Mr. Cutten's Revolt

XCEPTING, of course, the average run of ills and minor trials to which every human being must inevitably fall heir, it would appear to those who knew him intimately that Mr. James R. Cutten's life had been singularly free from worry and annoyance. I suppose one might comb the ten largest cities of the world and fail to discover a more contented man, or a more efficient book-keeper and cashier, than James R. Cutten. In fact, so gentle, so kindly, so cheerful, so optimistic, so altogether lovable was Mr. Cutten that the little tragedies of life which make of many people neurasthenic wrecks passed Mr. Cutten by without even lighting to say: "How d'ye do?" His remarkable disposition, coupled with his sterling integrity, had for him metamorphosed the rocky road of life into an improved, up-to-date automobile highway bordered with pansies.

Having, early in life, discovered the recipe for happiness, Mr. Cutten held rigorously to his course. He ate sparingly, avoiding alcoholic beverages and starchy foods. He retired early, after say two hours' communion with a favorite author, and immediately fell into the dreamless, untroubled slumber of a babe. At seven o'clock he would arise and hop into a cold bath. Emerging from his bath glowing and tingling, he would devote fifteen minutes to calisthenics, cook himself a light but excellent breakfast, and make a dash for the eight-three, arriving at his place of employment in the city at eight-forty-seven.

Blessed with health, a good job, and a huge capacity of simple enjoyments, there is no need to marvel at Mr. Cutten's happiness. He had a wife, too. Still, he was happy. Life, for Mr. Cutten, flowed along as gently, as unruffled as a purling brook through an alfalfa meadow. He was fifty years old, he made two hundred and fifty dollars a month, and he had saved his money. He had Mrs. Cutten amply provided for in the matter of life insurance, and he had a five-thousand-dollar endowment policy about to mature. The premiums on his "twenty-pay-life" policies were all paid forever. He was a paid-up risk, and nothing now remained for him to do except live to a ripe old age and die. Can you beat that for happiness?

And as if that was not sufficient for any man, it was a matter of common knowledge that Mr. Cutten had a little nest egg in the bank, and owned his own home—a pretty little bungalow, with a garage and an acre of land around it in a beautiful suburban subdivision. How about that, eh? But wait!

Mr. Cutten had three peach trees and three cherry trees, and berry vines around his boundary fence, and in addition he raised white Orpington chickens and vegetables. His Saturday afternoons, his Sunday mornings, his long summer evenings, his holidays, and his two weeks' vacation yearly Mr. Cutten spent in his yard and among his white Orpingtons. His hens laid sufficient eggs to pay for his groceries, and he had for dinner every Sunday a chicken with whose age he was familiar. He had fresh vegetables all the year round, and enough left over to give his immediate neighbors something more than a sample. Well, I wonder if Mr. Cutten wasn't happy!

No, sir. Mr. Cutten never worried unless he was out seven cents in his trial balance. Compared with Mr. Cutten a spring lamb was a tough customer, and no cloud had ever darkened the horizon of his placid existence until Mrs. Cutten's big bum of a brother—I hate to use that word, too, but then Mr. Cutten used it, so I presume I am justified; at any rate, it accurately describes Mr. Marshall Hackford, so even at the risk of appearing vulgar we will let it stand—came to visit the Cuttens for two weeks, and stayed a year!

It was not so much the advent of Mr. Hackford into his relatives' home, or the alarming inroads he made into Mr. Cutten's groceries that made of Mr. Cutten a raging demon, terrible to behold, but rather Hackford's low, vulgar sense of humor But that's the story, and it would be unprofessional and unprofitable to tip it off now. Let us, therefore, to the prologue.

We have already vaguely surmised one small fly in Mr. Cutten's amber—his wife. In the beginning, Mr. Cutten, at thirty, had married Mrs. Cutten, who was twenty, and the eldest of a family of six girls and a boy. Those were the good old days when a man who earned a hundred dollars a month was presumed, metaphorically speaking, to have the world by the tail and in a position to swing it wheresoever he listed. Mr. Cutten was such a man then—a prize not to be passed lightly.

Having entered upon a commercial career at the age of sixteen, at the time of his marriage Mr. Cutten had three thousand dollars in bank. He was supposed by the Hackford family to have more. After furnishing a cottage with plush-upholstered, spindle-shanked chairs and sofas, a curlicued, four-decker whatnot, a marble-topped center table for the parlor, et cetera, he still had two thousand dollars left to do with as he pleased. Following the trend of his generous nature, he gave his wife a little checking account of five hundred dollars. Within sixty days she had spent it on her unmarried sister and her baby brother, Marshall, and was hinting for more.

A great many people make the mistake of assuming that an "easy mark" is devoid of common sense. That is a mistake. Mr. Cutten, while realizing that he had married the Hackford family, in a certain sense, saw no reason why he should stand and deliver. Moreover, he hoped for a family of his own, so, pending the arrival of his heirs, he decided to get the remainder of his savings down safe. He quietly purchased twenty acres of despised suburban property with it, filed the deed away in a safe-deposit box, and, with the exception of the first Monday in March of each year, when the assessor came around, he forgot that he owned the land. Having purchased his twenty acres, Mr. Cutten very truthfully informed his wife that he had no more money, but would make her an allowance from his salary, and pay all bills himself.

