THE COMPLIMENTARY DINNER.

The smash of crockery which attended Mr. McGusher’s entrance through the window into the dining-room attracted the attention of all present, and brought Ben’s speech to an abrupt stop. Captain Patterdale, who had kept his eye on the long-lost, had noticed his gradual approaches up to the moment of the catastrophe. Leaving his place at the table, he confronted the intruder.

“What are you doing, sir?” demanded the captain, savagely.

“I beg your pawdon, Captain Patterdale, but I wish to speak to my friend, Mr. Monroe,” replied Mr. McGusher, moving towards the head of the table near which his friend was seated.

Very much to the chagrin of Mr. McGusher, Monroe rose from his seat and passed out into the great hall of the hotel.

“He has left the room,” replied Captain Patterdale. “You will find him in the hall.”

“Miss Bildaw was kind enough to say she would see me this aftawnoon, and I will speak to haw before I go.”

“No, you will not,” answered the managing agent, sharply. “You will leave this room.”

“Do you mean to insult me, saw? Do you know who I am?” demanded Mr. McGusher, straightening up his form.

“No matter who you are--leave this room, or I will call upon the servants to put you out.”

“I am the only son of Captain Bildaw; and Miss Bildaw is my sistaw!”

This might have been a very startling announcement to Captain Patterdale, if the “long-lost father” of the “long-lost son” had not already spoken to the managing agent about him, and requested him to save Kate from any annoyance on his part. Indeed, Captain Patterdale was a confidential friend of Captain Bilder, and knew all about the “long-lost” business. Both of them regarded the gentleman from New York as an impostor and a humbug. But the attention of the landlord had been called to the disturbance, and he appeared upon the ground. He insisted that Mr. McGusher should go out the window again, as he came in, and with a little gentle force helped him along. The long-lost boiling over with wrath and indignation, hastened around to the hall to confront Monroe; but that gentleman quietly returned to his place at the table as soon as his late friend was hustled out.

“Go on! Go on!” called the yachtmen. “Ben Lunder!” “Old Salt!”

“Really, ladies and gentleman,” said Ben, taking the floor again, “the interruption of an unprepared--unprepared--(the paper) speech is fatal to the higher flights of oratory. I have forgotten where I was, being called upon thus unexpectedly, with nothing particular to say;” and Ben nervously turned the leaves, and looked up and down the pages of the manuscript, which seemed to be an old letter. “Where was I?”

“On the burning sands of the Straits of Magellan,” laughed one of the yachtmen.

“Ah, yes! Thank you. I remember. I was speaking of the ship of state, that gallant old craft, lifting her foreto’-gallant cutwater to the breeze, with her main royal hatchway braced sharp up, and the bilge water flying like pop corn in a parcher. I was speaking of the skipper of that craft; of that old salt George--George--George--I mentioned the name--George--(the paper)--Washington; George Washington. He saved the ship! With his little hatchet he cut away the booms, bobstays, bowsprits, beckets, bo’s’ns, and buntlines, and brought the old craft safe into Portland--Portland?--into--into--(the paper) port; into port. But, Mr. Commodore, I was about to allude to other distinguished old salts, who have honored the profession to which I belong.”

“Go on!” “Go on!”

“There was one down in Tennessee, who navigated that same old ship of state. He was a tough specimen of the old salt. He kept his backstay braced sharp up into the eye of the wind. He was tough as the foreto’-mainmast of a man-of-war! Sometimes they called him Old--Old Hickups--Hickups? (the paper) Old Hickory! They called him so, Mr. Commodore, because he was fond of pea-nuts! His name was Andrew--Andrew--Andrew--”

“Johnson,” suggested Ned Patterdale.

“Andrew Johnson! His name was Andrew Johnson, Mr. Commodore!” continued the orator. “Johnson--Johnson? It seems to me that was not the name. (The paper.) Jackson, Mr. Commodore! His name was Andrew Jackson! He was the captain of his ship, sir. When he was sick he knew enough to heave to, sir. When South Carolina wanted to nullify, he knew enough to lie to, sir, In this respect, sir, he was different from George--George (the paper) Washington; George Washington, sir. History solemnly records that G. W. couldn’t tell a--a--tell a--a--a (the paper) a lie; tell a lie, sir. G. W. could not tell a lie; but he could lie under an imputation, and he did; and Andrew Jackson could lie to, and pour his booming guns into the nullifiers, like a brave old salt as he was. But, Mr. Commodore, time would fail me, and your patience give out, before I could allude to all the old salts to whose honored profession I belong; and I can only mention General Phil--Phil--General Phil--Phil--(the paper) Sheridan; Phil Sheridan, who rode at anchor from Winchester down to the battle-field, and made a good run of it. Now, Mr. Commodore, permit me to return my--my--my (the paper) thanks; my thanks for the very handsome manner you have treated the crew of the Ocean-Born; and I assure you I shall ever cherish a very grateful remembrance of this occasion, and especially of the Dorcas--Dorcas--the Dorcas--Dorcas--(the paper) Club; the Dorcas Club.”

