I have to make these acknowledgments: to Mr. Ira Rich Kent for many a helpful suggestion in the framing of the story; to the publishers of "The Youth's Companion," in which the tale first appeared, for permitting the use of Mr. Gruger's admirable illustrations, and to Mr. Francis W. Hight for the very pleasant cat which he has drawn for the cover.

     The Author

    M

    r. peaslee

   looked more complacent than ever. It was Saturday noon, and Solomon had just returned from his usual morning sojourn "up-street." He had taken off his coat, and was

   washing his face at the sink, while his wife was "dishing up" the midday meal. There was salt codfish, soaked fresh, and stewed in milk—"picked up," as the phrase goes; there were baked potatoes and a thin, pale-looking pie. Mrs. Peaslee did not believe in pampering the flesh, and she did believe in saving every possible cent.

   "Well," said Mr. Peaslee, as they sat down to this feast, "I guess I've got news for ye."

   His wife gazed at him with interest.

   "Are ye drawed?" she asked.

   "Got the notice from Whitcomb

   right in my pocket. Grand juror. September term. 'T ain't more'n a week off."

   The

    staccato

   utterance was caused by the big mouthfuls of codfish and potato which, between phrases, Mr. Peaslee conveyed to his mouth. It was plain to see that he was greatly pleased with his new dignity.

   "What do they give ye for it?" asked his wife. Solomon should accept no office which did not bring profit.

   "Two dollars a day and mileage," said Mr. Peaslee, with the emphasis of one who knows he will make a sensation.

   "Mileage? What's that?"

   "Travelin' expenses. State allows ye so much a mile. I 

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