I suspected at the time that I had been put to sleep by chloroform, but
I afterward remembered that a feeble youth was reading aloud from the
Special Cable Dispatches of the _Tribune._

My feelings centred in those boots, tears filled my eyes, and I was dumb
with emotion, but quickly reviving, I slaked the cordwainer with a flood
of rabid eloquence.

The cowering wretch suggested that they would stretch. He lied, the
villain, he lied, they shrank.

However, "in verdure clad," I was persuaded into wearing them, and
stiffly sidled off, a badgered biped, my head swinging round the circle,
and my voice hanging on the verge of profanity all the way.

As fit boots they were a most successful failure. I gave them to the
office boy; but the crutches I afterward bought him cost me twenty-seven
dollars.

Henceforth I shall take my cue from JOHN CHINAMAN, and encase my
understanding in wood. Yours calmly,

VICTOR KING.

* * * * *

Recognized at Last.

A recent telegram from London says:--