The coroner spoke truly.  So far from being ashamed to “tell ’em so,” he was always “telling ’em so,” never missing an opportunity, at political meetings, to inform the firemen that he was “one of ’em,” and that no mark of honor, even from the President of the United States, was equal to his fireman’s badge.  The continual “telling of ’em so” had aided in procuring for him his present official distinction, and was destined to earn higher honors for him at a future day.

The coroner tore off a fresh chew from a half hand of Cavendish which had been well gnawed at all the edges, and told Marcus that he might “fire away” again.

Marcus then proceeded to state that, on the morning after the eventful night, he woke up early.  His dreams had been horrible, and his waking reflections were no less distressing.  The thought that Mr. Minford should have suspected him, thus unjustly, of the basest of crimes, and that they, who had been such good friends, should have parted in a way that effectually cut off reconciliation; and the other thought, that this mischief had been wrought by some unscrupulous enemy, when he had always fondly believed that he never could have a foe in the world—­these thoughts, occurring with great force to a nervous and sensitive man, nearly maddened him.  He felt that if he remained in the house that day, as usual, and brooded over his troubles, he would grow crazy.  While he was pondering what to do, his eyes chanced to fall on an invitation which he had received from Mr. Wesley Tiffles, to meet him at the Cortlandt street ferry at seven and a quarter o’clock that morning, and accompany him and his panorama of Africa to New Jersey.  The day before, when this invitation came to hand, he had determined not to accept it; but it now seemed to offer him a capital chance to see some excitement and ran.  As these remedies were precisely what his mental malady required, he jumped to dress himself, and hurried out of the house, seeing nobody as he made his exit, and leaving no word of explanation.  He took no luggage, except a clean collar, as he intended to return the following day.  He was even so careless and forgetful as to leave his purse behind him, and found, on reaching the ferry, that he had barely two dollars in his pocket.

QUESTION BY A JUROR.  “Wos they bank bills; and, if so, what bank wos they on?”

Marcus answered the question to the best of his knowledge, and the juror sagely nodded, and took the reply under treatment.

“I say, Tubbs,” cried the coroner, “wot’s the use of askin’ them kind o’ questions?”

Tubbs looked up from his ruminations, somewhat confused.  The politic Overtop—­that model of a rising lawyer—­here put in a word for Tubbs, and said that the question, in his opinion, was a very pertinent one, for it went to test the memory of his client.  If Mr. Wilkeson had just committed murder, he would hardly be in that calm frame of mind which is necessary to the recollection of small facts.  He hoped that the ingenious gentleman would ask many more such questions.  By these judicious remarks, Overtop gained one fast friend for his client on the jury.