It was a long time before Mrs. Cutten forgave him. She felt she had been swindled, and for quite a while she suspected Mr. Cutten of living a double life.

Mr. Cutten's family had never materialized. True, he had fathered a son who had died at the age of six hours, and there had never been any more babies. This fact saddened Mr. Cutten—but sorrow, sprinkled on certain natures, merely serves to make them more mellow and kindly, and he could never forget that his wife was the one who suffered most. It was well for him that he did, for Mrs. Cutten was a little inclined to nag. Indeed, had she been married to an ordinary man it is difficult to say just what limitations might be placed on her nagging. But Mr. Cutten always knew just the right thing to say to divert an impending storm, and the right thing to do to keep her in fairly good humor, and as this knack of saying and doing the right thing apparently entailed no strain on his seemingly inexhaustible fund of gentleness and good humor, he managed to get along very well, and could, in all sincerity, brag that with him marriage had not been a failure.

In the meantime Mr. Cutten's twenty acres had increased tremendously in value. It was no longer a suburban tract. He had figured on this, and now, at fifty years of age, the future held no terrors for him. He had worked for the same firm all his life—it was the only job he had ever held—and now that the old partners were dead and their sons in command, the sight of an expansive gentleman with an air of large emprise, who was drifting into the office very frequently of late, and indulging in long consultations with Mr. Cutten's youthful employers, actually caused him to snicker furtively into his ledgers. He knew the trust was after the firm, and he didn't care.

Mr. Cutten made up his mind to keep right on posting debits and credits and handling the cash until some young fellow should take his job at half the salary. And the day this happened—the day the new trust manager should lead the new bookkeeper to his desk and inform Mr. Cutten kindly that while they hated to part with such an old and valued employee, still his services were no longer required—at his present salary—Mr. Cutten had fully made up his mind what he was going to do.

He was going to laugh out loud! He had chuckled his way through life, but on that day he would laugh like a laughing hyena, for he could afford it! In all his life he had never been angry, and he would not even grow angry on that fatal day. Instead, he would on the instant divest himself of his alpaca office coat, slam it into the wastebasket, and go home with joy in his heart, to devote the remainder of his days to scientific gardening and chicken culture. He would set traps for gophers and concoct deadly poisons for predatory bugs. And he would study astronomy. All his life he had longed for a huge telescope, such as one will frequently see in the possession of a patriarchal old gentleman in a city street on a clear, moonlight night, the telescope bearing a sign which says:

Mr. Cutten desired such an instrument. He planned to build a revolving turret on the roof of his house, mount the telescope in it, and on balmy mid-summer nights study the heavenly bodies.

The fact is, Mr. Cutten was really of a scientific turn of mind, which probably resulted in his phenomenal success as a bookkeeper. It was an inherited tendency. His uncle, Jared Cutten, was a well-known amateur astronomer and student of animal life, in addition to being a bachelor and the possessor of a vast fortune. He it was who for many years had a standing offer of a reward of fifty thousand dollars for the discovery of a cure for cancer or tuberculosis. Jared Cutten was a patron of scientific research, although he could be induced to back any proposition which had for its object the attainment of exact and definite knowledge of some obscure problem of no particular importance to the human race. He was as crochety and belligerent as his nephew, James R. Cutten, was genial and peace-loving.

It was an open question among Jared Cutten's nephews and nieces—with the exception of Mr. Cutten—as to who should inherit the old gentleman's money. Mr. Cutten was firmly of the opinion that his uncle's fortune would be left to charity and the furthering of scientific research. In fact, he didn't care what became of it, for he did not require any of it for his personal use. Of all the nephews and nieces Mr. Cutten was the only one who took no vital interest in the state of Uncle Jared's health. He had not seen the old man in years.

This was not unfriendliness on Mr. Cutten's part, for Jared had a mighty brain, and for this Mr. Cutten admired and respected him; but his own decency and self-respect would not permit the veteran bookkeeper to join the horde of relatives who thronged around the old man, hoping his health was good, and disappointed because it was never bad. However, he had carefully perused his uncle's celebrated book on serpent worship, and an account of the expedition which the old man had financed to Desolation Island to observe the transit of Venus.

Old Jared was too busy studying reptiles and animals—this was his principal hobby, with astronomy a close second—to call on his relatives, and Mr. Cutten's nature was too fine to permit of his appearing fond of the old man for the sake of his money.

Things were at this pass when Marshall Hackford appeared upon the scene. Mr. Hackford was twenty-eight years old, weighed a hundred and eighty pounds, and was the baby of the family. Seven sisters and a mother had effectually spoiled him. He was too proud to work, preferring to let his family do that for him, and he had been raised under the impression that he was delicate. Up to the day his mother died he had never peeled his own potatoes at dinner. He was a handsome, miserable, spoiled, selfish, peevish, overgrown baby, and for a man without any particular vices he was about the most worthless scrub one could meet in a year's travel. This was the incubus which was foisted upon Mr. Cutten when he married into the Hackford family.