Ben was heartily applauded for his effort, and rose to bow his thanks, and express his regrets that some slight slips of his memory had caused him to stumble a little in the delivery of his unpremeditated speech. Doubtless the plan of his speech was new at Fort Point, but Ben did not claim to be entirely original in its conception, having adopted it from a similar effort put forth by a member of a club on a festive occasion. Other speeches were made, and most of the young gentlemen struggled to be funny without being entirely successful. At four o’clock the party left the dining-room, and spent the rest of the afternoon in social intercourse, or in such sports as were available.

“Who is the young man that tumbled in at the window and broke the crockery ware, Captain Patterdale?” asked Neil Brandon, as they met in the hall.

“He is a young exquisite from New York,” laughed the captain. “He has more cheek than brains, and as my friend Ben would say, very little ballast in his craft.”

“Didn’t I hear him say that he was the son of Captain Bilder?”

“But the claim is absolutely absurd. Captain Bilder could not be the father of such a monkey as he is.”

“He said that Kate was his sister.”

“If Captain Bilder is not his father, it can’t very well be that Kate is his sister, for neither the captain nor his wife was ever married more than once.”

“But how can the fellow put forward such an absurd claim?” inquired Neil, curiously. “If Captain Bilder ever had a son, he ought to know about it.”

“Unfortunately he does know about it. He had a son who is supposed to have been drowned when a child.”

“Was he drowned?”

“I am sure I don’t know. Captain Bilder believes he was; at least with about one chance in a thousand that he was not. I heard the story many years ago, but I don’t remember all the particulars. I believe the child fell overboard, or something of that sort, on the Mississippi River. At any rate, this Mr. McGusher claims to be that child.”

“Is Captain Bilder sure that he is not what he claims to be?” asked Neil, very much interested in the meagre narrative.

“He has already detected the rascal in some trickery, and he is quite sure the knave is not his son. The scamp annoys Kate very much, and she is anxious to avoid him.”

“She has succeeded very well this afternoon,” added Neil, as Captain Patterdale’s attention was called in another direction.

Neil sat down in a great arm-chair to consider the situation. His mother had insisted that he should leave Belfast, and avoid the Bilders; but she had given no explanation of her request. Why was she so anxious that he should avoid them? Captain Bilder had had a son who was supposed to be drowned. The name of Neil Brandon had startled the father of the lost child. The name of the steamer--Ocean-Born--had surprised him. There was something very strange about all this, and Neil could not fathom it. He felt it to be his duty to avoid Kate Bilder, after what his mother had written, as much as he could without rudeness. He wondered if she knew anything about the lost child, the little brother. He was tempted to ask her; but then he had too much reverence for his mother to disregard her commands even in the spirit, if he could in the letter.

“I beg your pawdon, Captain Bwandon,” said Mr. McGusher, rushing up to the commander of the Ocean-Born; “I have been insulted sevewal times by a pawson that belongs to your steamaw.”

“Indeed? Who was he?” asked Neil.

“The fellow they call Ben.”

“What has he done?”

“He is vewy wude.”

“Is he? I am sorry for that.”

“He is wolling ten pins in the bowling alley with Miss Bildaw. I pwoposed to join them for a game, and though Miss Bildaw desiwed my company, he wefused to let me play.”

“That is no affair of mine, Mr. McGusher. If Miss Bilder desired you to join the party, I am sure Mr. Lunder would not object.”

“But he does object! He wequested me to leave the alley.”

“You are acquainted with Miss Bilder, then!”

“To be suaw I am. I was the guest of haw fathaw in Belfast.”

“I think I heard you say she was your sister. Is that so?”

“That is so,” replied Mr. McGusher, as he seated himself by the side of the captain of the Ocean-Born. “It is twue, though I don’t care to say much about it just yet.”

