“You know New York is the capital of Galveston?” said Clifford, slapping on a brush full of color and leaning back to look at it. The Frenchman didn’t know, but he nodded. “Well, that’s very far south. We suffer—yes, we suffer, but our poor poultry suffer more.” “Ze—ze pooltree? Wat eez zat?” Clifford explained. “In summer the fire engines are detailed to throw water on the hens to keep their feathers from singeing. Singeing spoils the flavor.” The Frenchman growled. “One of our national institutions is the ‘Hen’s Mutual Fire Insurance Company,’ supported by the Government,” added Clifford. Deschamps snorted. “That is why,” put in Rhodes, lazily dabbing at his canvas, “why we seldom have omelets—the eggs are so apt to be laid fried.” “How, zen, does eet make ze chicken?” spluttered the Frenchman, his wrath rising. “Our chickens are also—” a torrent of bad language from Monsieur Deschamps, and a howl of execration from all the rest, silenced Clifford. “It’s too hot for that sort of thing,” pleaded Elliott. “Idiot!” muttered the Frenchman, shooting ominous glances at the bland youth, who saw nothing. “C’est l’heure,” cried a dozen voices, and the tired model stretched his cramped limbs. Clifford rose, dropped a piece of charcoal down on his neighbor’s neck, and stepping across Thaxton’s easel, walked over to Gethryn. “Rex, have you heard the latest?” “No.” “The Ministry has fallen again, and the Place de la Concorde is filled with people yelling, A bas la Republique! Vive le General Boulanger!” Gethryn looked serious. Clifford went on, speaking low. “I saw a troop of cavalry going over this morning, and old Forain told me just now that the regiments at Versailles were ready to move at a minute’s notice.” “I suppose things are lively across the river,” said Gethryn. “Exactly, and we’re all going over to see the fun. You’ll come?” “Oh, I’ll come. Hello! here’s Rhodes; tell him.” Rhodes knew. Ministry fallen. Mob at it some more. Been fired on by the soldiers once. Pont Neuf and the Arc guarded by cannon. Carleton came hurrying up. “The French students are loose and raising Cain. We’re going to assist at the show. Come along.” “No,” growled Braith, and looked hard at Rex. “Oh, come along! We’re all going,” said Carleton, “Elliott, Gethryn, the Colossus, Thaxton, Clifford.” Braith turned sharply to Rex. “Yes, going to get your heads smashed by a bullet or carved by a saber. What for? What business is it of yours?” “Braith thinks he looks like a Prussian and is afraid,” mused Clifford. “Come on, won’t you, Braith?” said Gethryn. “Are you going?” “Why not?” said the other, uneasily, “and why won’t you?” “No French mob for me,” answered Braith, quietly. “You fellows had better keep away. You don’t know what you may get into. I saw the siege, and the man who was in Paris in ’71 has seen enough.” “Oh, this is nothing serious,” urged Clifford. “If they fire I shall leg it; so will the lordly Reginald; so will we all.”