I never heard the young fellow apply the name of the odious pretended fish to the little man from that day forward.

—­Here we are, then, at our boarding—­house.  First, myself, the Professor, a little way from the head of the table, on the right, looking down, where the “Autocrat” used to sit.  At the further end sits the Landlady.  At the head of the table, just now, the Koh-i-noor, or the gentleman with the diamond.  Opposite me is a Venerable Gentleman with a bland countenance, who as yet has spoken little.  The Divinity Student is my neighbor on the right,—­and further down, that Young Fellow of whom I have repeatedly spoken.  The Landlady’s Daughter sits near the Koh-i-noor, as I said.  The Poor Relation near the Landlady.  At the right upper corner is a fresh-looking youth of whose name and history I have as yet learned nothing.  Next the further left-hand corner, near the lower end of the table, sits the deformed person.  The chair at his side, occupying that corner, is empty.  I need not specially mention the other boarders, with the exception of Benjamin Franklin, the landlady’s son, who sits near his mother.  We are a tolerably assorted set,—­difference enough and likeness enough; but still it seems to me there is something wanting.  The Landlady’s Daughter is the prima donna in the way of feminine attractions.  I am not quite satisfied with this young lady.  She wears more “jewelry,” as certain young ladies call their trinkets, than I care to see on a person in her position.  Her voice is strident, her laugh too much like a giggle, and she has that foolish way of dancing and bobbing like a quill-float with a “minnum” biting the hook below it, which one sees and weeps over sometimes in persons of more pretensions.  I can’t help hoping we shall put something into that empty chair yet which will add the missing string to our social harp.  I hear talk of a rare Miss who is expected.  Something in the schoolgirl way, I believe.  We shall see.

—­My friend who calls himself The Autocrat has given me a caution which I am going to repeat, with my comment upon it, for the benefit of all concerned.

Professor,—­said he, one day,—­don’t you think your brain will run dry before a year’s out, if you don’t get the pump to help the cow?  Let me tell you what happened to me once.  I put a little money into a bank, and bought a check-book, so that I might draw it as I wanted, in sums to suit.  Things went on nicely for a time; scratching with a pen was as easy as rubbing Aladdin’s Lamp; and my blank check-book seemed to be a dictionary of possibilities, in which I could find all the synonymes of happiness, and realize any one of them on the spot.  A check came back to me at last with these two words on it,—­no funds.  My check-book was a volume of waste-paper.

Now, Professor,—­said he,—­I have drawn something out of your bank, you know; and just so sure as you keep drawing out your soul’s currency without making new deposits, the next thing will be, no funds,—­and then where will you be, my boy?  These little bits of paper mean your gold and your silver and your copper, Professor; and you will certainly break up and go to pieces, if you don’t hold on to your metallic basis.