compound locomotives. Presently his attention was caught by some occurrence at the other end of the compartment. He laughed. "My daughter appears to be pressing her companionship upon your friend with a distressing lack of modesty," he said. I turned. The Freak had installed his admirer in the corner-seat beside him, and, having found paper and pencil, was engaged in turning out masterpieces of art at her behest. With a flat suitcase for a desk, he was executing--so far as the Great Eastern Railway would permit him--a portrait of Miss Welwyn herself; his model, pleasantly thrilled, affectionately clasping one of his arms in both of hers and breathing heavily through her small nose, which she held about six inches from the paper. Finally the likeness was completed and presented. "Now draw a cow," said Miss Welwyn immediately. The Freak meekly set to work again. Then came the inevitable question. "What's her name?" The artist considered. "Sylvia," he said at length. Sylvia, I knew, was the name of his sister. "Not like that name!" said the child, more prophetically than she knew. The Freak apologised and suggested Mary Ann, which so pleased his patroness that she immediately lodged an order for twelve more cows. The artist executed the commission with unflagging zeal and care, Miss Welwyn following every stroke of the pencil with critical interest and numbering off the animals as they were created. About this time Master Percy Welwyn, who had fallen into a fitful slumber, woke up and loudly expressed a desire for a commodity which he described as "kike." His mother supplied his needs from a string-bag. Refreshed and appeased, he slept anew. Meanwhile the herd of cows had been completed, and The Freak was, immediately set to work to find names for each. The appellation Mary Ann had established a fatal precedent, for The Freak's employer ruthlessly demanded a double title for each of Mary Ann's successors. Appealed to for a personal contribution, she shook her small head firmly: to
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