"Well, yesterday evening she slapped her forehead suddenly and killed the bread-winner of this family," the voice shrieked, "and we are here for revenge!" "What are your names, please?" I whispered. "My name is Clementina Stinger, and with me is my son, little Willie Stinger, formerly of Cheesehurst-by-the-Sea," the voice answered. I sat there listening while my knees shook for the drinks. "We looked up your wife's home address and came hither to board with you, because she upset our bread-winner's apple cart," the voice went on, threateningly. "Willie, my son, get a light luncheon from the gentleman's medulla oblongata, and I will eat a small steak from his solar plexus—ping-ding-a-zing-a-boom!" "Have you no pity?" I said, pleadingly. "Pity!" said Clementina—"pity! you ask for pity when my forefathers were the first to land on the only Plymouth Rock in the meadows of Hackensack! I wish you to know that the proud blood of many victims rushes through the veins of the Stinger Family. We do not belong to the pity push. Willie, if the gentleman kicks bore a tunnel through his cerebellum, near the medusa, and I will jump in his alimentary canal and take a swim—ping-ding-a-zing-a-boom!" Then, just as these two ferocious members of the Stinger Family rushed at me, I awoke with a cry for help. There was not a mosquito in the room. Thank Heaven, it was only a dream! At the door, however, was a messenger with a special delivery letter from my wife. The letter read, "Dear John, I only want to say that Cheesehurst-by-the-Sea would be a nice place if a person could wear armor plate to avoid the mosquitoes. I have rubbed my complexion with peppermint, and I have worn smoke-sticks in my hair till I burned my pompadour, but the mosquitoes still look upon me as their meal ticket. I expect to insult everybody present and leave for home to-morrow. Lovingly, thy wife." My dream was out. I don't want to change the subject too abruptly, but you remember Uncle William, don't you? Well, once upon
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