Gladstone Burr is a small, industrious, married man. His little nest of a home is in Brooklyn. Perhaps the most emphasised feature of the Burr family home is Mrs. B. She is a large woman, direct as Bismarck in her diplomacy, and when Gladstone Burr does wrong, she tells him of it firmly and fully for his good. There is but one bad habit which can with slightest show of truth be charged to Gladstone Burr. The barriers of his nature, yielding to social pressure, at intervals give way. At such times the soul of Gladstone Burr issues forth on a sea of strong drink.

But, as he says himself, “these bats never last longer than ten days.”

Notwithstanding this meagre limit, Mrs. B. does not approve of Gladstone Burr when thus socially relaxed. And from time to time she has left nothing unsaid on that point. Indeed, Mrs. B. has so fully defined her position on the subject, that Gladstone Burr, while he in no sense fears her, does not care to go home unless he is either very drunk or very sober. There is no middle ground in tippling where Gladstone Burr and Mrs. B. can meet with his consent. He is not superstitious, but he avers that whenever he has been drinking and meets Mrs. B. he has had bad luck. His only safety lies in either being sober and avoiding it, or in taking refuge in a jag too thick for wifely admonitions to pierce.

There arose last week in the life of Gladstone Burr some event that it was absolutely necessary to celebrate. For two days he gave himself up to his destiny in that behalf, and being very busy with his festival Gladstone Burr did not go home.

Toward the close of the third day he was considering with himself how best to approach his domicile so as to avoid the full force of the storm. He was not so deep in his cups at that moment, but Mrs. B.'s opinions gave him concern. Still, he felt the need of going home. He was tired and he was sick. Gladstone Burr knew he would be a great deal sicker in the morning, but he felt of a four-bit piece in his pocket, and remarking something about the hair of a dog, took courage, and was confident he carried the means of restoring himself.

But how to get home!

It was at this crisis in the affairs of Gladstone Burr that his friend, Frederick Upham Adams, came up. An inspiration seized Gladstone Burr. Adams should take him home in a carriage. Mrs. B. didn't know Adams, being careful of her acquaintances. They would say that he, Gladstone Burr, had been ill, almost dead from apoplexy, or sunstroke, during the recent hot spell, and that “Dr. Adams” was bringing him home.

It was a most happy thought.

“Don't be alarmed, Mrs. Burr,” said Adams, as an hour later he supported the drooping Gladstone Burr through the hall and stowed him away on a sofa. “I am Dr. Adams, of Williamsburg. Mr. Burr has suffered a great shock, but he is out of danger now. All he needs is rest—perfect rest!”

Gladstone Burr gasped piteously from the sofa. Mrs. B. was deceived perfectly. The ruse worked like a charm.