"Pardon—I thought you wanted us to entertain ourselves," snickered "Peewee" Burns, a very fat, round-faced driver. "Fellows, Bodkins' improvisations have about the same effect on me as Boche shells falling uncomfortably close. I can't beat it too fast." "Humph!—there's another arrow from jealousy's quiver that slipped harmlessly past," grunted Bodkins. "Why, you poor, ignorant chump, you couldn't tell the difference between music and the blare of a Klaxon." Then, quite satisfied with this crushing retort, Bodkins began once more. Loudly, and with a most extraordinary accent, he sang some of the latest songs of the poilus,[1] and the others helped him manfully in the chorus. Thus, for fully fifteen minutes there was so much jollification and noise in the room that the sounds from without were effectually denied an entrance. At length John Weymouth raised his hand. "Hold on, boys," he cried. "Enough of this kind of music is too much. What's the next number on the program?" "Let's all take turns jumping on Bodkins' banjo," suggested "Peewee," pleasantly. "I've got a pair of extra-heavy boots." "There's enough danger about without inviting any more," laughed Wendell. "Somebody tell a story. Now's your chance, Chase." The latter shook his head. "Sorry I can't oblige," he said. "But my gift of gab is less than is usually given to mortals." "Dunstan, then?" "He's sure to ring in something about painting or artists," declared "Peewee." "It's a most oddly odd thing what a grip art and music get on some people." "Commonplace individuals of course can't be expected to understand it," remarked the musician, loftily. "Your bleatings, 'Peewee,' are——" "Order, order!" interrupted the Sous Chef. "Dunstan has the platform." "What shall it be—fact or fiction?" asked the art student. "Give us a little true fiction," remarked Wendell, with a laugh. Dunstan took a quick turn or two across the room, looked up at the ceiling, then down at the bare planks beneath his feet. Finally he raised his head so as to survey the
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