Genre Fiction. Page - 218

lled
The forest, letting in the sun, and made
Broad pathways for the hunter and the knight
And so returned.

For while he lingered there,
A doubt that ever smouldered in the hearts
Of those great Lords and Barons of his realm
Flashed forth and into war: for most of these,
Colleaguing with a score of petty kings,
Made head against him, crying, 'Who is he
That he should rule us? who hath proven him
King Uther's son? for lo! we look at him,
And find nor face nor bearing, limbs nor voice,
Are like to those of Uther whom we knew.
This is the son of Gorlois, not the King;
This is the son of Anton, not the King.'

And Arthur, passing thence to battle, felt
Travail, and throes and agonies of the life,
Desiring to be joined with Guinevere;
And thinking as he rode, 'Her father said
That there between the man and beast they die.
Shall I not lift her from this land of beasts
Up to my throne, and side by side with m

trodden out; and before long, therewere several burnt fingers of the party. But the solid quantity ofcookery accomplished was out of proportion with so much display;and when we desisted, after two applications of the fire, the soundegg was little more than loo-warm; and as for a la papier, it was acold and sordid fricassee of printer's ink and broken egg-shell.We made shift to roast the other two, by putting them close to theburning spirits; and that with better success. And then weuncorked the bottle of wine, and sat down in a ditch with our canoeaprons over our knees. It rained smartly. Discomfort, when it ishonestly uncomfortable and makes no nauseous pretensions to thecontrary, is a vastly humorous business; and people well steepedand stupefied in the open air are in a good vein for laughter.From this point of view, even egg a la papier offered by way offood may pass muster as a sort of accessory to the fun. But thismanner of jest, although it may be taken in good part, does notinvite

e that?"

"You have chosen the only good bit in the painting," he declared stoutly. "Look at the boy's lips. Caravaggio must have modeled them from a girl's. What business has a fellow with pouting red lips like them to wear a sword on his thigh?"

Joan laughed with joyousness that was good to hear.

"Pooh! Run away and smite that ball with a long stick!" she said.

"Hum! More than the Italian could have done."

He was ridiculously in earnest. Joan colored suddenly and busied herself with tubes of paint. She believed he was jealous of the handsome Lombard. She began to mix some pigments on the palette. Delgrado, already regretting an inexplicable outburst, turned from the picture and looked at Murillo's "woman clothed with the sun, and the moon under her feet, and upon her head a diadem of twelve stars."

"Now, please help me to appreciate that and you will find me a willing student," he murmured.

But Joan had recovered her self-possession. "Suppose we come off the h

indeed. I noticed it when I ventured to address monsieur on the steps of the Opera House."

I remained gloomily silent. It was one thing to avail myself of the society of a very popular little maitre d'hotel, holiday making in his own capital, and quite another to take him even a few steps into my confidence. So I said nothing, but my eyes, which travelled around the room, were weary.

"After all," Louis continued, helping himself to a cigarette, "what is there in a place like this to amuse? We are not Americans or tourists. The Montmartre is finished. The novelists and the story-tellers have killed it. The women come here because they love to show their jewelry, to flirt with the men. The men come because their womankind desire it, and because it is their habit. But for the rest there is nothing. The true Parisian may come here, perhaps, once or twice a year,--no more. For the man of the world--such as you and I, monsieur,--these places do not exist."

I glanced at my companion a l

r as she jumped up and down in rage and pointed a finger at him. "You get out of here, Melvin Hastings! You're not a nice boy at all!"

Face red, he had hastily retreated as the teacher assured Alice and the rest of the girls that he had made a simple mistake. But how angry Alice had been! It was a week before she would speak to him.

He smiled and sank back deeply into the pillow. He remembered how proud he had been when old Doc Collins, who came out to do the honors every Fall, had told him there wasn't a thing wrong with him and that if he continued to drink his milk regularly he'd grow up to be a football player. He could still hear Doc's words whistling through his teeth and feel the coldness of the stethoscope on his chest.

Suddenly, he sat upright in bed in the darkness.

Stethoscope!

They had tapped and inspected and listened to Alice that day, and all the other examination days.

