The Man That Was Used Up

    At the soirée of the lovely widow, Mrs. Kathleen O'Trump, I was confident that I should meet with no similar disappointment.  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.

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