"This has been a very shocking affair," Mr. Carter began, in a tone of impressive emphasis. "The damage, fortunately, was slight, but the principle remains the same as if every building on the place had burned. The blame on the surface rests with the boys who started the fire; and," he added, with a touch of grimness, "they have been fittingly punished. But I find, upon looking into the matter, that the blame does not stop with them. I have here a copy of a New York evening paper of an--uh--sensational order, giving a grossly exaggerated account of the incident. There is one particular, however, in regard to which they do not exaggerate--exaggeration being impossible--and that is in their description of the outrageous apparel which my son and my nephews were wearing at the time." Mr. Carter adjusted his glasses and picked up the paper, his frown darkening as he glanced rapidly down the column. A facetious young reporter had made the best of a good story. "'Volunteer firemen--Gallant behaviour of Chief McDougal--Threatened tragedy--H'm----" His eye lighted on the offending paragraph, and he settled himself to read. "'Conspicuous among those present were the authors of the conflagration, Master Robert Carter, twelve-year-old son of Jerome B. Carter, and his three cousins, sons of John D. Brainard, of Philadelphia. Whatever may be said of Philadelphians in general, there is nothing slow about the Brainard boys. In the character of Comanche braves the four were clothed in simple but effective costumes of black and red war-paint. The paint, we are informed, was composed of axle grease and brass polish, and had been artistically laid on by one Peter Malone, who occupies the position of head groom in the Carter stables. Young Malone has missed his calling. His talents point to the field of decorative art.'" A fleeting grin swept over Peter's face. It struck him, for the hundredth time, that there was a singular absence of a sense of humour in the Carter family. But he quickly recomposed his features. Mr. Carter had laid the paper down again, and was waiting. Peter glanced dubiously about the room, and finally ventured in a tone of conciliation: "It weren't so shockin' as the paper made out, sir. They was wearin' stri-ped bathin' trunks and a row o' chicken feathers in addition to the grease." Mr. Carter waved the remark aside as irrelevant. "That has nothing to do with the point. The question which I am discussing is the fact that you painted my son with axle grease. I am not only shocked, but astonished. I have always entertained the highest opinion of your sense of propriety and fitness. I should have believed this story a pure fabrication on the part of an unprincipled reporter, had I not heard it corroborated from Master Bobby's own lips. Before passing judgment it is only right that I hear your version of the affair. What have you to say?"