If Doc Collins had been unable to find a heartbeat in her he'd have fainted--and spr

been a source of great wonder to me how certain very plain people of my acquaintance could possibly think themselves handsome. But I see it all now! Can you not, however, leave the beauty out, and give me some sort of an idea-about yourself for my imagination to work upon?"

"Certainly!" replied Nattie, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye that "C" knew not of. "Imagine, if you please, a tall young man, with--"

"C" "broke" quickly, saying,

"Oh, no! You cannot deceive me in that way! Under protest I accept the height, but spurn the sex!"

"Why, you do not suppose I am a lady, do you?" queried Nattie.

"I am quite positive you are. There is a certain difference in the 'sending,' of a lady and gentleman, that I have learned to distinguish. Can you truly say I am wrong?"

Nattie evaded a direct reply, by saying,

"People who think they know so much are often deceived; now I make no surmises about you, but ask, fairly and squarely, shall I call you Mr., Miss, or Mrs. 'C

ts upon them for the price of the birds; others had bills of exchange in their pockets, or in belts. Some of these documents, carefully unwrinkled and dried, were little less fresh in appearance that day, than the present page will be under ordinary circumstances, after having been opened three or four times.

In that lonely place, it had not been easy to obtain even such common commodities in towns, as ordinary disinfectants. Pitch had been burnt in the church, as the readiest thing at hand, and the frying-pan in which it had bubbled over a brazier of coals was still there, with its ashes. Hard by the Communion-Table, were some boots that had been taken off the drowned and preserved--a gold-digger's boot, cut down the leg for its removal--a trodden- down man's ankle-boot with a buff cloth top--and others--soaked and sandy, weedy and salt.

From the church, we passed out into the churchyard. Here, there lay, at that time, one hundred and forty-five bodies, that had come ashore from the wreck. He h

ly thing which appeared black and was not black. Spike shuddered. He had never liked the sight of blood.

The match spluttered and went out. Spike looked around. He felt hopelessly alone. Not a pedestrian; not a light. The houses, set well back from the street, were dark, forbiddingly dark.

He saw a street-car rattle past, bound on the final run of the night for the car-sheds at East End. Then he was alone again--alone and frightened.

He felt the necessity for action. He must do something--something, but what? What was there to do?

A great fear gripped him. He was with the body. The body was in his cab. He would be arrested for the murder of the man!

Of course he knew he didn't do it. The woman had committed the murder.

Spike swore. He had almost forgotten the woman. Where was she? How had she managed to leave the taxicab? When had the man, who now lay sprawled in the cab, entered it?

He had driven straight from the Union Station to the address given by the woma

illings, say five, say two andsix. You don't say even two and six? You say two and three? No.You shan't have the lot for two and three. I'd sooner give it toyou, if you was good-looking enough. Here! Missis! Chuck the oldman and woman into the cart, put the horse to, and drive 'em awayand bury 'em!" Such were the last words of Willum Marigold, my ownfather, and they were carried out, by him and by his wife, my ownmother, on one and the same day, as I ought to know, having followedas mourner.

My father had been a lovely one in his time at the Cheap Jack work,as his dying observations went to prove. But I top him. I don'tsay it because it's myself, but because it has been universallyacknowledged by all that has had the means of comparison. I haveworked at it. I have measured myself against other publicspeakers,--Members of Parliament, Platforms, Pulpits, Counsellearned in the law,--and where I have found 'em good, I have took abit of imagination from 'em, and where I have found 'em

me may be rotten;
But if twenty for accidents should be detach'd,
It will leave me just sixty sound eggs to hatch'd.

"Well, sixty sound eggs--no; sound chickens, I mean;
Of these some may die--we'll suppose seventeen--
Seventeen!--not so many--say ten at the most,
Which will leave fifty chickens to boil or to roast.

"But then there's their barley; how much will they need?
Why they take but one grain at a time when they feed,
So that's a mere trifle; now then let us see,
At a fair market price, how much money there'll be?

"Six shillings a pair--five--four--three-and-six,
To prevent all mistakes, that low price I will fix;
Now what will that make? fifty chickens, I said,
Fifty times three-and-sixpence--_I'll ask brother Ned_.

"Oh! but stop--three-and-sixpence a _pair_ I must sell 'em; Well, a pair is a couple--now then let us tell 'em;
A couple in fifty will go--(my poor brain!)
Why just a score times, and five pair will remain.