"Bill Jones," she asked, in a loud, rasping tone, "where have you been?" Bill had put down the lid at the first hint of her entrance. While she was addressing Zeb he had quietly slipped behind the desk and busied himself with the mail which he had drawn from the back pocket of his trousers. Whistling softly to himself, he sorted the letters, placing them in their proper pigeonholes. He did not answer Mrs. Jones at once, but went on whistling. After a second in which he decided that a soft answer might draw the sting from her wrath, he stood still and, without looking around, said, gently, "Hello, mother." Without waiting for a reply, he went on sorting the mail. The fire in Mrs. Jones's eye flamed brighter. Nothing exasperated her as did Bill's refusal to take her tempers seriously. It was not easy to do all of the fighting--one reason why Bill usually succeeded in carrying his idleness with a high hand. But this time she was not going to be ignored. The conference with Hammond and Thomas, the knowledge that he had been looking for his flask--that he was looking for it more for Zeb's sake than his own, this time, made no difference--as well as complaints by the guests because of Bill's tardiness with the mail, had exhausted her patience and whetted her into bringing Bill to quick order. "Do you know what time it is?" She took a step closer to Bill, her voice retaining its hard ring. Bill paid no attention to the question, but went on whistling and sorting the mail. "It's after two o'clock!" She stamped her foot and glared at him. Her glare fell on unseeing eyes, her tones on unheeding ears, for the uneven tenor of Bill's whistle kept up and the spasmodic sorting of the mail went on. "Let's see," he said, softly, to himself, "Mrs. Taft's letter--she's in Number Four, ain't she?" he addressed his wife. Receiving no answer himself this time, he kept on with his soliloquy, changing the letter to its proper place. "There! that's right. This one," he said, holding the envelop to the light and studying it, "is for Mr. Thomas." He hesitated and looked at it more closely. Placing the other letters on the desk, he came from behind it and went toward Mrs. Jones. Noting that Mrs. Jones was interested in the letter and that she had made a quick move toward him, he changed his mind and sauntered to the other side of the room, still scrutinizing the letter in his hand. As he paused, he placed the envelop close to his eyes and read, "Raymond Thomas Es-_Q._" Mrs. Jones, her arms folded across her adamant breast, narrowed her eyes into a quizzical stare. Satisfied that her estimate of Bill's condition was correct, she hastened to verify it. Going close to him, she demanded, "Bill, have you been drinkin'?" For once in his life Bill could prove his innocence. He was quick to avail himself of the opportunity, and, much to her surprise, he turned and blew his blameless breath at her. Mrs. Jones relaxed, exclaiming, in tones of relief, "Thank the Lord!"