“Eggs!” I snorted. “Eggs! Thousands of ’em! Eggs hard and soft boiled, poached and fried, scrambled and shirred, eggs in beer and egg-noggs, egg lemonades and egg orangeades, eggs in wine and eggs in milk, and eggs au naturel. I’ve lapped up iron-and-wine, and whole rivers of milk, and I’ve devoured rare porterhouse and roast beef day after day for weeks. So! Eggs!” “Mein Himmel!” ejaculated he, fervently, “And you still live!” A suspicion of a smile dawned in his eyes. I wondered if he ever laughed. I would experiment. “Don’t breathe it to a soul,” I whispered, tragically, “but eggs, and eggs alone, are turning my love for my sister into bitterest hate. She stalks me the whole day long, forcing egg mixtures down my unwilling throat. She bullies me. I daren’t put out my hand suddenly without knocking over liquid refreshment in some form, but certainly with an egg lurking in its depths. I am so expert that I can tell an egg orangeade from an egg lemonade at a distance of twenty yards, with my left hand tied behind me, and one eye shut, and my feet in a sack.” “You can laugh, eh? Well, that iss good,” commented the grave and unsmiling one. “Sure,” answered I, made more flippant by his solemnity. “Surely I can laugh. For what else was my father Irish? Dad used to say that a sense of humor was like a shillaly—an iligent thing to have around handy, especially when the joke’s on you.” The ghost of a twinkle appeared again in the corners of the German blue eyes. Some fiend of rudeness seized me. “Laugh!” I commanded. Dr. Ernst von Gerhard stiffened. “Pardon?” inquired he, as one who is sure that he has misunderstood. “Laugh!” I snapped again. “I’ll dare you to do it. I’ll double dare you! You dassen’t!” But he did. After a moment’s bewildered surprise he threw back his handsome blond head and gave vent to a great, deep infectious roar of mirth that brought the Spalpeens tumbling up the stairs in defiance of their mother’s strict instructions. After that we got along beautifully. He turned out to be quite human, beneath the outer crust of reserve. He continued his examination only after bribing the Spalpeens shamefully, so that even their rapacious demands were satisfied, and they trotted off contentedly. There followed a process which reduced me to a giggling heap but which Von Gerhard carried out ceremoniously. It consisted of certain raps at my knees, and shins, and elbows, and fingers, and certain commands to—“look at my finger! Look at the wall! Look at my finger! Look at the wall!” “So!” said Von Gerhard at last, in a tone of finality. I sank my battered frame into the nearest chair. “This—this newspaper work—it must cease.” He dismissed it with a wave of the hand. “Certainly,” I said, with elaborate sarcasm. “How should you advise me to earn my living in the future? In the stories they paint dinner cards, don’t they? or bake angel cakes?” “Are you then never serious?” asked Von Gerhard, in disapproval.