[Illustration.]

Mr. P. took the seat, (which was nothing to brag of,) and a cigar,
(which would have been a great deal to brag of, if he had succeeded in
smoking it,) and, after a whiff or two, asked his companion how it was
that he came to send such a message to Congress about Cuba.

"What message?" said GRANT, absently.

Mr. P. explained.

"Oh," said GRANT, "that one! Didn't you like it? CALEB CUSHING wrote it
and brought it to me, and I signed it. If you had written one and
brought it to me, I would have signed that. 'Tisn't my fault if the
thing's wrong. What would you expect of a man?"

Mr. P. concluded that in this case it was ridiculous to expect anything
else, and so he changed the subject.

That afternoon Mr. P. bathed.

He went to SLOAN'S and fitted himself out in a bathing suit, and very
lovely he looked in it, when he emerged from the bathing house at
high tide. With a red tunic; green pants; and a very yellow hat, he
resembled a frog-legged Garibaldian, ready for the harvest.

When he hurried to the water's edge, he hesitated for a moment. The
roaring surf was so full of heads, legs, arms, back-hair, hats and feet,
that he feared there was no room for him. However, he espied a vacancy,
and plunged into the briny deep.