owds on the sidewalk has caught
on and is enjoyin' the performance, and a mounted cop was starin' at us
kind of puzzled, as if he was tryin' to decide whether or not we was
breakin' an ordinance.

"Look at Craig! Look at Mabel Ann!" snickers Aunt Elvira. "Tell your man
to go faster, Dyckman. Push out more feathers!"

"More feathers it is," says I, shovin' another fold of the bed through
the window. Even Bismarck gets excited and starts squawkin'.

Talk about your joy rides! I'll bet that's the only one of the kind ever
pulled off on Fifth-ave. And it near tickles the old girl to death. What
was a featherbed to her, when she had her sportin' blood up and was
gettin' a hunch in on Brother Craig and his wife?

We goes four blocks before we shakes out the last of our ammunition, and
by that time the Mallory brougham looks like a poultry wagon after a busy
day at the market, while Aunt Elvira has cut loose with the mirth so hard
that the velvet bonnet is hangin' under her chin, and Bismarck is out of
breath. It's a wonder we wa'n't pinched for breakin' the speed laws; but
the traffic cops is so busy watchin' the feather blizzard that they
forgets to hold us up. Dyke wants to know if I'll come in for a cup of
tea, or ride back with Jerry.

"Thanks, but I'll walk back," says I, as we pulls up at the house. "Guess
I can find the trail easy enough, eh?"

I s'posed I'd get a report of the reunion from him next day; but it
wa'n't until this mornin' that he shows up here and drags me down to the
curb to look at his new sixty-horse-power macadam burner.

"Birthday present from Aunty," says he. "Say, she's all to the good,
Shorty. She got over that Bishop idea months ago, all by herself. And
what do you think? She says I'm to have a thousand a month, just to enjoy
myself on. Whe-e-e! Can I do it?"

"Do it, son," says I. "If you can't, I don't know who can."

CHAPTER XIX

TURNING A TRICK FOR BEANY

Where'd I collect the Flemish oak tint on muh noble br-r-r-ow? No, not
sunnin' myself down to Coney Island. No such tinhorn stunt for me! This
is the real plute color, this is, and I laid it on durin' a little bubble
tour we'd been takin' through the breakfast doughnut zone.

It was Pinckney's blow. He ain't had the gasolene-burnin' fever very hard
until this summer; but when he does get it, he goes the limit, as usual.
Course, he's been off on excursions with his friends, and occasionally
he's chartered a machine by t