"I beg your pardon," Mr. Stott apologized with elaborate sarcasm, "but when I am wrong I like to be told of it." Which was not the strict truth for the reason that no one ever was able to convince him that he ever was mistaken. As a result of the discussion everyone was afraid to use the word for fear of offending one or the other. The silence that followed while breakfast was being placed upon the table was broken by Miss Eyester, who said timidly: "In the night I thought I heard something sniffing, and it frightened me." Not to be outdone in sensational experiences, Mrs. Stott averred positively: "There was some _wild animal_ running over our tent. I could hear its sharp claws sticking into the canvas. A coyote, I fancy." "A ground-squirrel, more likely," remarked Mr. Appel. Mr. Stott smiled at him: "Squee-rrel, if you will allow me to again correct you." "I guess I can't help myself," replied Mr. Appel, drily. Mr. Stott shrugged a shoulder and his tolerant look said plainly that, after all, one should not expect too much of a man who had begun life as a "breaker-boy." "The squee-rrel or coyote or whatever it was," Mrs. Stott continued, "went pitter-patter, pitter-patter--so!" She illustrated with her finger-tips on the oil-cloth. "Prob'ly a chipmunk," said Pinkey, prosaically. "Are they dangerous, Mr. Fripp?" inquired Miss Gaskett. "Not unless cornered or wounded," he replied, gravely. This was a joke, obviously, so everybody laughed, which stimulated Pinkey to further effort. When Mr. Hicks poured his cup so full that the coffee ran over he remarked facetiously: "It won't stack, cookie." Coffee-pot in hand, Mr. Hicks drew himself up majestically and his eyes withered Pinkey. "I beg to be excused from such familiarity, and if you wish our pleasant relations to continue you will not repeat it." "I bet I won't josh _him_ again," Pinkey said, ruefully, when Mr. Hicks returned to the kitchen in the manner of offended royalty. "Cooks are sometimes very peculiar," observed Mr. Stott, buttering his pancakes lavishly. "I remember that my mother--my mother, by the way, Mr. Penrose, was a Sproat----" "Shoat?" Old Mr. Penrose, who complained of a pounding in his ears, was not hearing so well in the high altitude. Mr. Appel and Pinkey tittered, which nettled Mr. Stott and he shouted: "Sproat! An old Philadelphia family." "Oh, yes," Mr. Penrose recollected. "I recall Amanda Sproat--she married a stevedore. Your sister?" Mr. Stott chose to ignore the inquiry, and said coldly: "My father was in public life." He might have added that his father was a policeman, and therefore his statement was no exaggeration. Everybody felt that it served Mr. Penrose right for telling about the stevedore when he was seized with a violent fit of coughing immediately afterward. Wiping his streaming eyes, he looked from Wallie to Pinkey and declared resentfully: