a bank equal to any man in New York; and we all esteem him very much.
He labors under the mild hallucination, however, that he must be
constantly doing something, and nearly all this is expended in
cleaning his gun. Morning and evening it undergoes this polishing
process, and on Sunday he rests himself by giving it another wipe.

"It's a little leaded, you know, George," he remarks, and at it he
goes. Human nature may stand this, but guns won't.

On one occasion when he tried to jam a cleaning rod through it, larger
than the bore, it refused to go.

[Illustration: "I KNEW IT WOULD COME OUT."]

"You won't, won't you," said he, as he raised it aloft and brought it
down with all his might on the floor. It went in; but the gun bulged
just as any good gun will do, and the eruption yet stands on the
barrel, a monument of his determination.

Steve was called in, and a pulling match ensued. Steve had hold of the
gun and Thee firmly clenched the rod. The gun could stand the combined
strength of two powerful men no better than it could resist the
jamming of the rod, and they parted. Steve went backwards over Mary
Rogers, a dog, and took a moist seat in a tub of warm water, which had
been prepared for cleaning guns. Steve said the water was hot, while
our fastidious friend looked bland, gathered himself up from out a
pile of empty shells, mixed with scraps of red flannel and oil-rags,
and said "I knew it would come out."

Josephus, the great Canarsie fisherman, is not an enthusiast about