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Rh “Excuse my brusquerie,” he hissed; “but, sir, do you suppose— That portly man who passed us had a wen upon his nose?”

And then at last it dawned on me, the fellow must be mad; And when I soothingly replied: “I do not think he had,” The little wizened Spanish man subsided in his chair, And shrouded in his raven cloak resumed his owlish stare. But when I tried to slip away he turned and glared at me, And oh, that fishlike face of his was sinister to see: “Forgive me if I startled you; of course you think I’m queer; No doubt you wonder who I am, so solitary here; You question why the passers-by I piercingly review… Well, listen, my bibacious friend, I’ll tell my tale to you.

“It happened twenty years ago, and in another land: A maiden young and beautiful, two suitors for her hand. My rival was the lucky one; I vowed I would repay; Revenge has mellowed in my heart, it’s rotten ripe to-day. My happy rival skipped away, vamoosed, he left no trace;