re was three or four gents, and six or eight women-folks. They was
lookin' my way, and talkin' all to once.

"Hello!" says I. "The neighbors seem to be holdin' a convention. Wonder
if they're plannin' to count me in?"

I ain't more'n got that out before one of the bunch cuts loose and heads
for me. He was a nice-lookin' old duck, with a pair of white Chaunceys
and a frosted chin-splitter. He stepped out brisk and swung his cane
like he was on parade. He was got up in white flannels and a
square-topped Panama, and he had the complexion of a good liver.

"I expect that this is Mr. McCabe," says he.

"You're a good guesser," says I. "Come up on the front stoop and sit
by."

"My name," says he, "is Binger, Curtis Binger."

"What, Major Binger, late U. S. A.?" says I. "The man that did the stunt
at the battle of What-d'ye-call-it?"

"Mission Ridge, sir," says he, throwin' out his chest.

"Sure! That was the place," says I. "Well, well! Who'd think it? I'm
proud to know you. Put 'er there."

With that I had him goin'. He was up in the air, and before he'd got
over it I'd landed him in a porch rocker and chased Dennis in to dig a
box of Fumadoras out of my suit-case.

"Ahem," says the Major, clearin' his speech tubes, "I came over, Mr.
McCabe, on rather a delicate errand."

"If you're out of butter, or want to touch me for a drawin' of tea,
speak right up, Major," says I. "The pantry's yours."

"Thank you," says he; "but it's nothing like that; nothing at all, sir.
I came over as the representative of several citizens of Primrose Park,
to inquire if it is your intention to reside here."

"Oh!" says I. "You want to know if I'll join the gang? Well, seein' as
you've put it up to me so urgent, I don't care if I do. Course I can't
sign as a reg'lar, this bein' my first jab at the simple life; but if
you can stand for the punk performance I'll make at progressive euchre
and croquet, you can put me on the Saturday night sub list, for a while,
anyway."

Now, say, I was layin' out to do the neighborly for the best that was in
me; but it seemed to hit the Major wrong. He turned about two shades
pinker, coughed once or twice, and then got a fresh hold. "I'm afraid
you fail to grasp the situation, Mr. McCabe," says he. "You see, we lead
a very quiet life here in Primrose Park, a very domestic life. As for
myself, I have two daughters--"

"Chic, chic, Major!" says I, pokin' him gentle in the ribs with me
thumb. "Don't y