The old girl has got her eyes trained through the back window. Thanks to our speed and the stiff wind that's blowin' down the avenue, the Mallory brougham, with the horses on the jump to keep up with us, is gettin' the full benefit of the feather storm. The dark green uniforms of the Mallory coachman and footman was being plastered thick, and they was both spittin' out feathers as fast as they could, and the Mallorys was wipin' 'em out of their eyes and ears, and the crowds on the sidewalk has caught on and is enjoyin' the performance, and a mounted cop was starin' at us kind of puzzled, as if he was tryin' to decide whether or not we was breakin' an ordinance. "Look at Craig! Look at Mabel Ann!" snickers Aunt Elvira. "Tell your man to go faster, Dyckman. Push out more feathers!" "More feathers it is," says I, shovin' another fold of the bed through the window. Even Bismarck gets excited and starts squawkin'. Talk about your joy rides! I'll bet that's the only one of the kind ever pulled off on Fifth-ave. And it near tickles the old girl to death. What was a featherbed to her, when she had her sportin' blood up and was gettin' a hunch in on Brother Craig and his wife? We goes four blocks before we shakes out the last of our ammunition, and by that time the Mallory brougham looks like a poultry wagon after a busy day at the market, while Aunt Elvira has cut loose with the mirth so hard that the velvet bonnet is hangin' under her chin, and Bismarck is out of breath. It's a wonder we wa'n't pinched for breakin' the speed laws; but the traffic cops is so busy watchin' the feather blizzard that they forgets to hold us up. Dyke wants to know if I'll come in for a cup of tea, or ride back with Jerry. "Thanks, but I'll walk back," says I, as we pulls up at the house. "Guess I can find the trail easy enough, eh?" I s'posed I'd get a report of the reunion from him next day; but it wa'n't until this mornin' that he shows up here and drags me down to the curb to look at his new sixty-horse-power macadam burner. "Birthday present from Aunty," says he. "Say, she's all to the good, Shorty. She got over that Bishop idea months ago, all by herself. And what do you think? She says I'm to have a thousand a month, just to enjoy myself on. Whe-e-e! Can I do it?" "Do it, son," says I. "If you can't, I don't know who can." CHAPTER XIX TURNING A TRICK FOR BEANY Where'd I collect the Flemish oak tint on muh noble br-r-r-ow? No, not sunnin' myself down to Coney Island. No such tinhorn stunt for me! This is the real plute color, this is, and I laid it on durin' a little bubble tour we'd been takin' through the breakfast doughnut zone.