SILVER-PLATED.
By W. L. Alden.
HE Etruria was nearing New York, and the prospect of the inevitable interview with the Custom House officers had already cast a gloom over the passengers. For the most part they were silent, and their faces wore an anxious and solemn expression. The Rev. Mr. Waterman, of the Eighth Day Baptist Church, who had bought largely of ready-made clothing in London, even suggested that it might be well to hold a prayer meeting in the saloon.
"The Rev. Mr. Waterman."
A group of half a dozen men were sitting in the lee of one of the deck-houses, smoking silently, when one of the number, a young and sanguine person, suddenly exclaimed:
"I don't believe any honest man ever has any trouble with the Custom House. It's the fellows who want to defraud the Government who make all the complaints."
"What you say may be patriotism, and it may be ignorance"
"What's the difference?" murmured a cynical interrupter.
"I never tried to defraud the government."
"But," continued the speaker, "it isn't true. I never tried to defraud the Government, but for all that I've had more trouble with the Custom House than if I'd been an honest collector of the port, trying not to mix up politics with the business of the office."
"America expects every man to pay his duty, Colonel," replied the sanguine young man, with a vague reminiscence of Nelson. "Tell us about your trouble, and I rather think you'll have to admit that it was because you didn't want to pay duty on something.
The Colonel was the usual kind of American colonel, and was understood to be a sort of theatrical manager, a position which in the United States entitles a man to the relative rank of colonel in the militia, and commodore in the canal boat service. He had on several occasions shown a know-
