"Don't do that!" cried Margaret Slattery sharply. "You know them chairs are not made of iron. And I don't want you flopping all over me when I'm passing the stew--" "Yes, sir!" boomed Charlie, who had collected his wits by this time, and was pointing his finger accusingly at Mr. Hatch. "The police have simply got to be called. It's going to take half the force, including Bill Foss, to keep me from drinking the heart's blood of my hated rival. Ladies and gents, that infernal, low-down villain over there has come between me and--But nobody shall say that Charles Darwin Webster is a poor loser! Say what you please about him, but do not say he is a short sport. It breaks my heart to do it, but I'm coming around there to shake hands with you, old Tintype. I'm going to congratulate you, but I'm never going to get through hating you." He arose and bolted around the table. Mr. Hatch got to his feet and the long and the short man clasped hands. "Put her there, old boy! I've already made up my mind what my wedding present is going to be. The day before the wedding I'm coming in and order a dozen photographs of myself,--pay for 'em in advance. And I'm going to give every darned one of 'em to the bride, so's she can stick 'em up all over the house just to make you feel at home, you blamed old bachelor. And as for you, Miss Angelina Miller, the very topmost height of my ambition will be reached in less than two minutes after the ceremony. Because, then and there, I'm going to kiss you. Bless you, my children. As old Rip Van Winkle used to say, 'may you live long and brosper.'" Having delivered himself of this felicitous speech, the somewhat relieved Mr. Webster wiped his brow. "What did he say?" quaked old Mrs. Nichols, putting her hand to her ear. "Says he hoped they'd be happy," bawled old Mr. Nichols, close to her ear. "Pass the bread, Doc," said Mr. Hatch, getting pinker and pinker. "When's it to take place, Angle?" inquired Charlie, resuming his seat. He cast a sharp look at Courtney. The young man shifted his gaze immediately. "As I explained to Mr. Pollock, everything depends on my aunt," said Angie composedly. "She is very old,--eighty-three, in fact." "You don't mean to say your aunt objects to your marrying old Tintype," exclaimed Charlie. "Not at all," replied Angie, somewhat tartly. "You see, it's this way," volunteered Mr. Pollock. "Miss Angie is the sole support of a venerable and venerated aunt who lives in Frankfort. That is a thing to be considered. Her duty to her father's sister--" Courtney interrupted, chuckling. "It's too much to ask of any woman. I suppose it must take nearly all you earn, Miss Miller, to support your aged relative, so naturally you do not feel like taking on Mr. Hatch immediately." There was a moment's silence around the table. "I see by the Chicago Tribune," said Mr. Pollock, after a hurried gulp of coffee, "that there's likely to be a strike of the street-car men up there."