er of daisies,
extremely geometrical, because he had drawn them in first with a
compass.

The boy, however, gave the pictures only a hasty glance and proceeded,
in a business-like manner, to carry a straight chair to the cabinet. On
the top shelf sat the old cloth dog. Its shoe-button eyes looked glazed
with sleep, but its ears were quite alert. Very cautiously the Crown
Prince unlocked the door, stepped precariously to the lower shelf of the
cabinet, hung there by one royal hand, and lifted the dog down.

At nine o'clock the wet-nurse took off his sword in another room and
leaned it against a chair. Then he examined his revolver, in accordance
with a formula prescribed by the old King. Then he went in and
examined the room with a flashlight, and listened to the Crown Prince's
breathing. He had been a croupy baby. And, at last, he turned the
flashlight on to the bed. A pair of shoe-button eyes stared at him from
the pillow.

"Well, I'm damned," said the wet-nurse And went out, looking thoughtful.

CHAPTER IX. A FINE NIGHT

In a shop where, that afternoon, the Countess had purchased some Lyons
silks, one of the clerks, Peter Niburg, was free at last. At seven
o'clock, having put away the last rolls of silk on the shelves behind
him, and covered them with calico to keep off the dust; having given
a final glance of disdain at the clerk in the linens, across; having
reached under the counter for his stiff black hat of good quality and
his silver-topped cane; having donned the hat and hung the stick to his
arm with two swaggering gestures; having prepared his offensive, so to
speak, he advanced.

Between Peter Niburg and Herman Spier of the linens, was a feud. Its
source, in the person of a pretty cashier, had gone, but the feud
remained. It was of the sort that smiles with the lips and scowls with
the eyes, that speaks pleasantly quite awful things, although it was
Peter Niburg who did most of the talking. Herman Spier was a moody
individual, given to brooding. A man who stood behind his linens, and
hated with his head down.

And he hated Peter. God, how he hated him! The cashier was gone, having
married a restaurant keeper, and already she waxed fat. But Herman's
hatred grew with the days. And business being bad, much of the time he
stood behind his linens and thought about a certain matter, which was
this:

How did Peter Niburg do it?

They were paid the same scant wage. Each Monday they stood together