The humorist had just put a capstone on his achievement of wit by creeping slyly up behind the old man whom he had been bombarding with peanut-shells, and emptying the entire residue of the paper-bag’s contents down the back of his patient victim’s neck. The exploit brought forth tumultuous applause from the uncouth crowd of onlookers near by. Dad, who had smiled amusedly as each peanut of the earlier volleys had chanced to hit him, now laughed aloud in tolerant mirth. He had seen new-comers far more mercilessly hazed in his earlier army days. To him the rude fun was the mere animal spirit of a gathering of children, bent on larking it while out for a holiday. And while he did not greatly enjoy the task of scraping harsh peanut-shells from between his collar and his neck, it struck him as decidedly amusing that a full-grown man like this partly drunk bargee should find joy in such foolishness and that others should deem it funny enough to send them into recurrent and boisterous guffaws. He was glad, though, that they could laugh. It would shift their thoughts from the grief of leave-taking. He was quite willing to be the butt of their laughter so long as it served so good a purpose. The bargee, however, was far from pleased at his victim’s tolerant attitude. He would have preferred to see the old man stamp and swear in impotent rage or mumble piteously futile threats at his tormentor. To achieve some such end he came around in front of Dad and, hands on hips, leered down at the pleasantly smiling target of his clownish activities. “Well, gran’pa,” said he, “ain’t you goin’ to thank me for them generous gifts I been lavishin’ so freehanded and kind on you?” “Certainly,” agreed Dad. “Much obliged, my friend. Only you mistook the location of my mouth. It’s in front here, not at the back of my neck, as you seem to have made the mistake of thinking.” Some one tittered at this very mild pleasantry. The titter nettled the bargee. He desired a monopoly of laughs, and through vexation his merrymaking at once assumed a more caustic tone. “Kind of a smart Abe, ain’t ye?” he queried. “Guess that kind o’ talk passes for funny back in the Old Men’s Home, don’t it? Or did they dig you up out of somebody’s fam’ly vault?” “Aw, drop it, Cy!” expostulated a softer-hearted recruit across the aisle. “That’s right,” assented the bargee. “He may be somebody’s great-great-granddaddy. Gran’ma starved him and larruped him with a broom-handle back home, so he run away to get a square feed at Uncle Sammy’s expense. Ain’t that the way of it, gran’pa?” “Sonny,” replied Dad, still smiling and in perfect good nature, “I ran away because somebody stole my comic almanac, and I couldn’t get on without it. I missed it a lot--till I met you.” The titter rose again, this time swelled by several voices. The bargee reddened as he sought to digest the dubious repartee. Nevertheless, he essayed to answer the none too subtle gibe in like vein.