The long-lost was satisfied that he had been imprudent; and perhaps he understood the reason why he had been so. When he found it was impossible for him to dine with the clubs, he had concluded to take the meal alone, and in the absence of other company, he had called for a half bottle of champagne. He drank the whole of it, and as his head was not a very powerful piece of machinery, the wine had turned what little brains he had. Doubtless it made his legs a little uncertain, as well as his head, which explained the destruction of the crockery ware. His head had been under the weather, or he would hardly have claimed so near a relationship to Captain Bilder and his daughter. Neil Brandon saw that he was not entirely regular. Mr. McGusher wanted to be confidential in regard to his relations with Captain Bilder, and he placed his mouth so near Neil’s face that the captain could not help smelling the fumes of the wine in his breath. Tipsy or not, Neil wanted to know more about Captain Bilder’s son.

“Are you really his son?” asked the captain.

“No dowbt of it. I bwought pwoof positive to Captain Bildaw.”

“But his son was drowned in the Mississippi when a child,” added Neil, using the fragment of information he had obtained from Captain Patterdale.

“Not dwound, faw heaw I am!” said Mr. McGusher, warmly.

“But how do you know you are his son?”

“I was saved; in a wawd, I was stolen by a man of the name of Neil Bwandon.”

“Neil Brandon!” exclaimed the captain of the Ocean-Born.

“By gwacious! I didn’t think of it befowe, but yaw name is Bwandon!” replied the long-lost.

“Not only Brandon, but Neil Brandon. You say you were saved by him.”

“I was stolen fwom my pawents by this Bwandon. I don’t know why. He took me to England, and left me with a man who bwought me up as his son till he sent me to an Awphan Asylum. That’s all I know about it, but I was always suaw that I belonged to a good family.”

“But what became of Neil Brandon?” asked the captain.

“I don’t know,” replied Mr. McGusher, shaking his head.

“You were stolen by a man of the name of Neil Brandon,” repeated Neil.

“That is what I said; and if you don’t believe it you can wead this lettaw;” and the long-lost produced the epistle he had read to Mr. Bilder and Kate.

Neil read it. Perhaps he would have thought nothing of it if his mother had not directed him to avoid the Bilders. He inquired about the pieces of card, and they were explained to him. Neil knew that his own name was the same as his father’s; he knew that his mother was born in New Orleans. He was bewildered and confounded. Was his father the Neil Brandon who had stolen the child? If so, what had he done with it? And again, why had his mother forbidden him to see the Bilders any more? Why was she so worried because he was in Belfast--so worried that she could not sleep? He was tempted to call Martin Roach, and hasten back to Belfast, where he could confront Captain Bilder, and learn more from him. But he respected the wishes of his mother, and he promptly abandoned the idea.

“I beg yaw pawdon, Captain Bwandon,” said Mr. McGusher, as he took the letter from his companion’s hand; “you see there can be no mistake about this business.”

“I don’t know: I don’t understand it well enough to give an opinion,” replied Neil.

“Might I beg the favaw of an intwoduction to some of the young ladies in yaw pawty?” said the long lost, coming to the point he had had in view from the first.

“You must excuse me, Mr. McGusher, but the young ladies are not under my protection, and I don’t feel at liberty to introduce any one to them without their permission.”

Neil was firm as a rock, because he saw that his companion was tipsy in the first place, and because he believed he was an impostor, in the second. Fortunately Mr. Monroe happened to pass through the hall, at this point of the conversation, and Mr. McGusher, smarting under the indignity received at his hands, “went for him,” leaving Neil to brood over the statement in the letter that his father had stolen Captain Bilder’s son--he believed it was his father, for he could hardly think there was another Neil Brandon in the world.

“Monwoe,” shouted Mr. McGusher, as he saw his late friend pass, and rushed upon him, as if with the intention of annihilating him, “don’t you think you tweated me uncommon shabby?”

“Shabby? How so?” asked Monroe, as coolly as though the long-lost was nothing more than a common mortal.

“I didn’t expect it of you,” added the New Yorker, reproachfully.

“What do you mean?”

“Didn’t you make me a pwomise, and didn’t you bweak that pwomise?”

“I was not aware of it.”

“Didn’t you pwomise to get me an invitation to dine with that pawty?”

“No, sir; I did not! I told you if I got an invitation for you, I would call for you in your room in five minutes. That’s what I said,” laughed Monroe. “I didn’t get any invitation for you; so of course it was of no use for me to call for you.”

“Why didn’t you get the invitation? It was an easy thing faw you to do. If you had only said yaw fwiend, one to whom you was undaw pawticulaw obligations, it would have been all wight.”

“I was not willing to say all that, you see; and that was what was the matter.”

“Not willing to say it!” gasped Mr. McGusher. “I saw you chatting and laughing with the young ladies at the table without a thought of me, out in the cold.”

