’ hed no money but he hed a brilliant mind. His face was like an open book, the paper sayd----” “That’s rather pecul’ar.” It was the veteran who broke into the story this time. “There’s Jerry Sprout, who lives beyant Sloshers Mills, he hes a head jest the shape of a fam’ly Bible, but ye can shoot me ef I can see how a man could hev a face like an----”