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In one of these forays for water, the beau was decidedly cornered by two of the “shop girls.” They, sly creatures, observed poor Charley from an upper “landing” of the stairway, in the entry below, watching his chance to get a clear coast to fill his dirty bucket. The moment the beau darted out, down rush the girls–slam to the door and bar it!

The beau, dreaming of no such diabolical inventions, gives the pump an awful surge, fills the bucket, looks down the street, and–O! murder, there come two ladies–the first cuts of the city, to whom Charley had once the honor of a personal introduction! With his face turned over his shoulder at the ladies –his nether limbs desperately nerved for tall walking,–he dashes at the supposed open entryway, and–nearly knocked the panel out of the door, smashing the bucket, spilling the water, and slightly killing himself!

It was almost “a cruel joke,” in the girls, who, taking advantage of the stunning effect of the operation, unbarred the door and vanished, before poor Charley picked himself up and scrambled into the lower store to recuperate.

Weeks ran on; the beau had enjoyed a respite from the wiles of his persecutors, when one morning he was forced to come down into the store in his working gear, well be-spattered with oleaginous substances, dust and dirt; in this gear, Charley presented about as ugly and primitive a looking Christian, as might not often–before California life was dreamed of–be seen in a city. We did quite an extensive retail trade–the store was rarely free from ton -ish citizens, mostly “fine ladies,” in quest of fine perfumes, soaps, oils, etc., to sweeten and decorate their own beautiful selves. But, before venturing in, our beau had an eye about the horizon, to see that no impediments offered; things looked safe, and in comes the beau.

We were upon very fair terms with Charley, and he was wont to regale us with many of his long stories about the company he faced into, the “conquests” he made, and the times he had with this and that, in high life. Fanny Kemble was about that time–belle of the season! Lioness of the day! setting corduroy in a high fever, and raising an awful furore –generally! Alas! how soon such things–cave in!

Charley got behind the counter to stow away some articles he had brought down, and began one of his usual harangues:

“Theatre, last night, Jack?”

“No; couldn’t get off; wanted to,” said we.

“O, you missed a grand opportunity to see the fashion beauty and wealthy people of this city! Such a house! Crowded from pit to dome, met a hundred and fifty of my friends–ladies of the first families in town, with all the ‘high boys’ of my acquaintance!”

“And how did Fanny do Juliet?” we asked.

“Do it? Elegant! I sat in the second stage box with the two Misses W. (Chestnut street belles!) and Colonel S. and Sam. G., and his sister (all nobs of course!), and they were truly entranced with Miss Kemble’s Juliet! I threw for Miss G. her elegant bouquet,–Fanny kissed her fingers to me, and with a look at me, as I stood up so–(the beau gave a tall rear up and was about to spread himself, when glancing at the door, he sees–two ladies! right in the store!) thunder! ” he exclaims.

If the beau had been hit by a streak of lightning, he would not have dropped sooner than he did, behind the counter.

The ladies proved to be nobody else than those of the very two Misses W. themselves; they lived close by, and frequently came to the store. Beneath our counter were endless packages, broken glass, refuse oils, rancid perfumes, dust, dirt, grease, charcoal, soap, and about everything else dingy and offensive to the eye and nose. The place afforded a wretched refuge for a hull so big and nice as our beau’s, but there he was, much in our way too, with the mournful fact, for Charley, that if those “fine ladies” stayed less than half an hour, without overhauling about every article in the store, it would be a white stone indeed in the fortunes of the beau! The ladies sat; they dickered and examined–we exhibited and put away, the beau lying crouched and crucifying at our feet, and we sniggering fit to burst at the contretemps of the poor victim. Charley stood it with the most heroic resignation for full twenty minutes, when the two Misses W. got up to go. Casting their eyes towards the door, who should be about to pass but the divine Fanny!

Fanny Kemble! Seeing the two Misses W., whose recognition and acquaintance was worth cultivating–even by the haughty queen of the drama and belle of the hour; she rushed in, they all had a talk–and you know how women can talk, will talk for an hour or two, all about nothing in particular, except to talk. Imagine our beau,–“Phancy his phelinks,” as Yellow Plush says, and to heighten the effect, in comes the boss! He comes behind the counter–he sees poor Charley sprawling–he roars out:

“By Jupiter! Mr. Whackstack, are you sick? dead ?”

“Dead?” utters Fanny.

“A man dead behind your counter, sir?” scream the Misses W.!

With one desperate splurge, up jumps the beau; rushes out, up stairs–gets on his clothes, and we did not see him again for over two years!