Then Aunt Julie shows up. She's a large, elegant old girl, all got up in Persian lamb and a fur hat with seven kinds of sealin' wax fruit on it. She's just in from Palm Beach, and she's heard that Brother Henry's boy is here on a visit. "He was such a cute little dear when he was a baby!" says she. "He's changed," says Mr. Robert. "Of course," says Aunt Julie. "I do want to see if he's grown up to look like Henry, as I said he would, or like his mother. Where is he now, Robert?" "Heaven only knows!" says he. "It would suit me best if he was on his way back to Michigan." "Why, Robert!" says Aunt Julie. "And Clifford the only cousin you have in the world!" "One is quite enough," says he. That gives her another jolt, and she starts to lay out Mr. Robert good, for givin' the frosty paw to a relation that had come so far to see him. "I shall stay right here," says she, "until that poor, neglected young man returns, and then I shall try to make up for your heartless treatment." Aunt Julie didn't have a long wait. She hadn't more'n got herself settled, when the elevator stops at our floor and there breaks loose all kinds of a riot in the hall. There was a great jabberin' and foot scufflin', and I could hear Dennis, that juggles the lever, forkin' out the assault 'n' batt'ry language in a brogue that sounded like rippin' a sheet. "What's up now?" says Mr. Robert, pokin' his head out. "Two to one that's Clifford!" says I. There wa'n't any time to get a bet down, though; for just then the door slams open and we gets a view of things. Oh, it was Cliffy, all right! He was comin' in backwards, tryin' to wave off the gang that was follerin' him. "Go away!" says he, pushin' at the nearest of 'em. "Please go away!" "Ah, it's you should be goin' away, ye shark-faced baboon, ye!" says Dennis, hoppin' up and down in the door of the car. "You an' yer Polack friends may walk down, or jump out the winder; but divvle a ride do yez get in this illyvator again. Do ye mind that, now?" You couldn't blame him; for the bunch wa'n't fit for the ash hoist. They were Zinskis, about twenty of 'em, countin' women and kids. You didn't have to look at the tin trunks and roped bundles to know that they'd just finished ten days in the steerage. You could tell that by the bouquet. They didn't carry their perfume with 'em. It went on ahead, and they follered, backin' Cliffy clear in until he fetched up against the gate, and then jammin' in around him close. Chee! but they was a punky lot! They had jack lantern faces and garlic breaths, and they looked to know about as much as so many cigar store Injuns. "Did you have your pick, Cliffy," says I, "or was this a job lot you got cheap?" "Clifford," says Mr. Robert, "what in thunder is the meaning of this performance of yours?"