Cochran's voice rose above the clamor of the room in a raucous whoop. They all turned toward where he stood near the bulletin board reading a message he had just torn down. He waved the sheet joyously: "I saw the steward tacking it up a minute ago--it just arrived--from Casey. He couldn't wait to tell us--the long awaited day has come for Casey!" He bent with laughter, then straightened and sobered to read it aloud. "Casey talks like the Congressional Record but he sure minces his written words. Listen. Davao Club, Davao. Horray! American mare had a filly colt last night. Also sixteen pigs by Berkshire boar. CASEY. A roar of merriment greeted the phraseology in which Casey had hurriedly couched the double event of his day of days. The terse--too terse--message passed from hand to hand till it reached Terry. He studied it, his head cocked to one side like a puppy's and with something of a puppy's quizzical expression. A moment and he slid slowly from the billiard table and crossed to the corner of the room where a typewriter had been placed for the convenience of club members. They watched him, glancing uncertainly at each other, as he inserted a sheet of paper, spelled out a few hesitating words, then jerked it out, crumpled it in his hand. Slipping in a fresh sheet he started slowly, pausing, rapt, after each few works. As line followed line the room became quiet save for the click of the machine, the planters eyeing each other, waiting impatiently for disclosure of the new deviltry his whole attitude betokened. Pausing after each few lines to seek inspiration at the roots of his thick tumbled hair, he wrote for about fifteen minutes. Then, tearing out the sheet, he mounted the chair and with a face owlish in its affectation of heavy wisdom, he thrust his hand in his blouse in classic barnstorming attitude and read his creation. "CASEY" The palm-fringed gulf of fair Davao-- The garden-spot of Mindanao-- Has been the Theater where Surprise Has pried apart our mouth and eyes. But bounteous Nature, in her last, Has all her former deeds surpassed! What now are Burbank's grafting deeds Marconi's stunts, whose genius speeds A message on a wireless tack And makes of space a jumping-jack? Where now does Edison hold sway? Or radium's finder, Pierre Curie? Does not this deed alone suffice To render all that men or mice Have wrought since days of Tubal Cain Infinitesimal, and vain? No man before has seen a dam Provide the rudiments for a ham. And not content with razor-backs Produce a quota for the tracks. It seems like thistles yielding figs-- A blooded mare with sixteen pigs! And Truth receives a serious jolt To find the seventeenth a colt! Can anything on earth compare With this performance of a mare?