kinning. But to be skinned twice--me, I.
Buck, proprietor--and the last time the worst, but----"

"Twenty can play it as well as one!" the parrot yelled, cocking his
eye over the edge of the cage.

It was an evil scowl that flashed up from under the plug hat, but
Elkanah in his new joy was oblivious.

"Me a man that's been all through it from A to Z--my affections trod
on, all confidence in females destroyed and nothing ahead of me all
the rest of my life! No, sir, I never want to hear of a circus again.
Bit by the mouths I fed--and they thumbing their noses at me. That
trick----"

"It's the old army game!" squealed the parrot, in nerve-racking rasp.

Ivory Buck arose, yanked the bottom off the cage, caught the squawking
bird, wrung his neck, tossed him into the middle of the road, and
then, sucking his bleeding finger, went on writing the copy for his
advertisement.

SUPPER WITH NATICA

By ROBERT E. MACALARNEY

It isn't at all pleasant to burn one's fingers, but it's worth while
burning them now and then, if you have to be scorched to be near a
particularly attractive fire; at least I've found it that way. All of
which leads me to Natica Drayton--Melsford that was.

I think I'm the only one of the crew she dragged at her heels who
hasn't forgot about things and gone off after other game; some of them
have been lashed to the burning stake of pretty uncomfortable
domesticity, too. As for me--well, I've simply gone on caring, and I
think I shall always go on.

Does she know it? Of course she knows it; always has known it, ever
since that first summer at Sacandaga. Not that I've been ass enough to
say anything after the first time. I'm only an ordinary sort of chap
when it comes to intuition, but somehow I've never plucked up the
cheek to do any talking about my own miserable self; not since she let
me down as gently as she could, while I paddled her back from Birch
Point to the canoe house, with Elephant Mountain ragged-backed in the
moon-haze. For the life of me I couldn't tell you what it was she
said. There was the drip of water from the paddle as I lifted it,
stroke after stroke; the tiny hiss of smother at the prow, and twisted
through it all, like a gathering string, Natica Melsford's voice,
letting me down easy--as easily as she could.

After I had made fast, I remember feeling that somehow the moonlight
had turned things extremely cold; and I reached for my sweater that
lay in the stern. I a