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 way. The result would probably have been the same. Brown, as I have said, did it all; but I was the figure head—on me descended the wrath of outraged officers compelled to eat sardines past their first youth, and the scene after the little episode of the Apenta water was quite dreadful.

“Why not go yourself and milk the bally cow if Brown can’t?” remarked one of them unfeelingly. “Sing to it, dearie—one of those little love ballads of your early youth. Something is bound to occur.”

And then up spake Horatius—it is his name—he being the one that owned Aunt Araminta. “The old girl has just written me asking me if we want anything. I’ll tell her to send some condensed along. Of course it won’t be here for some time—but it’s better than nothing.” He turned over the last sheet. “She is sending a hamper, as a matter of fact. Perhaps there’ll be some in it.”

“Two to one it’s nothing but moth balls,” remarked the doctor irreverently. “Heavens! do you remember the time the old dear got one mixed up in her home-made