individuality." Notwithstanding this flattering opinion, Quigg still
sanded his sugar, and reduced his whiskey, and found his delight as well
as his-profit in those gross material pursuits.

The interior Quigg, of whom the professor had spoken so hopefully, was
still undeveloped. The professor's views of Quigg's head had, however,
made a deep impression upon the owner of it, and had given to Quigg's
ordinary observations on the weather, the state of his health, and the
other familiar topics to which his remarks were principally addressed,
an oracular importance in his own opinion. Such were the deceptive
effects produced by his large, polished brow, and slow, imposing speech,
that he always seemed to be on the point of uttering vital truths. But
the listener's ear ached in vain for them.

Quigg put on his overcoat, took a small glass of bitters from a bottle
kept behind the large mirror, locked up the store, proceeded to the
nearest restaurant, hastily despatched a lean, unsatisfactory chop and a
cup of weak tea, gave a half dime to the waiter who bade him, in a loud
and significant voice, "Happy New Year, sir," and then returning found
the double sleigh punctual to appointment.

It was a swan-shaped vehicle, brightly painted, thickly covered with
buffalo robes, and drawn by two high-stepping horses, which tossed their
heads and shook their bells merrily as if they shared in the prevailing
jovialty of the day.

On the front seat, and nearly filling up the whole width of the sleigh,
sat the driver. His shoulders were broad enough for two men; his legs
and arms were of twice the common size, and he had two well-defined
chins. He seemed to be double in all his dimensions, like the sleigh.