Upon finding of this bullet, the examining
      magistrate refused to listen to any farther testimony, and immediately
      committed the prisoner for trial—declining resolutely to take any bail in
      the case, although against this severity Mr. Goodfellow very warmly
      remonstrated, and offered to become surety in whatever amount might be
      required. This generosity on the part of “Old Charley” was only in
      accordance with the whole tenor of his amiable and chivalrous conduct
      during the entire period of his sojourn in the borough of Rattle. In the
      present instance the worthy man was so entirely carried away by the
      excessive warmth of his sympathy, that he seemed to have quite forgotten,
      when he offered to go bail for his young friend, that he himself (Mr.
      Goodfellow) did not possess a single dollar’s worth of property upon the
      face of the earth. The result of the committal may be readily foreseen. Mr. Pennifeather,
      amid the loud execrations of all Rattleborough, was brought to trial at
      the next criminal sessions, when the chain of circumstantial evidence
      (strengthened as it was by some additional damning facts, which Mr.
      Goodfellow’s sensitive conscientiousness forbade him to withhold from the
      court) was considered so unbroken and so thoroughly conclusive, that the
      jury, without leaving their seats, returned an immediate verdict of
      “Guilty of murder in the first degree.” Soon afterward the unhappy wretch
      received sentence of death, and was remanded to the county jail to await
      the inexorable vengeance of the law. In the meantime, the noble behavior of “Old Charley Goodfellow,” had
      doubly endeared him to the honest citizens of the borough. He became ten
      times a greater favorite than ever, and, as a natural result of the
      hospitality with which he was treated, he relaxed, as it were, perforce,
      the extremely parsimonious habits which his poverty had hitherto impelled
      him to observe, and very frequently had little reunions at his own house,
      when wit and jollity reigned supreme—dampened a little, of course, by the
      occasional remembrance of the untoward and melancholy fate which impended
      over the nephew of the late lamented bosom friend of the generous host. One fine day, this magnanimous old gentleman was agreeably surprised at
      the receipt of the following letter:


Charles Goodfellow, Esq., Rattleborough
From H.F.B. & Co.
Chat. Mar. A—No. 1.—6 doz. bottles (1/2 Gross)

“Charles Goodfellow, Esquire. “Dear Sir—In conformity with an order transmitted to our firm
about two months since, by our esteemed correspondent, Mr. Barnabus
Shuttleworthy, we have the honor of forwarding this morning, to your address, a
double box of Chateau-Margaux of the antelope brand, violet seal. Box numbered
and marked as per margin. “We remain, sir,
“Your most ob’nt ser’ts,
“HOGGS, FROGS, BOGS, & CO.


“City of—, June 21, 18—. “P.S.—The box will reach you by wagon, on the day after your
receipt of this letter. Our respects to Mr. Shuttleworthy. “H., F., B., & CO.”


      The fact is, that Mr. Goodfellow had, since the death of Mr.
      Shuttleworthy, given over all expectation of ever receiving the promised
      Chateau-Margaux; and he, therefore, looked upon it now as a sort of
      especial dispensation of Providence in his behalf. He was highly
      delighted, of course, and in the exuberance of his joy invited a large
      party of friends to a petit souper on the morrow, for the purpose of
      broaching the good old Mr. Shuttleworthy’s present. Not that he said any
      thing about “the good old Mr. Shuttleworthy” when he issued the
      invitations. The fact is, he thought much and concluded to say nothing at
      all. He did not mention to any one—if I remember aright—that
      he had received a present of Chateau-Margaux. He merely asked his friends
      to come and help him drink some, of a remarkable fine quality and rich
      flavour, that he had ordered up from the city a couple of months ago, and
      of which he would be in the receipt upon the morrow. I have often puzzled
      myself to imagine why it was that “Old Charley” came to the conclusion to
      say nothing about having received the wine from his old friend, but I
      could never precisely understand his reason for the silence, although he
      had some excellent and very magnanimous reason, no doubt. The morrow at length arrived, and with it a very large and highly
      respectable company at Mr. Goodfellow’s house. Indeed, half the borough
      was there,—I myself among the number,—but, much to the
      vexation of the host, the Chateau-Margaux did not arrive until a late
      hour, and when the sumptuous supper supplied by “Old Charley” had been
      done very ample justice by the guests. It came at length, however,—a
      monstrously big box of it there was, too—and as the whole party were
      in excessively good humor, it was decided, nem. con., that it should be
      lifted upon the table and its contents disembowelled forthwith. No sooner said than done. I lent a helping hand; and, in a trice we had
      the box upon the table, in the midst of all the bottles and glasses, not a
      few of which were demolished in the scuffle. “Old Charley,” who was pretty
      much intoxicated, and excessively red in the face, now took a seat, with
      an air of mock dignity, at the head of the board, and thumped furiously
      upon it with a decanter, calling upon the company to keep order “during
      the ceremony of disinterring the treasure.”


      After some vociferation, quiet was at length fully restored, and, as very
      often happens in similar cases, a profound and remarkable silence ensued. Being then requested to force open the lid, I complied, of course, “with
      an infinite deal of pleasure.” I inserted a chisel, and giving it a few
      slight taps with a hammer, the top of the box flew suddenly off, and at
      the same instant, there sprang up into a sitting position, directly facing
      the host, the bruised, bloody, and nearly putrid corpse of the murdered
      Mr. Shuttleworthy himself. It gazed for a few seconds, fixedly and
      sorrowfully, with its decaying and lack-lustre eyes, full into the
      countenance of Mr. Goodfellow; uttered slowly, but clearly and
      impressively, the words—“Thou art the man!” and then, falling over
      the side of the chest as if thoroughly satisfied, stretched out its limbs
      quiveringly upon the table. The scene that ensued is altogether beyond description. The rush for the
      doors and windows was terrific, and many of the most robust men in the
      room fainted outright through sheer horror. But after the first wild,
      shrieking burst of affright, all eyes were directed to Mr. Goodfellow.