more. Well, I presume we will, later.” 

 Her surmise was correct. They knew much more later. They knew more from Mr. Stebbins, and they knew profusely more from the evening papers. 

 “I think our boy’d better have come home for his Easter,” Aunt Mary remarked, with a species of angry undertow threading the current of her speech. “There’s no sayin’ what this will cost before we’re done with it.” 

 Arethusa choked; it was all so very terrible to her. 

 “What is it that the cabman wants, anyhow?” her aunt demanded presently. 

 “He doesn’t want anything,” yelled the unhappy sister. “He’s going to die.” 

 “Well, who is going to sue me, then?” 

 “It’s his wife; she wants five thousand dollars damages.” 

 Aunt Mary’s lips tightened. 

 “Five thousand dollars!” she said, with a bitter patience. “I can see that this is goin’ to be an awful business. Five thousand dollars! Dear, dear! I must say that that wife sets a pretty high price on her husband—at least, a’cordin’ to my order of thinkin’, she does. From what I’ve seen of cabmen, I’d undertake to get her another just as good for a tenth of the money, any day.” 

 Arethusa was silent, staring thoughtfully at the newspaper cuts of a great Tammany leader and a noted pugilist, which had been labeled as the principals in the family tragedy. 

 Aunt Mary turned over another of the many papers received, and scanned its sensational columns afresh. 

 “Arethusa,” she exclaimed suddenly, “do you know, I bet anythin’ I know what this editor means to insinuate? It just strikes me that he’s tryin’ to give the impression that our boy’s been drinkin’.” 

 “Perhaps so,” Arethusa screamed. 

 “Well, I don’t believe it,” said Aunt Mary firmly, “and I ain’t goin’ to believe it. And I ain’t goin’ to pay no five thousand dollars for no cabman’s brains, neither. You write to Mr. Stebbins to compromise on two or maybe three.” 

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