I looked at her, meditative. “Miss Markham and you and the women that marched to-day and me,” I says. “And a hundred years from now we’ll all be conservatives together. And there’ll be some big new day coming on that would startle me now, just the same as it would you. But the way I feel to-night, honest--I donno but I’m ready for that one too.” MR. DOMBLEDON He came to my house one afternoon when I was just starting off to get a-hold of two cakes for the next meeting of the Go-lightly club, and my mind was all trained to a peak, capped with the cakes. Says he: “Have you got rooms to let?” For a minute I didn’t answer him, I was so knee deep in looking at the little boy he had with him--the cutest, lovin’est little thing I’d ever seen. But though I love the human race and admire to see it took care of, I couldn’t sense my way clear to taking a boy into my house. Boys belongs to the human race, to be sure, just as whirling egg-beaters belongs to omelettes, but much as I set store by omelettes I couldn’t invite a whirling egg-beater into my home permanent. Says I: “Not to boys.” He laughed--kind of a pleasant laugh, fringed all round with little laughs. “Oh,” he says, “we ain’t boys.” “Well,” says I, “one of you is. And I don’t ever rent to ’em. They ain’t got enough silence to ’em,” I says, as delicate as I could. Just then the little lad himself looked up innocent and took a hand without meaning to. “Is your doggy home?” says he. “Yes,” I says, “curled up on the back mat.” I felt kind of glad I didn’t have to tell him I didn’t have one. “I’d like,” says he, grave, “to _fluffle_ it till you’re through.” “So do,” says I, hearty, and he trotted round the house like a little minister. I kind o’ tiptoed after him, casual. All of a sudden I wanted to see what he done. His father come behind me on the boards, and we saw the little fellow bend over and pat Mac, my water spaniel, as gentle as if he’d been cut glass. The little boy looked awful cute, bending over, his short hair sticking out at the back. I can see him yet. “How much,” says I, “would you want to pay for your room?” “Well,” says his father, “not much. But I give a guess your price is what it’s worth--no more, no less.” I hadn’t paid much attention to him before that, but I see now he was a wonderful, nice-spoken little man, with the kind of eyes that look like the sitting-room--and not like the parlor. I can’t bear parlor eyes. “Come and look at the room,” says I, and rented it to him out of hand. And Mr. Dombledon--his name was--and Donnie--that was the little fellow--went off for their baggage, and I went off for my cakes; and what they was reflecting on I donno, but my own reflect was that it’s a wise minute can tell what the next one is going to pop open and let out. But I like it that way. I’m a natural-born vaudevillian. I love to see what’s coming next.