“These young ladies are my friends and neighbors; and of course I felt quite at home among them. They are the daughters of some of the wealthiest and most respectable men in Belfast.”

“I know it, and that was the weason why I wanted to be intwoduced to them,” growled the long-lost. “When I got into the woom, and wanted to speak to you, you walked out. You might have saved me the mawtification of being awdawed out the woom.”

“You might have saved yourself by not going into the room; and especially by not going in through the window.”

“It was shabby, Mr. Monwoe, to desawt yaw fwiend. When I went wound to the office, you went wound to the dining-woom, seated yawself by the ladies, and seemed to fawget all about yaw fwiend.”

“I have a bad memory at times.”

“I did not think it of you, Monwoe, when you could have got me in just as well as not, and intwoduced me to all the young ladies.”

“My dear fellow, don’t you see I had no right to do any such thing? I was only a guest myself.”

“The young ladies waw yaw fwiends and neighbaws, Monwoe; and--”

“But that is just the reason why I couldn’t do it,” protested the Belfaster. “If they hadn’t been my friends and neighbors, I would as lief have done it as not.”

“I don’t undawstand you.”

“Certainly I ought to be very particular whom I introduced to my young lady friends. In my humble opinion, every respectable man is in honor bound never to introduce to a young lady any person, unless he knows that person is of good character and entirely respectable.”

“Good gwacious! Do you mean to say that I am not a pawson of good chawactaw and entiawly wespectable?” demanded Mr. McGusher, with something like an expression of horror on his spooney face.

“You persist in misunderstanding me. I did not say you were not such.”

“But we waw togethaw faw two or thwee days in Bangaw.”

“I know that; but you see I am not so particular about myself,” said Monroe, with an affectation of earnestness. “While I don’t intend to keep bad company, I am not fanatical in regard to a chance acquaintance I may meet in travelling. Of course I couldn’t inquire into your moral character, when I met you at breakfast on board of the Cambridge; or when we took a room together at the Bangor House. A man may be extremely careful about his friends, you know, Mr. McGusher, without thinking it necessary to require a certificate of good moral character from every person with whom he may chance to pass the time of day in a railroad car, or at a public hotel. I have seen something of the world, Mr. McGusher; and if I happen to make the acquaintance of an unworthy person under such circumstances, why, I could stand it. I really don’t think it would seriously affect my reputation--do you?”

“Do you apply those wemarks to me, saw?”

“But it is quite a different thing with young ladies, you are aware.”

“Do you apply those wemawks to me, Mr. Monroe?” demanded the long-lost.

“What remarks?”

“Do you mean to insinuate that I am not a pawson of good mowal chawactaw?”

“Certainly not! You persist in misunderstanding me. My dear fellow, I don’t know anything at all about your character. I only said, if you were a person of bad character, that my chance acquaintance with you would not affect my reputation. You might be a gambler, a blackleg, a swindler, a thief; and I could treat you civilly, even courteously, at a hotel, without compromising my own character. That’s all I said. But when you ask me to introduce you to the daughters of my friends and neighbors, you can see for yourself that it is quite a different thing.”

“Do you insinuate--”

“My dear fellow, I don’t insinuate. I speak right out just what I mean. For aught I know, I may have conversed for hours in a hotel, a railroad car, or a steamboat, with a burglar or a blackleg. I may even have gone out to ride with a thief; but I don’t reproach myself for it, and don’t think I am damaged by it so long as I didn’t know who and what my chance acquaintance was. But I feel my responsibility when I introduce any gentleman to a young lady. Why, if you remember, I didn’t even ask you where you got that five-hundred dollar bill I changed for you.”

“No, you didn’t,” groaned Mr. McGusher.

Mr. Monroe was the most ungrateful of friends, and the long-lost went to his rooms to consider the situation. It was not pleasant to think that he had been snubbed by almost every one he met. Even Monroe, whom he had treated like a prince, upon whom he had poured out money like water, gave him the cold shoulder. Everybody conspired to keep him out of the presence of the young ladies. With all the eight hundred dollars in his pocket, with his steamer at the wharf, and his elegant parlor at the hotel he almost realized that he was a nobody--not quite, for it was quite impossible for him to lose his self-esteem. After a while, he brightened up. It was only a passing cloud that obscured his sky; all would yet be well, and he should yet shine the brightest of the bright.

“There was a sound of revelry” below, that evening, for the clubs had a grand hop in the hall. The music was like a funeral knell to Mr. McGusher, for the door of paradise was closed against him. The young ladies were whirling in the mazy dance, but he could not whirl them. At eleven the festivities were finished, and the officers and crew of the Ocean-Born returned to the steamer.