onium of joy ensued. The prisoners clog-danced and cheered and
yodled and wrestled with one another in a sudden uprush of animal
spirits. They even ran up the glass sides of the bowl as far as they
could, and slid back to the bottom upon the natural cushions of their
bodies. The tall man started a song in which they all joined--

"_Oh, we'll hang the kaiser
On a sour apple-tree_--"

Braddock Washington sat in inscrutable silence until the song was
over.

"You see," he remarked, when he could gain a modicum of attention. "I
bear you no ill-will. I like to see you enjoying yourselves. That's
why I didn't tell you the whole story at once. The man--what was his
name? Critchtichiello?--was shot by some of my agents in fourteen
different places."

Not guessing that the places referred to were cities, the tumult of
rejoicing subsided immediately.

"Nevertheless," cried Washington with a touch of anger, "he tried to
run away. Do you expect me to take chances with any of you after an
experience like that?"

Again a series of ejaculations went up.

"Sure!"

"Would your daughter like to learn Chinese?"

"Hey, I can speak Italian! My mother was a wop."

"Maybe she'd like t'learna speak N'Yawk!"

"If she's the little one with the big blue eyes I can teach her a lot
of things better than Italian."

"I know some Irish songs--and I could hammer brass once't."

Mr. Washington reached forward suddenly with his cane and pushed the
button in the grass so that the picture below went out instantly, and
there remained only that great dark mouth covered dismally with the
black teeth of the grating.

"Hey!" called a single voice from below, "you ain't goin' away without
givin' us your blessing?"

But Mr. Washington, followed by the two boys, was already strolling on
toward the ninth hole of the golf course, as though the pit and its
contents were no more than a hazard over which his facile iron had
triumphed with ease.

7

July under the lee of the diamond mountain was a month of blanket
nights and of warm, glowing days. John and Kismine were in love. He
did not know that the little gold football (inscribed with the legend
_Pro deo et patria et St. Mida_) which he had given her rested on
a platinum chain next to her bosom. But it did. And she for her part
was not aware that a large sapphire which had dropped one day from her
simple coiffure was stowed away tenderly in John's jewel box.

Late one afternoon when