a submarine.
There are no submarine flivvers, as I understand it, and a full-size one
would run into money. No, I hardly think so. The fact remains, however,
that my respected and revered aunt has made away with about seven
thousand dollars' worth of bonds that were, until a short time ago,
giving semi-annual birth to plump little coupons. The question is, what
is she up to?"

But we were unable to help him, and at last he went away. His parting
words were:

"Well, there is something in the air, and the only thing to do, I
suppose, is to wait until it drops. But when my beloved female relative
takes to selling bonds without consulting me, and goes out, as I met her
yesterday, with her hat on front side behind, there is something in the
wind. I know the symptoms."

Aggie and I kept a close watch on Tish after that, but without result,
unless the following incident may be called a result. Although it was
rather a cause, after all, for it brought Mr. Culver into our lives.

I think it important to relate it in detail, as in a way it vindicates
Tish in her treatment of Mr. Culver, although I do not mean by this
statement that there was anything of personal malice in the incident of
June fifth of this year. Those of us who know Tish best realize that she
needs no defence. Her motives are always of the highest, although
perhaps the matter of the police officer was ill-advised. But now that
the story is out, and Mr. Ostermaier very uneasy about the wrong name
being on the marriage license, I think an explanation will do dear Tish
no harm.

I should explain, then, that Tish has retained the old homestead in the
country, renting it to a reliable family. And that it has been our
annual custom to go there for chestnuts each autumn. On the Sunday
following Charlie Sands' visit, therefore, while Aggie and I were having
dinner with Tish, I suggested that we make our annual pilgrimage the
following day.

"What pilgrimage?" Tish demanded. She was at that time interested in
seeing if a table could be set for thirty-five cents a day per person,
and the meal was largely beans.

"For chestnuts," I explained.

"I don't think I'll go this year," Tish observed, not looking at either
of us. "I'm not a young woman, and climbing a chestnut tree requires
youth."

"You could get the farmer's boy," Aggie suggested, hopefully. Aggie is a
creature of habit, and clings hard to the past.

"The farmer is not there any more."

We stared