1 Japanese banjo of whang-string variety.

5 complete cigars of Philippine factory.

1 music entitled “Jolly Widow Wedding March.”

1 umbrella of American nationality.

I tie umbrella to bed, so keep off drop-drip. I arrange myself under this water-shed, light cigar in teeth, put banjo in knuckles, retain music on knee. Then I commence beginning. Japanese banjos, Mr. Editor, refuse to wear American tunes unless forced to do so; but by practical continuation of pick-pick on strings I can become quite Mozart. I spent 2½ hours at this musical sympathy, filling small room with more sounds than it could contain and almost becoming tuneful, when—O startle!—knock-knock rapped at door.

“Come inwards!” I holla.

“Can’t do, and be pretty quick about it!” glub basso voice of Hon. Mr. Hoke, making rattles from locked knob. “Please unlock door so I can drag you out.”

I oblige politely by unlatching that locker. Hon. Hoke rosh inwards and stand sky-scraping over me like bulldogs scaring mice.

“Why you mean?” he thonder. “Why you so reptilian in depravity when kind Mrs. Wife are so angel-handed? Are she not entirely generous?”

18

18

“She are quite Carnegie,” I pronounce humbly.

“Did she not give you my shoes last week?”

“She do. I am saving them to give to some tramp who like ventilated soles,” I oblate.

“What are more ungrateful than ingratitude?” he hoop. “And now this sweetish lady offer you Thursday which you refuse. Why so?”

I point out of window where weather was there shooting lightning into churches while thunder cursed with entreme bellus.

“I do not like this Thursday,” I renig. “It is damaged.”

“You shall be included among the wreckage!” he nash while compelling me downstair. And next I stood alonesome in the 

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