t to the male; but the well-proven law that the
minority shall always control the majority will relieve our minds from a
fear which might otherwise become intolerable."

"It's true enough," said Meehawl. "Have you noticed, sir, that in a
litter of pups--"

"I have not," said the Philosopher. "Certain trades and professions,
it is curious to note, tend to be perpetuated in the female line. The
sovereign profession among bees and ants is always female, and publicans
also descend on the distaff side. You will have noticed that every
publican has three daughters of extraordinary charms. Lacking these
signs we would do well to look askance at such a man's liquor, divining
that in his brew there will be an undue percentage of water, for if his
primogeniture is infected how shall his honesty escape?"

"It would take a wise head to answer that," said Meehawl.

"It would not," said the Philosopher. "Throughout nature the female
tends to polygamy."

"If," said Meehawl, "that unfortunate daughter of mine is lying dead in
a ditch--"

"It doesn't matter," said the Philosopher. "Many races have endeavoured
to place some limits to this increase in females. Certain Oriental
peoples have conferred the titles of divinity on crocodiles, serpents,
and tigers of the jungle, and have fed these with their surplusage
of daughters. In China, likewise, such sacrifices are defended as
honourable and economic practices. But, broadly speaking, if daughters
have to be curtailed I prefer your method of losing them rather than the
religio-hysterical compromises of the Orient."

"I give you my word, sir," said Meehawl, "that I don't know what you are
talking about at all."

"That," said the Philosopher, "may be accounted for in three
ways--firstly, there is a lack of cerebral continuity: that is, faulty
attention; secondly, it might be due to a local peculiarity in the
conformation of the skull, or, perhaps, a superficial instead of a deep
indenting of the cerebral coil; and thirdly--"

"Did you ever hear," said Meehawl, "of the man that had the scalp of his
head blown off by a gun, and they soldered the bottom of a tin dish to
the top of his skull the way you could hear his brains ticking inside of
it for all the world like a Waterbury watch?"

"I did not," said the Philosopher. "Thirdly, it may--"

"It's my daughter, Caitilin, sir," said Meehawl humbly. "Maybe she is
lying in the butt of a ditch and the crows picking her eyes out."

"W