Maybe it was because I took more or less interest in him, but perhaps it was just because he wanted company and I happened to be handy; anyway, here the other afternoon Dyke comes poundin' up the stairs two at a time, rushes into the front office, and grabs me by the arm. "Come on, Shorty!" says he. "Something fruity is on the schedule." "Hope it don't taste like a lemon," says I. "What's the grand rush?" "Aunt Elvira is coming down, and she's called for me," says Dyke, grinnin' wide. "She must suspect something; for she sent word that if I wasn't on hand this time she'd never come again. What do you think of that?" "Aunty's got a treat in store for her, eh?" says I, givin' Dyke the wink. "I should gurgle!" says he. "I'm good and tired of this fake Bishop business, and if I don't jolt the old lady out of that nonsense, I'm a duffer. You can help some, I guess. Come on." Well, I didn't exactly like the idea of mixin' up with a fam'ly surprise party like that; but Dyke is so anxious for me to go along, and he gets me so curious to see what'll happen at the reunion, that I fin'lly grabs my coat and hat, and out we trails. It seems that Aunt Elvira is due at the Grand Central. Never having tried the subway, she's come to town just as she used to thirty years ago: drivin' to Kingsbridge station, and takin' a Harlem river local down. We finds the whole fam'ly, includin' Mr. and Mrs. Craig Mallory, and their two married daughters, waitin' outside the gates, with the gloom about 'em so thick you'd almost think it was a sea turn. From the chilly looks they shot at Dyke you could tell just how they'd forecasted the result when Aunt Elvira got him all sized up; for, with his collar turned up and his green hat slouched, he looks as much like a divinity student as a bulldog looks like Mary's lamb. And they can almost see them blocks of apartment houses bein' handed over to the heathen. As for Mr. Craig Mallory, he never so much as gives his only son a second glance, but turns his back and stands there, twistin' the ends of his close cropped gray mustache, and tryin' to look like he wa'n't concerned at all. Good old sport, Craig,--one of the kind that can sit behind a pair of sevens and raise the opener out of his socks. Lucky for his nerves he didn't have to wait long. Pretty soon in pulls the train, and the folks from Yonkers and Tarrytown begin to file past. [Illustration: "Most of Auntie was obscured by the luggage she carries"] "There she is!" whispers Dyke, givin' me the nudge. "That's Aunt Elvira, with her bonnet on one ear."