It began with hobbyhorses and ten-cent pieces for candy, and ran the gamut of footballs, baseballs, and bats, a Shetland pony, a gold watch, and a college education. At the persistent and never-wearying—well, solicitation of Mrs. Cutten, who worshiped her brat of a brother, Mr. Cutten had put up fifty dollars a month for three years to send Marshall to college, for the Hackfords were as poor as the proverbial church mouse.

Mr. Cutten remarked, upon the occasion of his surrender, that to him it appeared a good deal like putting a gold ring in a pig's nose, and let it go at that. He found it easier to put up the fifty than arouse the ire of Mrs. Cutten and the Hackford family. He was visibly and financially relieved when Marshall's health and the patience of the faculty failed coincidently.

One by one the Hackford sisters had married—sterner men than Mr. Cutten, by the way—and one and all they declined to harbor poor, dear Marshall, who, with the death of his doting parents, found himself without a home, and not only obliged to peel his own potatoes at dinner, but to earn them, also.

A most unlucky dog was Marshall. As fast as Mr. Cutten found him a job Marshall would discover that the boss was prejudiced against him, or the other clerks were shunting their work on him, or the light was awful on his eyes, or, in fact, any number of things. Marshall had a list of grievances and reasons why his manhood compelled him to tender his resignation, compared to which a recall petition loomed up in the dimensions of a cigarette paper. He was a nuisance, and finally Mr. Cutten, having gotten himself disliked by many of his business friends on Marshall's account, gave up the battle, and Marshall came to live with him while waiting for something decent to turn up.

Every day for three months he had gone up to the city with Mr. Cutten, ostensibly looking for work, but in reality praying he wouldn't find it. Finally he gave up in despair, and remained at home, doing little chores about the place, such as going to the butcher shop for his sister, sweeping down the front steps and the sidewalk, exercising the dog, and bringing in wood and kindling. A large part of each day, however, was spent in the Dutchman's pool parlor uptown, where Marshall demonstrated to his admiring friends the ease with which fifteen balls could be put down without a miss.

About this time Mr. Cutten discovered that whenever he hung his overcoat up in the hall and left the change from a half dollar in the little side pocket, somebody always "nipped" the change. However, even then, Mr. Cutten made no complaint, finding it cheaper to harbor Marshall at home than foot his expenses abroad. Once or twice he did make a feeble protest, which was incontinently overruled, for Marshall was still the baby of the Hackford family, and on her deathbed Mrs. Hackford had commended Marshall to her eldest daughter's care.

I have forgotten to state that at the time Mr. Cutten made his purchase of the suburban twenty acres, he had considered it the part of a shrewd husband to keep this information to himself. For twenty years he had kept it and blessed the forethought that had prompted the idea.

About the time Marshall had become as common around the house as an old rug, the trust took over the concern whose books Mr. Cutten had kept for thirty years, and Mr. Cutten, while somewhat nearsighted by this time, could nevertheless see the handwriting on the wall. He nerved himself for the verdict, and speculated upon the advisability of practicing a horse laugh against the day of his retirement. He felt that his cachination must do full justice to his sense of contentment, for of late he had been the recipient of numerous offers from real-estate dealers for his twenty acres. He had steadfastly declined them all, holding out for a hundred thousand net, for he realized that with bungalows and alleged Swiss châlets springing up like mushrooms all around his twenty acres it would not be long before somebody paid him his price. And he was not disappointed, for eventually he received such an offer.

The offer, however, came through the most unexpected channel imaginable. A real-estate dealer saw the land, realized its possibilities as a subdivision, and at once sought out the owner. Instead of visiting Mr. Cutten at his place of employment in the city, however, he elected to call at Mr. Cutten's home during the latter's absence. He met Mrs. Cutten and unfolded his proposition. Need we say more?

No, except to remark in passing that it was a terrible blow to Mrs. Cutten. It would be a terrible blow to any married lady to discover, after twenty years of married life, that her husband has been concealing a hundred thousand dollars' worth of assets!

"Such a sneaky thing to do!" cried Mrs. Cutten. "The miser! Working away, year in and year out, when we might be traveling in Europe!"

Forthwith she flew into a rage, and called up Mr. Cutten. Then she called him down. Marshall, coming in for his luncheon about that time, and finding his sister in tears, was soon in possession of the tale of Mr. Cutten's duplicity. He said nothing, but thought a good deal. Later in the afternoon he strolled uptown, and casually inquired of the Dutchman how much he would take for his pool parlor.

Poor Mr. Cutten hated to come home that night. When he did, in the language of the classic, he got his, and against the torrent of the Hackford wrath his good nature could not prevail.

For a week Mr. Cutten continued to get his at home; then, on Saturday afternoon, at the office, he got his some more. However, he had been expecting that, so to his credit be it said that he remembered to laugh. He did more. He flashed a certified check for a hundred thousand dollars on the amazed trust manager, and informed that individual that he might, for aught Mr. Cutten cared to the contrary, invade the realm of his satanic majesty in a hand basket; after which Mr. Cutten removed his alpaca office coat, rolled it into a compact little ball, dashed it into the wastebasket. and left that office forever, stepping high, like a ten-time winner. It was the first dash of spirit he had ever showed, and possibly a great measure of it was totally unnecessary, but then he had been heckled like a caged bear for a week past, and his nerves were gone for the time being.

