“Would you like a little fun this evening, Gilbert?” asked his room-mate, on the succeeding morning.

“Yes,” said Gilbert; “I always enjoy fun, and especially now when I have lost my place, since it will help me to forget my bad luck. Is there anything up?”

“Yes; we are going to play a practical joke on Alphonso Jones. We are going to gratify his taste for associating with the aristocracy.”

“What is your plan?”

“I have discovered in Bleecker Street a stylish barber, who has a smattering of French. In feet, he has served me more than once. He has entered into our plot, and agreed to personate a French count—the Count de Montmorency.”

200“Good!” said Gilbert, laughing. “When are the two to be brought together?”

“This very evening, in our room. I shall despatch a note to Mr. Jones during the day, inviting him to meet my illustrious visitor. Hayward and Kennedy are in the secret, and will be present also. Of course you will be with us, but you must keep on a straight face.”

“Never fear for me,” said Gilbert. “I will take care not to let the cat out of the bag.”

In conformity with the plan, Mr. Alphonso Jones received, during the day, the following note:—

“Dear Mr. Jones,—I shall be glad if you will favor me with your company this evening, in my room. I have been fortunate enough to make the acquaintance of an illustrious French nobleman, Count Ernest de Montmorency, who, in the most condescending manner, has accepted an invitation to spend this evening with me. You will find him very affable and agreeable, notwithstanding his superiority in social rank. I feel a little diffident about receiving 201him, not being so well up in the usages of fashionable society as you are—I rely on you to help me out. I have invited Hayward and Kennedy also to be present. Greyson will, of course, be with us. If you have any other engagement, break it for my sake.

“Yours truly,

“W. Ingalls.”

The face of Jones was overspread with smiles as he read this epistle, and he felt at least a foot taller. He could conceive of nothing more glorious than to be introduced to a foreign nobleman. Once in his life it had been his privilege to make the acquaintance of a brigadier-general, who had given him two fingers to shake, and said, “I am glad to meet you, sir.” Most of the fashionable acquaintances of whom he boasted had no existence save in his imagination, but this general was a reality; he was only a general of volunteers, but that made no difference to Alphonso; he had managed hundreds of times to make capital of his greatness in some such way as this: 202“My friend, General Smith, remarked to me one day;” or, “Speaking of brave men reminds me of my intimate friend, General Smith.” But even General Smith was not for a moment to be compared to the Count Ernest de Montmorency; there was something peculiarly high-toned in the name, Alphonso thought. So thought Mr. Ingalls, or he would have invented some other.

Alphonso was anxious to communicate to some one else the honor in store for him; he would like to have gone to his employer at once, and said, “Mr. Simpson, I am to meet the Count de Montmorency this evening.” This, however, even to Alphonso, seemed rather an abrupt and uncalled-for announcement, and he had to consider how best to manage the matter, for he was determined that Mr. Simpson should know it. It was not entirely easy, but finally a bright and satisfactory idea dawned upon the happy Jones.

He went up to the desk, behind which his employer, a stout, practical man of business, was sitting, and coughed by the way of arresting his attention.

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