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MISCELLANEOUS.

A PRIVATE ROOM, OR THE EFFECTS OF PUNCH DRINKING.

One particular dark, damp, dull, drizzly and disagreeable day, in the latter part of November, a tall, gaunt, queer looking customer, dressed in a blue coat with yellow buttons, with 'yaller' striped pantaloons and calf-skin terminations, sat 'solitary and alone' in a little room, situated in a certain little tavern, in --street, Philadelphia.

Before him was a little round table, on whose marble top was 'not a little' pitcher of smoking punch, 'schreechen hot,' and a wine glass. The solitary individual was York—nothing else, dear child—and that was his second pitcher full—nigh his second empty. One minute after, and you couldn't—fact, you see—have squeezed a drop out of either pitcher or glass, by a forty-two pounder hydraulic press.

York rang the bell. The waiter popped his head in the door.

'Ring, sa?'

'Of course I did. Is it clearing off?'

'No, sa—damp, sa—fog so thick, sa, you could ladle it out with a spoon, sa.'

'Have anything, sa?'

'More punch, and strong.'

'Yes, sa—immediately, sa.'

The waiter withdrew, and in a few seconds returned with a third pitcher of punch, and York was beginning to feel glorious, when, on raising up his eyes, he saw his own figure in a pier glass, directly opposite.

He rubbed his eyes again.

'By thunder!' said he, 'here's some fellow sitting right before me; I'll swear there's impudence for you! This is a private room, sir, for my sole accommodation.'

He waited a minute, expecting an answer, but his reflection only stared at him and held its peace.

'I was saying, sir, that this is my private room—mine, sir!' cried York, fetching his voice an octave higher than it was before. No answer was made, and he rung the bell furiously. The waiter made his appearance again.

'Ring, sa?'

'Yes, I did ring. Didn't I ask for a private room?'

'Yes, sa, this is a private room, sa.'

'It is? Why, there's a fellow sitting right opposite me now, on the other side of the table. Rot his impudence.'

'Table, sa?—fellow, sa?'

'Yes, there is. Well, just never mind. Bring on some more punch and a couple of glasses.'

In a very short time the fourth pitcher, with two glasses, made its appearance.

York filled one of the glasses, and then shoved it over the table.

'Will you drink?' said he, addressing the figure in the glass.

'Oh, you won't, eh? Well, I—I will.'

And so he did.

'Better drink, old fellow,' continued he. 'Your liquor is getting cold, and you look as if you was fond of the thing.'

No answer being returned, York finished the pitcher and rang the bell again. In popped the waiter.

'Ring, sa?'

'To be sure I did. Didn't you hear the b-b-bell?'

'I did,' replied the waiter.

'Didn't I order a p-p-private room? Eh?'

'Yes, sa, this is a private room, sa.'

'A pretty private this is, with a f-f-fellow sitting right opposite that won't take a glass of punch when it's offered him, and a r-r-red nosed man at that. O, well, never mind, bring more punch and t-t-tumblers. I'll try him again.'

Presently pitcher number five with glasses to match, was borne in with due state.

'Better try some, old boy,' said York, coaxingly, to his double. The reflex merely looked good natured, but said nothing.

'Well,' continued York, with a sigh, 'if this isn't the most infamous. Never mind, I'll drink the punch.'

And so he did, every bit of it. About five minutes sufficed to end the pitcher.

York rang the bell superfluously. The waiter came again.

'Ring, sa?'

'Why certain. Why shouldn't I—Where's the man—who keeps the place?'

'Boss, sa, I'll see him, sa.'

Shortly after, mine host, a quiet looking little man, with a mottled, calico pattern face, and a shining bald head, made his appearance.

'W-w-what's to pay!' demanded York, rising and assuming an air of dignity.

'Five punoles—five lovies, sir.'

'There's the money, sir,' said York, forking over the coin. 'And now I want to know why, when I call for a private room, you should put me in here with s-s-somebody?'

'There's nobody here but you and I,' quoth the landlord.

'Nobody? Do you s'pose I can't see? Do you think I'm drunk? There, I showed you the fellow, by jingo!'

'A doll, sir? I must confess I can't see but you can—eh!' And York dragged landlord to the table. 'Look there, one about pointing to the—'