No sooner did the brave Don Edmundo hear it than he tore off his gorgeous clothes, and cast himself headlong in the billows. Lady Celia caught him dexterously by the waist in her mouth, and, swimming to the outer rock, sat up and softly bit him in halves. She then laid the pieces tenderly in a conspicuous place, put on her overcoat, and plunging into the waters was never seen more. Many are the wild fabrications of the poets about her subsequent career, but to this day nothing authentic has turned up. For some months strenuous efforts were made to recover the wicked Lieutenant’s body. Every appliance which genius could invent and skill could wield was put in requisition; until one night the landlord, fearing these constant efforts might frighten away the seals, had the remains quietly removed and secretly interred. The Baffled Asian One day in ’49 an honest miner up in Calaveras county, California, bit himself with a small snake of the garter variety, and either as a possible antidote, or with a determination to enjoy the brief remnant of a wasted life, applied a brimming jug of whisky to his lips, and kept it there until, like a repleted leech, it fell off. The man fell off likewise. The next day, while the body lay in state upon a pine slab, and the bereaved partner of the deceased was unbending in a game of seven-up with a friendly Chinaman, the game was interrupted by a familiar voice which seemed to proceed from the jaws of the corpse: “I say—Jim!” Bereaved partner played the king of spades, claimed “high,” and then, looking over his shoulder at the melancholy remains, replied, “Well, what is it, Dave? I’m busy.” “I say—Jim!” repeated the corpse in the same measured tone. With a look of intense annoyance, and muttering something about “people that could never stop dead more’n a minute,” the bereaved partner rose and stood over the body with his cards in his hand. “Jim,” continued the mighty dead, “how fur’s this thing gone?” “I’ve paid the Chinaman two-and-a-half to dig the grave,” responded the bereaved. “Did he strike anything?” The Chinaman looked up: “Me strikee pay dirt; me no bury dead ’Melican in ’em grave. Me keep ’em claim.” The corpse sat up erect: “Jim, git my revolver and chase that pig-tail off. Jump his dam sepulchre, and tax his camp five dollars each fer prospectin’ on the public domain. These Mungolyun hordes hez got to be got under. And—I say—Jim! ’f any more serpents come foolin’ round here drive ’em off. ’T’aint right to be bitin’ a feller when whisky’s two dollars a gallon. Dern all foreigners, anyhow!” And the mortal part pulled on its boots. TALL TALK A Call to Dinner