Mr. Howard Tate had just come out of the library on the lower floor, and was standing chatting with a young man in the hall. Suddenly they heard the noise of shouting up-stairs, and almost immediately a succession of bumping sounds, followed by the precipitous appearance at the foot of the stairway of a large brown beast that seemed to be going somewhere in a great hurry. “Now what the devil!” said Mr. Tate, starting. The beast picked itself up not without dignity and, affecting an air of extreme nonchalance, as if he had just remembered an important engagement, started at a mixed gait toward the front door. In fact, his front legs began casually to run. “See here now,” said Mr. Tate sternly. “Here! Grab it, Butterfield! Grab it!” The young man enveloped the rear of the camel in a pair of compelling arms, and, realizing that further locomotion was impossible, the front end submitted to capture and stood resignedly in a state of some agitation. By this time a flood of young people was pouring down-stairs, and Mr. Tate, suspecting everything from an ingenious burglar to an escaped lunatic, gave crisp directions to the young man: “Hold him! Lead him in here; we’ll soon see.” The camel consented to be led into the library, and Mr. Tate, after locking the door, took a revolver from a table drawer and instructed the young man to take the thing’s head off. Then he gasped and returned the revolver to its hiding-place. “Well, Perry Parkhurst!” he exclaimed in amazement. “Got the wrong party, Mr. Tate,” said Perry sheepishly. “Hope I didn’t scare you.” “Well--you gave us a thrill, Perry.” Realization dawned on him. “You’re bound for the Townsends’ circus ball.” “That’s the general idea.” “Let me introduce Mr. Butterfield, Mr. Parkhurst.” Then turning to Perry; “Butterfield is staying with us for a few days.” “I got a little mixed up,” mumbled Perry. “I’m very sorry.” “Perfectly all right; most natural mistake in the world. I’ve got a clown rig and I’m going down there myself after a while.” He turned to Butterfield. “Better change your mind and come down with us.” The young man demurred. He was going to bed. “Have a drink, Perry?” suggested Mr. Tate. “Thanks, I will.” “And, say,” continued Tate quickly, “I’d forgotten all about your--friend here.” He indicated the rear part of the camel. “I didn’t mean to seem discourteous. Is it any one I know? Bring him out.” “It’s not a friend,” explained Perry hurriedly. “I just rented him.” “Does he drink?” “Do you?” demanded Perry, twisting himself tortuously round. There was a faint sound of assent. “Sure he does!” said Mr. Tate heartily. “A really efficient camel ought to be able to drink enough so it’d last him three days.” “Tell you,” said Perry anxiously, “he isn’t exactly dressed up enough to come out. If you give me the bottle I can hand it back to him and he can take his inside.”