closed behind him, the proprietor called out to the porter:
"Oh, Rube! Come here and take this Brummagem shooting-iron up to the hotel. Thank goodness it is the last one we have in stock, and I'll never buy another."
"I wonder how that boastful bird gun feels now," whispered the bamboo. "His pride had to take a tumble, didn't it? There's no Brummagem about me, I can tell you."
"What do you mean by—by—" The word was too hard for me, and I stumbled over it.
"By Brummagem?" said the bamboo, who felt so good over the discomfiture of the English fowling-piece that he was disposed to be friendly as well as civil. "Why, it's something that is fine and showy, but which is not in reality worth any thing. A Yankee would say that that double-barrel was a 'shoddy' article."
"I feel guilty every time I sell one of those guns," continued the proprietor. "They are made in Birmingham, England, at the cost of nine dollars apiece by the dozen."
"That dude will never hurt any thing with
