“Certainly! Thet’s so. In course they is. A gang o’ lazy drunken loafers, and that ar Dick Bullen’s the ornariest of all. Didn’t hev no more sabe than to come round yar with sickness in the house and no provision. Thet’s what I said: ‘Bullen,’ sez I, ‘it’s crazy drunk you are, or a fool,’ sez I, ‘to think o’ such a thing.’ ‘Staples,’ I sez, ‘be you a man, Staples, and ’spect to raise h—ll under my roof and invalids lyin’ round?’ But they would come—they would. Thet’s wot you must ’spect o’ such trash as lays round the Bar.” A burst of laughter from the men followed this unfortunate exposure. Whether it was overheard in the kitchen, or whether the Old Man’s irate companion had just then exhausted all other modes of expressing her contemptuous indignation, I cannot say, but a back door was suddenly slammed with great violence. A moment later and the Old Man reappeared, haply unconscious of the cause of the late hilarious outburst, and smiled blandly. “The old woman thought she’d jest run over to Mrs. McFadden’s for a sociable call,” he explained, with jaunty indifference, as he took a seat at the board. Oddly enough, it needed this untoward incident to relieve the embarrassment that was beginning to be felt by the party, and their natural audacity returned with their host. I do not propose to record the convivialities of that evening. The inquisitive reader will accept the statement that the conversation was characterised by the same intellectual exaltation, the same cautious reverence, the same fastidious delicacy, the same rhetorical precision, and the same logical and coherent discourse somewhat later in the evening, which distinguish similar gatherings of the masculine sex in more civilised localities, and under more favourable auspices. No glasses were broken in the absence of any; no liquor was uselessly spilt on floor or table in the scarcity of that article. It was nearly midnight when the festivities were interrupted. “Hush,” said Dick Bullen, holding up his hand. It was the querulous voice of Johnny from his adjacent closet. “Oh, dad.” The Old Man arose hurriedly and disappeared in the closet. Presently he reappeared. “His rheumatiz is coming on agin bad,” he explained, “and he wants rubbin’.” He lifted the demijohn of whisky from the table and shook it. It was empty. Dick Bullen put down his tin cup with an embarrassed laugh. So did the others. The Old Man examined their contents, and said, hopefully— “I reckon that’s enough; he don’t need much. You hold on all o’ you for a spell, and I’ll be back;” and vanished in the closet with an old flannel shirt and the whisky. The door closed but imperfectly, and the following dialogue was distinctly audible:— “Now, sonny, whar does she ache worst?” “Sometimes over yar and sometimes under yer; but it’s most powerful from yer to yer. Rub yer, dad.” A silence seemed to indicate a brisk rubbing. Then Johnny— “Hevin’ a good time out yer, dad?” “Yes, sonny.”