[F5] "The Bread Crust Papers, Part Second" (continued), Spirit of the Times, March 29, 1842

THE BREAD CRUST PAPERS.

By Eric Iterbil.

Part Second.

THE DUEL AT CAMDEN.

            "Who's crockery broke!" muttered the astonished Harry, "what's the row?"

            "By —, the very thing I wanted, Harry!—"

            "You're a royal good fellow.  See! they're clean."

            "The only clean dickey and collar I've got!" exclaimed Harry as his eyes distended in unmitigated surprise.

            "The very things I wanted, Harry.  I'm awfully hard up for clean linen, just now—did you know Harry Dickson?"

            "What in the devil has Harry Dickson got to do with my collar and dickey?"

            "Now allow me to tell you, and as my friend too Mr. Crust, that trifling on such a serious matter is too cussed bad."

            Crust opened his eyes until his eyebrows ascended to the roots of his crimson foliage.  What do you mean?" his look seemed to say.

            "Good heaven!  Is it possible?  Didn't you know that Harry Dickson died this—or rather yesterday afternoon at four?"

            "Devil the know!"

            "I'm invited to attend his funeral to-morrow at four.  'Carriages to proceed to Norristown,' so the invite reads.  I must go.  And its such a lucky chance that you've got a clean collar and a dickey.  He may have left me a—something you know.  Well Harry I'd better go.  Good ni—"

            "And how in the d—l do you know that I'll lend you the dickey and the collar?"  Crust leaned over the bedside as he put the question.

            "Know?  Pooh!  I know you will Harry.  D—n it haven't I done the same for you thousands of times?"

            "Yes, but you must recollect, that its all the dickey or collar I've got.  I've quarreled with Old Betsy Chickweed down in Union street.  She said she wouldn't wash for me any more, unless I paid her the standing bill of $5 62 1/2.  And so I cut her.  Just think of the vulgarity of the old catamaran!  And it's the same with the whole set of my washerwomen.  L—d I keep a suite of 'em.  When one won't 'tick it, I try another, but now they're all run out, and so damme you can't have the dickey, nor the collar, Mr. Brown."

            "Oh," exclaimed Brown, dropping in a chair, "speaking of the Crimson Shawl—how did you first become acquainted with her?"

            "Tom, sit down in that chair, and I'll tell you-Such an adventure!  By Jove I've never heard its equal.  Now Tom listen."

            He hemmed and hawed to clear his throat, and then slapping his hand on the pillow in an enthusiastic manner, he began:

            "You must know that on Friday night week, as I was standing at the corner of Sixth and Chestnut street, in front of Isaacs', eyeing the passers by, and all that sort of thing, I observed a female approaching, and as she passed the lamp I saw her face.  She was a luscious thing—quite!"

            Crust cast his eyes up to the ceiling, and tried to look enraptured.

            "Travel on Harry," observed Done Brown, depositing the dickey and collar beneath his vest, "I'm all attention."

            "I'll describe her to you.  Imagine a short, full figure, enveloped in a dark muslin frock, and with well turned shoulders, swelling bust, and all that, shown to every advantage, by the enveloping folds of a new merino shawl.  Delic-wus?  And then her face!  By Jove!  Full, plump, and rosy cheeks peeping from beneath the compass of a nice little straw bonnet—blue eyes—delicate cherry lips—O, spirit of all that bew-tiful, spare me the recollection!  Do Tom!"

            "Go on, Harry."  Tom turned aside for a moment, and a curious expression was visible in the slight wrinkle at the corner of each eye, and at either side of his mouth.

            "Well, since that night I've searched high and low, here, there, and every where, and still I've never been able to find the beauty, nor do I know her name.  So I call her Merino Shawl.  It's demd romantic.  And now, Tom, as for those disclosures?"

            "I was humbugging you, Harry.  Humbug—all humbug.  Good night Harry."

            "Demmit, but he's gone.  Hal-lo, Tom I say!  He's taken my dickey and collar too—T-o-m!"

            Crust jumped out of bed, and ran to the door, and opened it.

            "Well, if that isn't cool!" he cried as he heard the jar of the street door as it closed.  "Cool!  very!  There are times with me when I feel as tho' I could beat the life out of that man, but Lord tho', didn't I humbug him!  'Not know her name,' to be sure.  Why," continued he, with a pleasant chuckle, "that's rich, considering I've had several interviews with her, and—ha-ha-ha—I'm to have another to-morrow night!  By Jove its good!  He humbug me?  Pooh!"

            The joke seemed so very rich, that Bread Crust was forced to walk hurriedly up and down the small apartment, to prevent himself from bursting with laughter, while he rubbed his hands very pleasantly together, and as he grew tired of the peculiar way of expressing the idea that he was particularly pleased, he commenced a series of leaps, and then he ran along the floor, threw his length on the bed, jumped up and leaped again.

            "Humbugged!  Gloriously humbugged!  Hey?  What's that?"

            His attention was fixed upon a small white something on the floor.  He picked it up.

            "Hey!  A letter—opened too—and directed to Thomas Done Brown, Esq.!  What can it be about?  Tom and me are intimate friends, he knows all my secrets, and I know all his.  I'll open it."

            He opened it and read, and as he read, his under lip fell, and his white eyebrows raised to the roots of his hair, while his eyes distended with the most decided expression of something or other.  It looked very much like intense surprise.  Again and again he read the letter.  Here it is.

WEDNESDAY EVENING, May **, 1841.

            Deerest Tomm—I think I can go to where you were mentioning when we met last  Mother does nott know anything abbout it, and so you need not let on to her  Recollect we are to go out in a cab  Wil it tak us cleer to Lemon Hill or will we hav to wak (walk?) part of the way  I wish you wud lett me know also whether we wil go to Fairmount first early in the mornin to see the sunn rise

Yours mosst affectionattely

ANGELINE SARAH SMIVERS

            P.S. Remember to send an answer this evenin' whetther we go early in the mornin' or not.

            "By —, but I'm done brown!  The very name—yes it is!  It must be!  He thinks he's fooling me.  But I'll be even with him.  To-morrow morning—Fairmount—sunrise.  I'll be there.  I'll—I'll—I'll—"

            He gasped for breath.

            "I'll shoot him!"

            He sank in the chair beside the wash stand, and leaning one elbow on this article of bed room furniture, he plunged a hand into his disordered red hair, and with his grey eyes fixed vacantly on the coal stove, he mused again upon Angeline Sarah Smivers and Thomas Done Brown.

To be continued.