No More Learning

Goodfellow conducted his
party. The result was that, after some days, I came across an old dry
well, the mouth of which was nearly hidden by brambles; and here, at the
bottom, I discovered what I sought.

Now it so happened that I had overheard the colloquy between the two
cronies, when Mr. Goodfellow had contrived to cajole his host into the
promise of a box of Chateaux-Margaux. Upon this hint I acted. I procured
a stiff piece of whalebone, thrust it down the throat of the corpse,
and deposited the latter in an old wine box-taking care so to double
the body up as to double the whalebone with it. In this manner I had
to press forcibly upon the lid to keep it down while I secured it with
nails; and I anticipated, of course, that as soon as these latter were
removed, the top would fly off and the body up.

Having thus arranged the box, I marked, numbered, and addressed it
as already told; and then writing a letter in the name of the wine
merchants with whom Mr. Shuttleworthy dealt, I gave instructions to my
servant to wheel the box to Mr. Goodfellow's door, in a barrow, at a
given signal from myself. For the words which I intended the corpse to
speak, I confidently depended upon my ventriloquial abilities; for their
effect, I counted upon the conscience of the murderous wretch.

I believe there is nothing more to be explained. Mr. Pennifeather was
released upon the spot, inherited the fortune of his uncle, profited by
the lessons of experience, turned over a new leaf, and led happily ever
afterward a new life.




WHY THE LITTLE FRENCHMAN WEARS HIS HAND IN A SLING

IT'S on my visiting cards sure enough (and it's them that's all o'
pink satin paper) that inny gintleman that plases may behould the
intheristhin words, "Sir Pathrick O'Grandison, Barronitt, 39 Southampton
Row, Russell Square, Parrish o' Bloomsbury.
" And shud ye be wantin' to
diskiver who is the pink of purliteness quite, and the laider of the hot
tun in the houl city o' Lonon--why it's jist mesilf. And fait that same
is no wonder at all at all (so be plased to stop curlin your nose), for
every inch o' the six wakes that I've been a gintleman, and left aff
wid the bogthrothing to take up wid the Barronissy, it's Pathrick that's
been living like a houly imperor, and gitting the iddication and the
graces. Och! and wouldn't it be a blessed thing for your spirrits if ye
cud lay your two peepers jist, upon Sir Pathrick O'Grandison, Barronitt,
when he is all riddy drissed for the hopperer, or stipping into the
Brisky for the drive into the Hyde Park. But it's the illigant big
figgur that I ave, for the rason o' which all the ladies fall in love
wid me. Isn't it my own swate silf now that'll missure the six fut, and
the three inches more nor that, in me stockins, and that am excadingly
will proportioned all over to match? And it is ralelly more than three
fut and a bit that there is, inny how, of the little ould furrener
Frinchman that lives jist over the way, and that's a oggling and
a goggling the houl day, (and bad luck to him,) at the purty widdy
Misthress Tracle that's my own nixt-door neighbor, (God bliss her! )
and a most particuller frind and acquaintance? You percave the little
spalpeen is summat down in the mouth, and wears his lift hand in a
sling, and it's for that same thing, by yur lave, that I'm going to give
you the good rason.

The truth of the houl matter is jist simple enough; for the very first
day that I com'd from Connaught, and showd my swate little silf in the
strait to the widdy, who was looking through the windy, it was a
gone case althegither with the heart o' the purty Misthress Tracle.
I percaved it, ye see, all at once, and no mistake, and that's God's
truth. First of all it was up wid the windy in a jiffy, and thin she
threw open her two peepers to the itmost, and thin it was a little gould
spy-glass that she clapped tight to one o' them and divil may burn me
if it didn't spake to me as plain as a peeper cud spake, and says it,
through the spy-glass: "Och! the tip o' the mornin' to ye, Sir Pathrick
O'Grandison, Barronitt, mavourneen; and it's a nate gintleman that ye
are, sure enough, and it's mesilf and me forten jist that'll be at yur
sarvice, dear, inny time o' day at all at all for the asking. " And it's
not mesilf ye wud have to be bate in the purliteness; so I made her
a bow that wud ha' broken yur heart altegither to behould, and thin I
pulled aff me hat with a flourish, and thin I winked at her hard wid
both eyes, as much as to say, "True for you, yer a swate little crature,
Mrs. Tracle, me darlint, and I wish I may be drownthed dead in a bog,
if it's not mesilf, Sir Pathrick O'Grandison, Barronitt, that'll make a
houl bushel o' love to yur leddyship, in the twinkling o' the eye of a
Londonderry purraty. "

And it was the nixt mornin', sure, jist as I was making up me mind
whither it wouldn't be the purlite thing to sind a bit o' writin' to the
widdy by way of a love-litter, when up com'd the delivery servant wid
an illigant card, and he tould me that the name on it (for I niver could
rade the copperplate printin on account of being lift handed) was all
about Mounseer, the Count, A Goose, Look--aisy, Maiter-di-dauns, and
that the houl of the divilish lingo was the spalpeeny long name of the
little ould furrener Frinchman as lived over the way.