Mr. Cutten went uptown and banked his check. Then he strolled over on automobile row and bought an electric for Mrs. Cutten. It was about the only thing he could think of as a peace offering. Next he purchased for himself that type of motor car described as a racy roadster, and engaged a greasy mechanic to drive him home in style, while another mechanic—not quite so greasy, followed in the electric. On the way Mr. Cutten paused long enough to purchase his telescope.

Thus did Mr. Cutten return to nature, his white Orpingtons, and the scientific life which had been calling to him for thirty years. His purchase of the electric was a knock-out stroke of diplomacy. Mrs. Cutten kissed him a dozen times, and cried with joy. Also she called him Jimmy all the evening, and this was something which hitherto had always presaged a raid on his bank account. So closely did Mr. Cutten's own joy approximate delirium that he could not find it in his gentle heart to reprove Marshall when that wart on the face of society took the racy roadster out for a spin around the block, skidded into the curb, and demolished a wheel. On the contrary, Mr. Cutten instructed the parasite to hold himself in readiness for a journey to the city next day for the purpose of laying in a stock of summer raiment.

For a week all went merry as a marriage bell in the Cutten establishment. It almost appeared to Mr. Cutten that the money wasn't going to be a bone of contention, after all, and he felt a little ashamed of himself for his twenty-year suspicion that a Hackford should never be trusted with more than thirty-five cents at a time.

During that week Mr. Cutten made his first discovery of benefit to science. In the lower end of his garden he unearthed a colony of Argentine ants, the first seen in that section of the State. They were a long way from home, and Mr. Cutten recognized them as strangers; hence he investigated, and discovered that the Argentine ant is a distinct menace to society.

Now, as those familiar with the alarming spread and pestiferous activities of the Argentine ant must realize, Mr. Cutten's discovery of the invaders into that peaceful suburban community was really an important one. Ants in the sugar bowl, ants in the cake box, and in the molasses jug, ants everywhere was the curse that threatened the community. Mr. Cutten immediately published and distributed at his own expense a pamphlet descriptive of the Argentine ant and his depredations, and advised housewives to place jars of sugar, diluted with water and arsenic, in their cellars. The poisoned sugar would then be carried by the ants to their young and the queen ants, and thus, by slow poisoning, the coming generation would become enfeebled and the pest eventually eradicated.

For this public work Mr. Cutten received a half column in the local paper. This, in turn, was "swiped" as a good story by one of the city papers. Jared Cutten read it, and scratched his head in a vain endeavor to recall what his nephew looked like. At any rate, he wrote Mr. Cutten a nice letter, commending his public spirit and the scientific zeal with which he had handled the Argentine ants.

However, the ant campaign had scarcely been started before Mr. Cutten received further evidence that the Hackford spirit was ramping abroad, with designs on his bank account. Mrs. Cutten came to him one day with the suggestion that really they ought to do something for poor, dear Marshall. Mr. Cutten gulped, and inquired mildly what she had to suggest.

"I've just given the fellow a new overcoat and a new suit to keep him from wearing mine, and I've just had a bill for a set of new tires he's worn out already, scooting around in my racy roadster," he said, with just a hint of complaint in his voice. "We're feeding him and boarding him free gratis, and have been for a year. Isn't that enough?"

"I think we might set Marshall up in business for himself," began Mrs. Cutten, playfully pinching Mr. Cutten's ear, à la la Napoleon Bonaparte. It was a way she had when she wanted anything, and for twenty years it had never failed to work.

"Wha-what kind of a business?" quavered Mr. Cutten, feeling himself about to slide from his high private resolve to cut off Mr. Hackford at the pockets.

"That pool parlor up on Main Street. Schultz, the man who owns it, wants to go back to Germany, and he'll sell at a sacrifice."

"How much?" demanded Mr. Cutten weakly.

"Three thousand dollars, Jimmy."

"Well, it's a sacrifice, I'll admit," retorted her husband; "only I'm elected instead of Schultz. There's a lot of things I'd rather do with three thousand dollars, my love, than let poor, dear Marshall play horse with it."

"But, Jimmy, dear, we won't miss such a trifle. Why, we're rich."

"My love," said Mr. Cutten, "when you've handled money as long as I've handled it, you'll realize that riches have wings. I've been creeping along close to the earth for fifty years, and, by George, if there's going to be any flying, you and I will do it. I haven't a very high opinion of Marshall's business ability, although it would seem that a pool parlor would be about his limit. I'll have to think it over, my love. I was never accused of throwing three thousand dollars to the birds in a hurry."

"Do look into the matter, Jimmy, dear," purred the companion of Mr. Cutten's joys, and left him to think it over; for in all their married life Mr. Cutten had never before temporized while being raided, and, with the keen intuition of her sex, Mrs. Cutten decided that haste might ruin Marshall's chances. She was content, for the nonce, with a half victory.

Mr. Cutten, really perturbed for the first time in his life, went down into the cellar to think it over. Parting with money in driblets never hurts a generous nature, but it is the three-thousand-dollar gobs that break one's heart, and Mr. Cutten had a keen suspicion that he was being worked. He was still thinking it over when it occurred to him that it was time to gather the eggs, feed his hens, and lock them in for the night.

