The face, from its indecent expression, had particularly animated the

zeal of our iconoclast; and it was against the face that he began his

operations. The great height of the demigod--for he stood a fathom

and half in his stocking-feet--offered a preliminary obstacle to this

attack. But here, in the first skirmish of the battle, intellect already

began to triumph over matter. By means of a pair of library steps,

the injured householder gained a posture of advantage; and, with great

swipes of the coal-axe, proceeded to decapitate the brute.

Two hours later, what had been the erect image of a gigantic coal-porter

turned miraculously white, was now no more than a medley of disjected

members; the quadragenarian torso prone against the pedestal; the

lascivious countenance leering down the kitchen stair; the legs, the

arms, the hands, and even the fingers, scattered broadcast on the lobby

floor. Half an hour more, and all the debris had been laboriously carted

to the kitchen; and Morris, with a gentle sentiment of triumph, looked

round upon the scene of his achievements. Yes, he could deny all

knowledge of it now: the lobby, beyond the fact that it was partly

ruinous, betrayed no trace of the passage of Hercules. But it was a

weary Morris that crept up to bed; his arms and shoulders ached, the

palms of his hands burned from the rough kisses of the coal-axe, and

there was one smarting finger that stole continually to his mouth. Sleep

long delayed to visit the dilapidated hero, and with the first peep of

day it had again deserted him.

The Wrong Box