yanked a chair up to that table, grabbed a plate and the ladle and was helpin’ himself to chowder. "Major!" says I. "Why, _Cobden_!" says Shelton. "Shut up!" roars the Major. "If either of you say a word I won’t be responsible for the consequences." We didn’t say anything and neither did he. Judgin’ by the silence ’twas a mighty solemn occasion. Everybody ate chowder and just thought, I guess. "Pass me that bread," snaps Clark. "But Cobden," says Shelton again. "It’s hot," says I, "and it’s fried, and—" "Give it to me! If you don’t I shall know it’s because you’re too rip-slap stingy to part with it." After that, there was nothin’ to be done but the one thing. He got the bread and he ate it—not one slice, but two. And he drank coffee and ate a three-inch slab of shortcake. When the meal was over there wa’n’t enough left to feed a healthy canary. "Now," growls the Major, turnin’ to Shelton, "have you a cigar in your pocket? If you have, hand it over." The Congressman fairly gasped. "A cigar!" he sings out. "You—goin’ to _smoke_? _You?_" "Yes—me. I’m goin’ to die anyway. This murderer here," p’intin’ to me, "laid his plans to kill me and he’s succeeded. But I’ll die happy. Give me that cigar! If you had a drink about you I’d take that." He bit the end off his cigar, lit it, and slammed out of that kitchen, puffin’ like a soft-coal tug. Shelton shook his head at me and I shook mine back. "Do you s’pose he _will_ die?" he asked. "He’s eaten enough to kill anybody. And with his stomach! And to smoke!" "The dear land knows," says I. To tell you the truth I was a little conscience-struck and worried. My idea had been to play a joke on Clark—tantalize him by eatin’ a square meal that he couldn’t touch—and get even for some of the names he’d called me. But now I wa’n’t sure that my fun wouldn’t turn out serious. When a man with a lame digestion eats enough to satisfy an elephant nobody can be sure what’ll come of it. The Congressman and I washed the dishes and 'twas a pretty average sorrowful job. Only once, when I happened to glance at him and caught a queer look in his eyes, was the ceremony any more joyful than a funeral. Then the funny side of it struck me and I commenced to laugh. He joined in and the pair of us haw-hawed like loons. Then we was sorry for it. Shelton went out when the dish-washin’ was over. I cleaned up everything, left a note and some money on Jonathan’s table and locked up the house. When I got outside there was a fair to middlin’ breeze springin’ up. Shelton was settin’ on the hummock waitin’ for me. "Where—where’s the Major?" I asked, pretty fearful. "He’s over there in the shade—asleep," he whispered. "Asleep!" says I. "Sure he ain’t dead?" "Listen," says he. I listened. If the Major was dead he was a mighty noisy remains. He woke 

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