Now, for some days past Mr. Cutten had been vaguely troubled. One of his white Orpingtons had suddenly ceased laying, although apparently trying hard enough to make good, and as there was no obvious reason why she should not succeed, the scientific side of Mr. Cutten's nature was all on edge to ferret out the mystery. Now, as he entered the yard of his hennery, he thought he had solved the problem, and paused by the gate to prove his conclusions.

An unusually large gopher snake was crawling through the wire-netting fence. Mr. Cutten, trembling for the fate of his prize chicks, saw the intruder wind his sinuous way across the yard, and slip noiselessly up the runway into the hen house; then Mr. Cutten followed, and watched his snakeship through a knot hole. He saw the reptile creep up to a low box in which a white Orpington was even then in the act of endeavoring to deposit her daily treasure—the same hen, in fact, which had so mysteriously ceased laying. The hen saw the gopher snake approaching, squawked in terror, and flew for her life. The snake, nothing daunted, climbed into the box and disappeared. Mr. Cutten, approaching cautiously, peered into the box, and to his amazement discovered that the vandal had wrapped his maxillaries around the small end of the egg, and was actually engaged in the task of swallowing it whole!

"Well, I'll be blowed!" gasped Mr. Cutten. "An egg-eating sucker of a gopher snake! Why, I never heard of such a thing," and forbearing to disturb the reptile at its meal, he ran to the house to call Mrs. Cutten and Marshall to observe the remarkable performance. On the way out he carefully closed the chicken-house door to prevent the escape of the snake.

But Mrs. Cutten and Marshall were out in the racy roadster, so, pinning a note on the dining-room table, instructing them to report at the hennery to view a strange sight, Mr. Cutten returned to enjoy to the fullest the scientific delight of watching a gopher snake dispose of a hen's egg without even cracking the shell. By the time Mrs. Cutten and Marshall had arrived, the egg had almost passed the snake's lips, and the creature's head resembled the thumb of a boxing glove.

Mrs. Cutten fled in affright, refusing to look at the horrid creature, but Marshall, possessed of all the curiosity of lazy and worthless people, took keen enjoyment in sharing with Mr. Cutten his study of the egg-swallowing snake. Together they watched for an hour, while the egg slowly worked along the snake's alimentary canal. Its progress could be readily traced by the conspicuous lump which it produced in the snake's midriff, thus proving the egg to be still intact.

"How long, Jimmy"—since Mr. Cutten's retirement on the proceeds of his early sagacity, Marshall had adopted his sister's patronizing habit of calling Mr. Cutten "Jimmy"—"do you suppose it will take the gastric juices of that snake's interior to so work upon the shell of the egg that it will soften and permit the egg to digest?"

It was a big question. It opened up a line of scientific research, and like a falling star it dropped on James R. Cutten's inherited appetite for exact and definite knowledge bearing on subjects of no importance to the human race.

How long would it take the snake to digest the egg!

Mr. Cutten scratched his head, and tipped his hat over on his left ear in a manner suggestive of profound meditation. Marshall's query had opened up an interesting line of conjecture, so, not desiring to appear ignorant in the presence of his despised brother-in-law, Mr. Cutten spat nonchalantly, and declared with conviction that within four hours the lump in the snake's belly would subside, thus demonstrating the powerful action of the gastric juice as an aid to digestion.

Marshall Hackford shook his head. "It can't be done," he said, with equal conviction.

"Why can't it?" Mr. Cutten demanded. "Nature always provides a way. If nature had intended that a snake should not swallow an egg without the ability to assimilate it, the snake would leave the egg alone. It stands to reason. But that dog-gone snake has been guzzling an egg a day for ten days, and I know it"

"It will take at least twenty-four hours, if not longer," said Mr. Hackford.

"Nonsense! Marshall, you talk like a child. If it takes a gopher snake twenty-four hours to digest a white Orpington egg, it stands to reason he wouldn't be hungry every day—and this fellow gets an egg a day, I tell you. And he sucks 'em down whole, for I haven't found any eggshells lying around"

"Bet you the cigars he don't get away with that egg in less than forty-eight hours, if you think you know so much about a snake." Mr. Hackford was fond of games of chance on a small scale.

Mr. Cutten reflected that if he won he would be winning his own cigars, and if he lost he would be no worse off than he was before, so he was not interested in making a small bet.

"That old Uncle Jared of yours could settle this question in jig time," pursued Marshall. "Take a man who's studied snakes all his life, and written a book on snake worship, and there's darned little he don't know about a snake."

"I'll wire him," said Mr. Cutten impulsively, slapping his leg. "I'll wire him and find out. Marshall, you watch the snake while I run down to the telegraph office," and, quite aglow with interest, Mr. Cutten sprang into the racy roadster and scorched downtown, where he sent the following telegram to his Uncle Jared:

Jared Cutten had just penned the last sentence in a paper to be read before the Anthropological Society, and entitled "Can Monkeys Talk? They Can," when Mr. Cutten's telegram was handed to him.

