Two hours later.  Return we again to the Banditti's Cave.  Revelry still holds high carnival among the able and efficient bandits.  A knock is heard at the door.  From his throne at the head of the table the Chief cries, "Come in!" and an old man, haggard, white-haired, and sadly bent, enters the cave. "Messieurs," he tremblingly ejaculates, "for seventeen years I have not tasted of food!" "Well," says a kind-hearted bandit, "if that's so I expect you must be rather faint.  We'll get you up a warm meal immediately, stranger." "Hold!" whispered the Chief in tones of thunder, and rushing slowly to the spot; "this is about played out.  Behold in me RED HAND, the Bandit Chief, once Clarence Stanley, whom you cruelly turned into a cold world seventeen years ago this very night!  Old man, perpare to go up!"  Saying which the Chief drew a sharp carving knife and cut off Mr. Blinker's ears.  He then scalped Mr. B., and cut all of his toes off.  The old man struggled to extricate himself from his unpleasant situation, but was unsuccessful. "My goodness," he piteously exclaimed, "I must say you are pretty rough.  It seems to me--." This is all of this intensely interesting tale that will be published in the "Plain Dealer."  The remainder of it may be found in the great moral family paper, "The Windy Flash" published in New York by Stimpkins.  "The Windy Flash" circulates 4,000,000 copies weekly. IT IS THE ALL-FIREDEST PAPER EVER PRINTED. IT IS THE ALL-FIREDEST PAPER EVER PRINTED. IT IS THE ALL-FIREDEST PAPER EVER PRINTED. IT IS THE ALL-FIREDEST PAPER EVER PRINTED. IT'S THE CUSSEDEST BEST PAPER IN THE WORLD. IT'S THE CUSSEDEST BEST PAPER IN THE WORLD.  IT'S THE CUSSEDEST BEST PAPER IN THE WORLD. IT'S THE CUSSEDEST BEST PAPER IN THE WORLD. IT'S A MORAL PAPER.  IT'S A MORAL PAPER.  IT'S A MORAL PAPER.  IT'S A MORAL PAPER. SOLD AT ALL THE CORNER GROCERIES.  SOLD AT ALL THE CORNER GROCERIES.  SOLD AT ALL THE CORNER GROCERIES.  SOLD AT ALL THE CORNER GROCERIES. ____________________ PYROTECHNY: A ROMANCE AFTER THE FRENCH. I.--THE PEACEFUL HAMLET. Nestling among the grand hills of New Hampshire, in the United States of America, is a village called Waterbury. Perhaps you were never there. I do not censure you if you never were. One can get on very well without going to Waterbury. Indeed, there are millions of meritorious persons who were never there, and yet they are happy. In this peaceful hamlet lived a young man named Pettingill. Reuben Pettingill. He was an agriculturist. A broad-shouldered, deep-chested agriculturist. He was contented to live in this peaceful hamlet. He said it was better than a noisy Othello. Thus do these simple children of nature joke in a first class manner. II.--MYSELF. I write this romance in the French style. Yes: something that way. The French style consists of making just as many paragraphs as possible. Thus one may fill up a column in a very short time.