of parboiled philosophy that make one want to get up and drive him
through the carpet with a tack hammer. When it comes to wise saws
and proverbial stunts Uncle Peter has Solomon backed up in the
corner.

"John," he said, "this country life is great. Early to bed and
early to rise makes a man's stomach digest mince pies--how's that?
Notice the air out here? How pure and fresh and bracing! You
ought to go out and run a mile, John!"

"I'd like to run ten miles," I answered, truthfully.

"Exercise, that's the essence of life, my boy!" he continued. "I
firmly believe I could run five miles to-day without straining a
muscle."

I laughed internally and thought of the glorious opportunity he'd
have before the morning broke.

"You may or may not know, John," the old gentleman kept on, "that I
was a remarkably fine swordsman in my younger days. Parry, thrust,
cut, slash--heigho! those were the times. And, to tell you the
truth, I'm still able to hold my own with the sword or pistol. I
found a sword hanging on the wall in the hall to-day and I've been
practising a few swings."

A vision of Uncle Peter running a rusty sword into the interior
department of the disguised and disgusted Bunch rose before me, but
I blew it away with a laugh.