Imagine, if you can, an amateur scientist, nature faker, or whatever one may be pleased to term such a queer individual as Jared Cutten, presumed to be the court of last resort in matters snaky, receiving a telegram like that without being able to answer it! Contemplate for a moment the blow to Jarcd Cutten's vanity—he who had studied the habits of every snake in every zoo in the world, and any number of snakes not confined in zoos—Jared Cutten, author of "Serpent Worship," the man who knew every kink and fold in the spine of a snake from the time it was a fish until it became neither fish, flesh, nor fowl, but a pterodactyl, and flew, and had a two-foot bill with teeth in it, and gradually grew into a snake and crawled! Imagine his humiliation when he discovered that for once in his life he was stumped!

Now, to be stumped by a stranger is nothing, but to be caught asleep at the switch by the discoverer of the ferocious Argentine ant in America, and that man a mere nephew, was a matter which didn't sit well on Uncle Jared's stomach. The buck was clearly up to him, and he realized that unless he could answer the question he might as well go to the end of the class.

A snake had swallowed a white Orpington egg—a simple thing like an egg, and here he was, appealed to by the only nephew who had ever appealed to him as worth the powder to—ahem! ahumph! that is, appealed to as the High Priest of Reptilian Lore—and unable to deliver the goods! It was terrible.

Uncle Jared realized that James R. Cutten was not a frivolous man, for he had discovered the Argentine ant. He realized that he was not an avaricious man, for he had requested his answer collect. He had not seen James for many years, but he had understood from hearsay evidence that James was doing well. Come to think of it, James' brother, who called religiously twice a week, had informed him upon the occasion of his last visit that James had retired, and was supposed to be worth considerable money. Consequently, and in view of the fact that he had written James, congratulating him on the ant discovery, this telegram could, by no possibility, be a far-fetched scheme to patch up the silence and—er—neglect of years. On the contrary, there was every reason for Jared Cutten to believe that his nephew had inherited his—Jared's—penchant for scientific research, and, if so, Uncle Jared could not afford to be caught four-flushing. He would spar for time, and in the interim dig into the authorities on snakeology. So he sent this message to James R. Cutten:

Three hours later, with the problem still unsolved, he received this reply:

It was the knock-out blow! While Uncle Jared did not know it, Mr. Cutten, at the suggestion of his brother-in-law, had looked up the word gopher snake in Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, and fastened onto that Latin designation like a bulldog to a tramp.

"Ha!" gasped Uncle Jared. "A burrowing colubrine, commonly known as the gopher snake. By Jupiter, James is no dub himself, when it comes to snakes. I can't fence with him another minute, and this affair is worthy of investigation. I'll confess my ignorance."

So he wired his nephew:

That telegram reached Mr. Cutten at five o'clock next morning, being delivered to him in the hen house, where he had sat all night, overcoated and blanketed, among his Orpingtons, watching every movement of the snake by the light of an electric torch, which he kept burning steadily. The snake, after successfully negotiating the egg, had endeavored to escape, but Mr. Cutten had tickled its nose with a straw each time it appeared over the edge of the box, so that the snake quickly withdrew and lay coiled in the nest, considering the situation. Eventually, becoming sleepy and torpid, he tied himself up in a lover's knot and went to sleep.

We are reliably informed that when young Lochinvar came out of the West and eloped with the bride, there was considerable racing and chasing around the home of the bride's parents. Well, that may be, but the racings and chasings that went on around the Cutten establishment following the receipt of that telegram made all the racings and chasings of history look like the demure activities of a Dorcas Society.

For the first time in her married life Mrs. Cutten got up early and cooked breakfast for Mr. Cutten. Marshall, who hitherto had occupied the spare bedroom, was given terse orders to vacate and thereafter sleep on a couch in the dining room, and Airs. Cutten flew to make the guest chamber ready against the arrival of the honored guest.

She was too happy for anything. To think of receiving a letter, two telegrams, and a visit from the rich relation, all within the short space of one week! She resolved that no stone should be left unturned to make his stay a pleasant one, to the end that, upon his death, it might be discovered that he had been kind to her husband. Already she considered Uncle Jared's estate as good as settled in Mr. Cutten's favor, and her mind was busy with half-formed plans for the rehabilitation of the Hackfords and her own social aggrandizement. The news that his learned relative had condescended to share with him his observations, even in such a comparatively unimportant matter as the digestion of an egg in the stomach of a gopher snake, filled the honest Mr. Cutten with a sort of holy joy. Leaving Marshall to watch over the snake, with instructions to call him in case the significant lump should commence to subside, Mr. Cutten raced for the house, swallowed a cup of hot coffee—for he was chilled and cramped after his night in the hennery—and then commenced a frantic search of the house for a suitable cardboard box and a roll of cotton batting. To his great distress neither were to be found, so, springing into the racy roadster, he tore uptown through the silent streets with his cut-off open, rang the night bell of the local druggist, secured the box and a huge roll of absorbent cotton, and, disregarding the earnest queries of the druggist as to who had been injured, he returned to the house.

Here he arranged the receptacle for the snake as per his uncle's instructions; then, drawing on a heavy automobile glove, he got his courage in hand, grasped the snake firmly by the middle, and gently deposited him in his snowy couch. Marshall was then, to his huge disgust, requested to get busy and clean up the chicken yard, and accomplish sundry other little chores to make the place tidy, while within the house Mrs. Cutten was frantically sweeping and dusting.

