tors, and
peels down for business.

Ever try hand-ball in a car that's being snaked over switches at fifty
miles an hour? So far as looks went, we were just as batty as Sir Peter
with his wooden hat. We caromed around like a couple of six-spots in a
dice-box, and some of the foot-work we did would have had a
buck-and-wing artist crazy. We was using a tennis-ball, and when we'd
get in three strokes without missing we'd stop and shake hands. There
wa'n't any more sense to it than to a musical comedy; but it was makin'
Mr. Gordon forget his troubles, and it was doing his liver good. Danvers
watched us from behind some chairs. He looked disgusted.

By the time we'd got half-way across Jersey we was ready for the bath
tub. And say, that's the way to travel and stay at home, all to once. A
private car for mine. While we was puttin' on a polish with the Turkish
towels, Rufus Rastus was busy with the dinner.

"Now, we'll have another talk with Sir Peter of the Pail," says Mr.
Gordon.

We took the barricade down, and found him just as we'd left him. Then he
an' Pyramid gets together; but it was the wizziest brand of conversation
I ever heard. You'd have thought they was talkin' over the 'phone to the
wrong numbers. Sir Peter would listen to all Mr. Gordon had to say, just
as if he was gettin' next to every word, but his come-backs didn't fit
by a mile.

"Sorry to disturb you," says Mr. Gordon; "but I'll have to ask you to
change to a forward car next stop."

Sir Peter blinked his lamps at him a minute, and then he says: "Yes, it
keeps the decimals out," and he taps the bucket, knowing like. "My own
invention, sir. I'd advise you to try it if they ever bother you."

"Yes, I'll take your word for that," says Mr. Gordon; "but I'm afraid
you'll have to be getting ready to move. This is my private car, you
see."

"They always come point first," says Sir Peter; "that's how they get in.
It's only the bucket that makes 'em shy off."

"Oh, the deuce!" says Pyramid. "Here, Shorty, you try your luck with
him."

"Sure," says I. "I've talked sense through thicker things than a wooden
pail." First I raps on his cupola with me knuckles, just to ring him up.
Then, when I gets his eye, I says, kind of coaxin': "Pete, it's
seventeen after six. That's twenty-three for you. Are you next?"

Now say, you'd thought most anyone would have dropped for a hint like
that, dippy or not. But Sir Peter sizes me up without battin' an eye. He
had