astounded Mr. Thompson to his wife.

"And did you marry the beautiful girl in the photograph?" demanded Mrs.
Boxer, in trembling accents.

"I did," said her husband.

"Hussy," cried Mrs. Boxer.

"I married her," said Mr. Boxer, considering--"I married her at
Camberwell, in eighteen ninety-three."

"Eighteen ninety-three!" said his wife, in a startled voice. "But you
couldn't. Why, you didn't marry me till eighteen ninety-four."

"What's that got to do with it?" inquired the monster, calmly.

Mrs. Boxer, pale as ashes, rose from her seat and stood gazing at him
with horror-struck eyes, trying in vain to speak.

"You villain!" cried Mrs. Gimpson, violently. "I always distrusted you."

[Illustration: "'You villain!' cried Mrs. Gimpson, violently. 'I always
distrusted you.'"]

"I know you did," said Mr. Boxer, calmly. "You've been committing
bigamy," cried Mrs. Gimpson.

"Over and over agin," assented Mr. Boxer, cheerfully. "It's got to be a
'obby with me."

"Was the first wife alive when you married my daughter?" demanded Mrs.
Gimpson.

"Alive?" said Mr. Boxer. "O' course she was. She's alive now--bless
her."

He leaned back in his chair and regarded with intense satisfaction the
horrified faces of the group in front.

"You--you'll go to jail for this," cried Mrs. Gimpson, breathlessly.
"What is your first wife's address?"

"I decline to answer that question," said her son-in-law.

"What is your first wife's address?" repeated Mrs. Gimpson.

"Ask the fortune-teller," said Mr. Boxer, with an aggravating smile.
"And then get 'im up in the box as a witness, little bowl and all. He
can tell you more than I can."

"I demand to know her name and address," cried Mrs. Gimpson, putting a
bony arm around the waist of the trembling Mrs. Boxer.

"I decline to give it," said Mr. Boxer, with great relish. "It ain't
likely I'm going to give myself away like that; besides, it's agin the
law for a man to criminate himself. You go on and start your bigamy
case, and call old red-eyes as a witness."

Mrs. Gimpson gazed at him in speechless wrath and then stooping down
conversed in excited whispers with Mrs. Thompson. Mrs. Boxer crossed
over to her husband.

"Oh, John," she wailed, "say it isn't true, say it isn't true."

Mr. Boxer hesitated. "What's the good o' me saying anything?" he said,
doggedly.

"It isn't true," persisted his wife. "Say it isn't true."

"What I told you when I first came