He first dragged out in this ungraceful way a female—Mollie Williams by name—who, stopping accidentally with the landlady over night, had been frightened by the noise the visitors made before entering and secreted herself beneath the low bedstead with a part of the widow’s portable property. An inventory of other things discovered in the apartment would read as follows: 1 Widow Bridget Monaghan—very angry and flushed as to face and scantily clad. 1 maiden lady, of uncertain age, ditto as to raiment, and badly scared. 5 goats, scattered about the floor very promiscuously. 37 chickens—including one plucky game-cock. 1 collection of new-washed female raiment, hanging damp on the line. 5 ducks and a drake. 1 goose and a gander. 1 demijohn—contents, whisky. 2 tin pots for drinking purposes—of tin. 1 stove and furniture—badly cracked in places. 1 section of a log, for a chair—not cushioned. 1 collection of miscellaneous articles, on the shelves, intended for sale. His comrades drank several times, but McKenna could not stomach the liquor in that den, and, taking a tin dinner pail, which he found, he washed it out and milked one of the goats, swallowing the warm fluid with a relish. [Illustration: “_He sung, sitting beside the widow, on her bed, with Mollie Williams nigh, perched on the wooden excuse for a chair._”] As a natural consequence of the time, place, and opportunity, McKenna was importuned for songs, which he sung, sitting beside the widow, on her bed, with Mollie Williams nigh, perched on the wooden excuse for a chair, and the equally interested men, sitting on their haunches, and in various extraordinary attitudes, around the room. The few following hours until morning were consumed in the relation of sundry soul-harrowing tales of ghosts, haunted houses and church-yards, hobgoblins and spirits, to which all listened in silence, only excepting an occasional interruption by the widow when proffering more liquor, until the young man’s throat and tongue fairly gave out from too much exercise, and he was constrained to beg for a season of rest. The sun was rising when the company, very well soaked in bad liquor, oozed out of Mrs. Monaghan’s cellar and started on a serpentine trail for home. As a consequence of inhaling so much bad air, and from protracted confinement in foul gases, the operative was so ill that, when he received Mr. Franklin’s instructions to leave for Tamaqua, he felt more like keeping his bed and sending for a physician. The uninitiated reader may be inclined to think my description of Mrs. Monaghan’s groggery an exaggeration. The thought is pardonable, but I assure those who have followed me thus far in this recital, that, instead of being overcolored, the whole truth, in all its details, has not been told. It could not well be revealed without giving offense.