A happy thought occurred to me: I would give him a pistol to keep him quiet. (When I was a boy I was the envy of all my companions, being the possessor of a shilling muzzle-loader. But here was a breech-loading Tranter: how much greater would be his delight!) I called him and said, "There's a pistol and a box of cartridges; go out to the garden and see if you can shoot a crow." I expected he would receive it with delight, but he looked at it with the air of a connoisseur and said, "Franky Scott has a pin-fire." I explained that this was a later and better invention, and he seemed pleased that he would be able to "take the bounce" out of Franky Scott when he saw him. He seemed to be having good sport, judging by the number of shots he was firing, and it was not much of an improvement on the musical box. When he came in to dinner he said it was a "stunner." He did not shoot well at first, but after a little he could strike the label on a box, and some of the bullets went right through. A horrible suspicion came across me, and I rushed to the back garden, hoping I was wrong; but I wasn't. (One day, in going through the Exhibition, I was induced to taste a celebrated blend of whisky. I had praised it, of course, and could not go away without ordering a case, and it was taken outside to be unpacked.) I got a hammer and chisel, and injured several fingers in my hurry to see the extent of the damage. The man had told me there was not a headache in the case; and he was right,--there was a little in the bottom of one or two bottles. Of course the boy was sorry, but not for long. "Talking of whisky," he said, "d'ye know there's four times more alcohol in absinthe? Sulphate of iron is mixed with it, and that's what gives it the semi-opaque look when mixed with water." The ladies were at dinner with us, and one was praising the chutney. "That's the real Indian stuff," she said. "Mrs. Hood, a friend of ours, tried to make it, but it was a failure." Of course the boy knew all about it. "I know how it would be: she would use apples instead of the Indian mangel, and it would be too sweet." "How do you know?" I asked. "Because Franky Scott--that's a boy in our class----" "That'll do." "Well, his father----" "Now, hold your tongue"; and I was pleased to think that Franky Scott would have the pride taken out of him about that pistol. After all, I daresay my nephew is good enough as boys go. But then, look how boys go! AN AMATEUR COOK