wire in his pocket, "a good deed never goes unrewarded. Always remember
that. There is nothing like the old biblical behest: 'Let us pray.'
You for your bed of roses; me for--for----" mechanically he went to the
small towel-cabinet and gravely pointed the unfinished observation with
the black bottle labeled "Poison."

"To the long-lost nephew, Mr. William C. Dagget. To the bed of roses.
And to the eminent lawyer, Theobald D. Snark, Esq., who has mended
a poor fortune with a better brain. Gentlemen," he concluded
grandiloquently, slowly surveying the little room as if it were an
overcrowded Colosseum--"gentlemen, with your permission, together with
that of the immortal Mr. Swiveller, we will proceed to drown it in the
rosy. Drown it in the rosy, gentlemen." And so saying, Mr. Snark gravely
tilted the black bottle ceilingward.

The following evening, as the shadows were lengthening, Garrison and
the eminent lawyer pulled into the neat little station of Cottonton. The
good-by to Gotham had been said. It had not been difficult for Garrison
to say good-by. He was bidding farewell to a life and a city that had
been detestable in the short year he had known it. The lifetime spent in
it had been forgotten. But with it all he had said good-by to honor.
On the long train trip he had been smothering his conscience, feebly
awakened by the approaching meeting, the touch of new clothes, and the
prospect of a consistently full stomach. He even forgot to cough once or
twice.

But the conscience was only feebly awakened. The eminent lawyer had
judged his client right. For as one is never miserly until one has
acquired wealth, so Garrison was loath to vacate the bed of roses now
that he had felt how exceedingly pleasant it was. To go back to rags