"Marshall," said Mr. Cutten, as the hour for the arrival of the train drew near, "take the runabout and go down to the station for my uncle. You'll recognize him immediately. He's a Cutten from heels to hair. Apologize to him for me for not coming in person, but tell him I dassen't leave the snake."

So Marshall went to the station, while Mr. Cutten remained on watch. About nine o'clock Marshall returned with Uncle Jared, and the formalities of greeting over with Mrs. Cutten, the old gentleman went at once to the garage and greeted his nephew. His old eyes glowed with interest when Mr. Cutten called his attention to the bulge in the reptile, showing where the undigested egg reposed.

"A remarkable case, nephew," said he. "A truly remarkable case. Knowing of my interests in such matters, it was thoughtful and kind of you, indeed, to apprise me of the facts. I appreciate it, I assure you. And now, as you have been on watch all night, I suggest that you retire for some much-needed sleep, and leave the case to me."

Mildly protesting that he was not in the least fatigued, Mr. Cutten nevertheless permitted himself to be persuaded to abandon the garage for his bed, where he slept soundly until five o'clock, when he arose and relieved Uncle Jared for dinner. After dinner Uncle Jared retired and slept until midnight, when he arose and relieved Mr. Cutten, who thereupon went to bed and slept until seven next morning.

"Any new developments, uncle?" he inquired, as he entered the garage.

"None— so far as the egg is concerned. But the snake appears nervous and uncomfortable."

"That's to be expected." Mr. Cutten bent over the. prisoner. "His eyes are glazed and half closed," he added. "I do believe he has indigestion."

"Well, that's to be expected, also," replied the author of "Serpent Worship." "According to all available information, he has been eating an egg a day, and if he's swallowed them whole his system must be plumb full of eggshells. The glazed eye is significant of a state of coma, common to all reptiles after gorging, although his actions for the past two hours are in direct contravention of that torpidity which we have every reason to suspect, under the circumstances. I do not recall a more marvelous case."

"Well, he appears to have quieted down," suggested Mr. Cutten. "So you had better go in to breakfast. In the event of any new symptoms I will call you."

"By all means do," replied Uncle Jared, and departed for the house. After breakfast he lay down for forty winks. About the forty-first wink, which happened to be late in the afternoon, he was awakened by Mr. Cutten shaking him gently.

"What's up?" he demanded.

"The snake is dead!"

Mr. Cutten made the announcement with as much solemnity as if the departed had been a warm personal friend.

"The devil you say! And the egg is"

"Is still undigested."

"We'll have a post-mortem," announced Uncle Jared, springing out of bed and into his slippers. "Got a good sharp knife, James?"

Mr. Cutten had such a weapon, and together they repaired to the garage. Mr. Marshall Hackford was there also, surveying the defunct, egg-swallowing snake, and as Uncle Jared lifted the carcass out of the box and stretched it on the floor of the garage, Mr. Cutten saw Marshall turn away to hide a snicker.

"What are you laughing at—you?" demanded Mr. Cutten sternly. He desired no undue hilarity at such a moment, and in the presence of his serious-minded relative.

"Wait," replied Mr. Hackford, with suppressed emotion. "You'll see for yourself in a minute."

And so they did. Uncle Jared deftly slit the snake up the belly, removed the egg, and tapped it tentatively with the blade of the knife. "The egg appears to be in perfect condition," began Uncle Jared. "The acids of the stomach have had no apparent effect Holy Sailor!"

Marshall Hackford whooped aloud, bent double, and sat down in uncontrollable mirth as Uncle Jared picked up the gory relic and thrust it under Mr. Cutten's nose.

It was a porcelain nest egg!

"Well, James," said Uncle Jared frigidly, "all I've got to say is that you're a peach of a scientist, you are!"

"Har-r-r-r!" shouted Mr. Hackford, and rolled on the floor of the garage.

Mr. Cutten flushed a rosy red, and hung his head. "I didn't know it," he said humbly. He looked about him, as if in search of a hole into which he might plunge, and his pitiful glance fell upon his worthless brother-in-law rolling on the floor and chortling with glee at the horrible predicament in which James R. Cutten was involved.

"You—you knew this right along, didn't you, Marshall?" he said weakly.

Mr. Hackford finished his laugh before it occurred to him to have the manners to nod his head affirmatively.

"It was unkind and ungenerous of you not to tell me," said Mr. Cutten sadly. "I must confess my surprise and chagrin, Marshall. I am deeply pained."

"It was too good," said Marshall, wiping away the tears of mirth. "If you'd only looked for yourself a little closer—har-har—before the snake Oh, Lord, this will be the death of me—before the snake swallowed the egg, you'd have noticed it, Jimmy. You need spectacles, Jimmy. You've worked—har-har—too long under electric lights—har-har-har" And Mr. Hackford leaned against the wall of the garage and commenced all over again. Jared Cutten stood staring at him, apparently undecided whether to fly into a rage and proclaim himself insulted, or take the whole thing as a joke.

"Yes, Marshall," said Mr. Cutten sadly. "I have worked under electric lights too long. But I worked for the Hackfords, and I was a fool to do it. This is my thanks—I"

"The sight of you two serious-minded old nuts watching that snake would have made a cow laugh," proclaimed Marshall.

