Accordingly, I was no sooner seated at the card-table, with my
      pretty hostess for a _vis-à-vis_, than I propounded those
      questions the solution of which had become a matter so essential
      to my peace. “Smith!” said my partner, “why, not General John A. B. C.? Horrid
      affair that, wasn’t it?—diamonds, did you say?—terrible wretches
      those Kickapoos!—we are playing _whist_, if you please, Mr.
      Tattle—however, this is the age of invention, most certainly
      _the_ age, one may say—_the_ age _par excellence_—speak
      French?—oh, quite a hero—perfect desperado!—_no hearts_, Mr.
      Tattle? I don’t believe it.—immortal renown and all
      that!—prodigies of valor! _Never heard! !_—why, bless me, he’s the
      man—”

      “Mann!—_Captain_ Mann?” here screamed some little feminine
      interloper from the farthest corner of the room. “Are you talking
      about Captain Mann and the duel?—oh, I _must_ hear—do tell—go on,
      Mrs. O’Trump!—do now go on!” And go on Mrs. O’Trump did—all about
      a certain Captain Mann, who was either shot or hung, or should
      have been both shot and hung. Yes! Mrs. O’Trump, she went on, and
      I—I went off. There was no chance of hearing anything farther
      that evening in regard to Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C.
      Smith. Still I consoled myself with the reflection that the tide of ill
      luck would not run against me forever, and so determined to make
      a bold push for information at the rout of that bewitching little
      angel, the graceful Mrs. Pirouette. “Smith!” said Mrs. P., as we twirled about together in a _pas de
      zephyr_, “Smith!—why, not General John A. B. C.? Dreadful
      business that of the Bugaboos, wasn’t it?—dreadful creatures,
      those Indians!—_do_ turn out your toes! I really am ashamed of
      you—man of great courage, poor fellow!—but this is a wonderful
      age for invention—O dear me, I’m out of breath—quite a
      desperado—prodigies of valor—_never heard!_—can’t believe it—I
      shall have to sit down and enlighten you—Smith! why, he’s the
      man—”

      “Man-_Fred_, I tell you!” here bawled out Miss Bas-Bleu, as I led
      Mrs. Pirouette to a seat. “Did ever anybody hear the like? It’s
      Man-_Fred_, I say, and not at all by any means Man-_Friday_.”
      Here Miss Bas-Bleu beckoned to me in a very peremptory manner;
      and I was obliged, will I nill I, to leave Mrs. P. for the
      purpose of deciding a dispute touching the title of a certain
      poetical drama of Lord Byron’s. Although I pronounced, with great
      promptness, that the true title was Man-_Friday_, and not by any
      means Man-_Fred_, yet when I returned to seek Mrs. Pirouette she
      was not to be discovered, and I made my retreat from the house in
      a very bitter spirit of animosity against the whole race of the
      Bas-Bleus. Matters had now assumed a really serious aspect, and I resolved
      to call at once upon my particular friend, Mr. Theodore Sinivate;
      for I knew that here at least I should get something like
      definite information. “Smith!” said he, in his well-known peculiar way of drawling out
      his syllables; “Smith!—why, not General John A. B. C.? Savage
      affair that with the Kickapo-o-o-os, wasn’t it? Say! don’t you
      think so?—perfect despera-a-ado—great pity, ‘pon my
      honor!—wonderfully inventive age!—pro-o-odigies of valor! By the
      by, did you ever hear about Captain Ma-a-a-a-n?”

      “Captain Mann be d—d!” said I; “please to go on with your story.”

      “Hem!—oh well!—quite _la même cho-o-ose_, as we say in France. Smith, eh? Brigadier-General John A.—B.—C.? I say”—[here Mr. S.
      thought proper to put his finger to the side of his nose]—“I say,
      you don’t mean to insinuate now, really and truly, and
      conscientiously, that you don’t know all about that affair of
      Smith’s, as well as I do, eh? Smith? John A—B—C.? Why, bless me,
      he’s the ma-a-an—”

      “_Mr_. Sinivate,” said I, imploringly, “_is_ he the man in the
      mask?”

      “No-o-o!” said he, looking wise, “nor the man in the mo-o-on.”

      This reply I considered a pointed and positive insult, and so
      left the house at once in high dudgeon, with a firm resolve to
      call my friend, Mr. Sinivate, to a speedy account for his
      ungentlemanly conduct and ill-breeding. In the meantime, however, I had no notion of being thwarted
      touching the information I desired. There was one resource left
      me yet. I would go to the fountain-head. I would call forthwith
      upon the General himself, and demand, in explicit terms, a
      solution of this abominable piece of mystery. Here, at least,
      there should be no chance for equivocation. I would be plain,
      positive, peremptory—as short as pie-crust—as concise as Tacitus
      or Montesquieu. It was early when I called, and the General was dressing; but I
      pleaded urgent business, and was shown at once into his bed-room
      by an old negro valet, who remained in attendance during my
      visit. As I entered the chamber, I looked about, of course, for
      the occupant, but did not immediately perceive him. There was a
      large and exceedingly odd-looking bundle of something which lay
      close by my feet on the floor, and, as I was not in the best
      humor in the world, I gave it a kick out of the way. “Hem! ahem! rather civil that, I should say!” said the bundle, in
      one of the smallest, and altogether the funniest little voices,
      between a squeak and a whistle, that I ever heard in all the days
      of my existence. “Ahem! rather civil that, I should observe.”

      I fairly shouted with terror, and made off, at a tangent, into
      the farthest extremity of the room. “God bless me! my dear fellow,” here again whistled the bundle,
      “what—what—what—why, what _is_ the matter? I really believe you
      don’t know me at all.”

      What _could_ I say to all this—what _could_ I? I staggered into
      an arm-chair, and, with staring eyes and open mouth, awaited the
      solution of the wonder. “Strange you shouldn’t know me though, isn’t it?” presently
      re-squeaked the nondescript, which I now perceived was
      performing, upon the floor, some inexplicable evolution, very
      analogous to the drawing on of a stocking. There was only a
      single leg, however, apparent. “Strange you shouldn’t know me, though, isn’t it? Pompey, bring
      me that leg!” Here Pompey handed the bundle, a very capital cork
      leg, already dressed, which it screwed on in a trice; and then it
      stood up before my eyes. “And a bloody action it _was_,” continued the thing, as if in a
      soliloquy; “but then one mustn’t fight with the Bugaboos and
      Kickapoos, and think of coming off with a mere scratch. Pompey,
      I’ll thank you now for that arm.