“Uncle Ike, how long will a porous plaster stay on, and isn't there any way to stop its itching? I have had one on for seventeen days and nights, and it seems to be getting worse all the time,” said the boy, as he dug away at his chest. “Good heavens, take it off quick!” said Uncle Ike, as he laid his lighted pipe down on the table, on a nice, clean cloth, and the ashes and fire spilled out, and burned a hole in it. “You will die of mortification. Those plasters are only intended to be used as posters for a day or two. What in the name of common sense have you worn it seventeen days for? Let's rip it off.” “No, I have got to wear it eighteen days more,” said the boy, with a look of resignation. “Now, don't laugh, Uncle Ike, will you? You see my girl has gone to the seashore to be gone five weeks, and she gave me a tintype and told me to wear it next my heart till she got back, and I thought I could get it nearer my heart by putting it right against the skin, and putting a porous plaster over it, and by gum, I can feel her on my heart every minute. Now don't laugh, Uncle.” [Illustration: Here, this plaster has got to be removed 111] “Well, I guess not,” said Uncle Ike, as he put out the fire on the table-cloth, and smoked a little while to settle his thoughts. “Here, this plaster has got to be removed before the fatal day of her return, or you will be holding down a job as a red-headed angel. Now, open your shirt,” and the old man reached in and got a corner of the plaster, and gave a jerk that caused every hair on the boy's head to raise up and crack like a whiplash, while the tintype of the girl, covered with crude India rubber and medicated glue, dropped on the floor, and the boy turned pale and yelled bloody murder. “Now, don't ever do that again. A picture in your inside pocket is near enough to the heart for all practical purposes. Next, you will be swallowing her picture in the hope that it will lodge near your heart. Now I got something serious to talk with you about. One of the park policemen was here this morning looking for you. He said some of you boys just raised merry hades at the park concert last night. What did you do?” “Just flushed quails,” said the boy, as he buttoned his shirt, and gave the sore spot a parting dig. “We played we were hunting quail, and we had more fun than you ever saw.” “There are no quail in the park,” said Uncle Ike, as he looked curiously at the boy through the smoke. “Here, this plaster has got to be removed before the fatal day of her return,” and puffed until his cheeks sank in, and the tears came to his eyes. “What is this quail fable, anyway?”