e his mind," I said, frigidly. "You
have; and your hens are; and your rooster is a _demon_!"

"Straight out of the pit; undoubtedly they were hatched under
Satan's wings. Monsieur, believe me, Schmetz, when I tell you so."

"Didn't you ask me," I demanded, "to throw them over into your yard
when they invaded my premises? Very well: I threw one over and you
caught it. Why, then, should you complain?"

"Oh, yes, I caught it!" A horrible sneer twisted his countenance.

Schmetz fell to praying aloud. But he couldn't remember anything
save the grace before meat, so he prayed that, in a sonorous voice.
For he is a pious man.

The doctor's nose wrinkled and his lips stretched: "_Sophronisba!_"
he hissed, and, having hurled this hand-grenade, scuttled down the
ladder like a boy of ten.

Alicia sank upon the ground and rocked to and fro. For a minute I
wanted to catch her by the shoulders and shake her soundly; but
catching her eye instead, I also fell into helpless laughter.
Leaning on his spade, Schmetz stared at us, shaking his grizzled
head.

"Name of a cat!" murmured the puzzled Alsatian, and fell to
salvaging such bulbs as weren't utterly ruined. We were all busy at
this, when a head again appeared over the hedge--a big, leonine head
with a tossing mane and a tameless beard. An enormous pair of
shoulders followed, a tree-trunk of a leg was swung over, and Doctor
Richard Geddes dropped into our garden like a great cat. He strolled
over, hands in pockets, and looking down at grubbing us, asked
politely: "Making a garden?"

"Oh, no," Alicia told him sweetly, "we're laying out a chicken-run."

"Er--what I came over to say, is that I've got some fine bulbs,
myself, this year, particularly fine bulbs--eh, Schmetz?--and more
than I need for myself. Will you share them with me, Miss Smith?
Please! I--well, I'd be really grateful if you would," said this
overgrown boy.

"We'll be enchanted," Alicia said instantly. "When can we have
them, please?"

"Now!" cried the doctor, with brightening eyes. "By jingo, I'll get
'em this minute, and plant 'em for you, too!"

And he did. He was on his knees, trowel in hand, shouting to
Riedriech, who had come outside for a few minutes' happy arguing
with his good friend the doctor, that the socialist argument boiled
down amounts to about this--that one should do without boiled eggs
for breakfast now, in order that the proletariat may have baked hen
for dinner in the millennium; wh