The world swam red before Mr. Cutten's eyes. He saw the trap into which the artful Marshall had led him; he thought of all he had done for the lazy beggar; of the miserable, selfish, greedy Hackford nature against which he had struggled so cheerfully all of his married life, only to be made a fool of in the end; and the monstrous imposition which was being practiced upon him by this overgrown baby. Marshall, was for the first time really apparent to Mr. Cutten. His learned, his brilliant Uncle Jared had been made the laughingstock of this contemptible laughing jackass—Jared Cutten, author of "Serpent Worship," patron of science, had been referred to as a serious-minded old nut! And Uncle Jared was his guest; true, an uninvited guest, brought down from the city on a crazy errand, but an honored and a welcome guest nevertheless.

Mr. Cutten, from long practice, could readily assimilate a shabby deal directed against himself, but against his honored guest such a joke took on the dimensions of a deadly insult, and with a sudden lust for murder, Mr. Cutten cast about him for a weapon. Nothing presented itself except the limp corpse of the victim of misplaced confidence, but that would do.

"You big bum!" he snarled. "You great, contemptible, malingering, beggarly, lazy leech! I've supported you in idleness for my wife's sake, and you have imposed on my good nature. You have humiliated me, and now you have the nerve to stand there and snicker at my Uncle Jared. I've stood for all that I'm going to stand from you, and now I'm through. Take that, you tramp!" and he struck Mr. Hackford a stinging blow with the late lamented.

He continued to strike until Marshall, with a shriek of horror, broke from the garage, and fled for the house and the protection of Mrs. Cutten. Uncle Jared, filled with alarm at the sight of Mr. Cutten's terrible anger, attempted to restrain his nephew.

"Leggo!" shouted Mr. Cutten. "Leggo, I tell you. I'm a boob! I'm an ass! I'm a monkey, but too much is plenty, and enough is always sufficient. I've been taking dirt from the Hackfords for twenty years, but to-day it ends. Leggo, I tell you! I've got a little housecleaning to do, and I'm going to do it."

So Uncle Jared let him go, and he departed on the trail of the viper he had been nursing in his bosom.

From the interior of the house presently came the sound of a terrible hubbub. Uncle Jared heard Mrs. Cutten scream; then he saw the front door open, and down the steps came Mr. Marshall Hackford on the toe of Mr. Cutten's good right foot.

"Skidoo, you hobo! Out of my house, and stay out"—kick—"and if you ever come back"—another kick—"I'll kill you. Skip, you simpleton, and hustle your daily bread. Work or starve"—swat—"you poor, dear, delicate"

Words failed Mr. Cutten. Besides, he was pursuing Mr. Hackford up the street, and he required his breath for running. Marshall scrambled over a fence, and disappeared across a vacant lot, running for dear life. Mr. Cutten shook his fist after him.

"Yes, I'll put up three thousand dollars to buy you a pool parlor, won't I? You bet I will—not!" and, hurling a cuss word after the vanquished one—a thing Mr. Cutten had never done in all his previous life—he returned to the house, where Uncle Jared was endeavoring to soothe Mrs. Cutten.

"You brute!" she shrilled at Mr. Cutten, as he entered the front door.

"Cut that," said Mr. Cutten. "Chop it—quick. Where do you get that chatter?" He came close to her, and suddenly she calmed, for there was a gleam in Mr. Cutten's eye which showed he meant business. He continued:

"My love," and his voice was as calm and gentle as it had ever been, "you choose right now between your husband and your family. Understand!" Mrs. Cutten hung her head, and a crocodile tear started across her cheek. "Any time you want to separate yourself from a good thing you'll invite that contemptible rascal back to this house, or let me catch you giving him money and my shirts and neckties! One Hackford's enough for me, Mrs. Cutten. Two is a crowd, and I'm not so old that I can't put up a rattling good scrap when my guest is insulted under my roof. Marshall is off our list, and off for keeps. Never forget it!"

Mrs. Cutten departed up the stairs, sobbing softly. Mr. Cutten turned to Uncle Jared.

Uncle Jared was smiling at him approvingly. "James," said he, "I was always of the impression that you were a mild man—too mild, in fact."

"Oh, I have my off days," replied Mr. Cutten carelessly. "I'm a devil when things go wrong, and every once in a while I have to prove that I'm old man Bluebeard around this ranch."

Uncle Jared slapped him on the back. "Quite right, my boy. Quite right. A man must assert his authority occasionally, but for all that you shouldn't be so quick-tempered. It was a rattling good joke, come to consider it, although I was angry myself for a minute. However, James, you have been very severe. I suggest that you go upstairs and apologize to your wife."

Mr. Cutten laughed—a short and ugly laugh. He shook his head.

"You don't know James R. Cutten," he said. "I rule my house with a rod of iron. I have to. Sorry to have had this vulgar domestic row during your visit, but he who hesitates is lost. I maintain peace in my family if I have to fight for it."

Right then Uncle Jared made up his mind that James R. Cutten was his favorite nephew and legitimate heir. All his life he had harbored the notion that Mr. Cutten was a milksop. He was mistaken. The man was every inch a man. He was firm as adamant. He had character and courage. He was all right.

Uncle Jared slipped his arm through Mr. Cutten's.

"James," he said, "let's go back and bury that dog-gone snake."