“All that has been thought of,” was the reply.  “Before I leave the city, I shall give a private exhibition of the panorama to a few ministers of various denominations, in the lecture room of some up-town church.  Ministers, you know, are debarred by their profession from attending the opera and theatres, and will catch at the chance to see a panorama for nothing.  In private life, they are capital people, as a class—­I have known several of them—­and will willingly certify that the panorama is a highly moral, instructive, and interesting exhibition.  I think I can rely on my persuasive powers for that much.  These certificates I shall print on my posters and handbills.  They will draw moral audiences.  Moral audiences do not break furniture, &c., &c.  Comprehend my line of argument?”

“Perfectly,” said Marcus; “and very ingenious, as an argument.”

“I thought you would like it.  And now, to drop the subject, I want you three fellows to come up to my rooms, No. 121, third floor, Bartholomew Buildings, Broadway—­you remember—­and see this great work of art, early next week.”

“Is it nearly finished?” asked Marcus.

“Yes—­in my mind’s eye.  That is the main thing.  The painting has not yet been begun.  It will be a very simple matter.  The canvas will be about four hundred feet long.  One half of it will be a dead level of yellow paint, for desert; and the rest, perpendicular stripes of green paint, for jungle.  A good artist, with a whitewash brush and two tubsful of paint, ought to do up the whole panorama in two days.  The heads and tails of animated life, the two small lakes, and a few other objects of interest, such as the sun, the moon, birds flying in the air, &c., could be put in afterward by an artist of higher grade.  And, by the way, now I think of it, I may as well open with a sunrise off Cape Guardafui, and a distant view of the Straits of Babel Mandel, give a passing glance at the sources of the Nile, which lie in that undiscovered region, a brief glimpse at the Mountains of the Moon, and wind up with a splendid sunset in the Bight of Benin.  It—­”

Mr. Tiffles’s observations were cut short by the sudden entrance of Miss Philomela Wilkeson.  She shot rapidly into the room, but, when her eyes rested on Mr. Tiffles, she recoiled with maiden modesty, and stepped back as if to beat a retreat.  Then, recovering her self-possession in a small measure, she stepped forward again, and said, in the blandest of tones, with just the least virgin coyness: 

“I thought perhaps I had left my scissors here this afternoon.”

Messrs. Wilkeson, Overtop, and Maltboy asserted, without rising from their seats, that they had not seen her scissors, and doubted very much whether the scissors were in that room.  But Wesley Tiffles, who was the most polite and obliging of mortals when there was a lady in the case, rose respectfully upon her entrance, and insisted upon searching the apartment for the missing tool.