TEDDY MCSLUSH was the General Utility man of the Half-Way House.  Born down East, of an Irish father and Scotch mother, he was eminently calculated to live by his wits.  His natural talents were numerous and sparkling.  He could tell more lies without notes than any man in the State, or make a beautiful prayer, all in the way of business.  When a runaway couple were married at the Half-Way House, he would not only give the bride away in a voice broken by emotion, but he would bless the bridegroom with tears in his eyes, and he would do all this at the lowest market price.  And every Sunday he dressed in a black suit and sung in the choir, and patted the little children on the head, and was generally respected.

He approached ARCHIBALD, and poked him in the ribs, facetiously.

“Ah!” he ejaculated; “and it’s a cryin’ shame, so it is, that a fine lad like yerself should be took with sich a complaint.  It’s modeshty what ails ye, man.  And wasn’t it Mester JOHN SHAKESPEER himself, him as writ the illegant versis, Lord luv his ashis, as says to me only jist afore his breath soured on him, ‘TEDDY,’ says he, wid much feelin’, ’TEDDY, modeshty is a fine thing in a woman,’ says he, ’but it’s death to a man.  Promise me now,’ says he, ‘for I feel as this clay is a coolin’ fast—­promise me, TEDDY, as you’ll never hev nothink to do with it—­no, not never, my boy.’  I promised him, and Hevins knows as I’ve kep’ my word.  But, Lord alive, I’m a keepin’ you all the time from yer own dear wife, as is a dyin’ to see you—­and a sweet dear it is.”

He ushered ARCHIBALD into the Ladies’ Parlor, closed the door, and applied his ear to the key-hole, with an air of the most respectful attention.

According to TEDDY’S way of thinking, ANN was not hankering for ARCHIBALD’S society.

“What do you want here?” said she, sharply.

“Oh, don’t speak cross to me, Miss BRUMMET,” said he, looking timidly around.  Then he put his finger on his lip, and shook his head energetically.

“I know all about it, you see,” said he; “JEFF told me.  Oh my! wasn’t I struck up, though?  But I’ll never tell. He couldn’t come, you see.  His mother sent for him, and—­”

“You lie,” she broke in fiercely; “it’s a put up job between you two.  But it won’t do; do you hear?  It won’t do.”

“Oh, don’t look at me that way,” said ARCHIBALD, backing toward the door; “I want to go home.”

“I’d like to see you go home,” she replied, placing her back against the door.  “You must think I’m a fool, to let you off as easy as that.  You’ve got to sit up with me this evening, anyhow.”

“But what would folks say?” stammered ARCHIBALD.  “Oh, think of my reputation, Miss BRUMMET, and let me go.”

“Your reputation!” she sneered.  “Humbug!  Men don’t have any reputation, except when they steal a woman’s.  Come,” she added, in a more conciliatory tone, “we’ll have some supper, and then we’ll have a game of euchre.”