Oh! but maybe he wasn't the City Boy with the Head in the Suburbs!

When I reached home that night I felt like a sock that needs
darning.

Clara J. had invited Uncle Peter to take dinner with us and he
began to give me the nervous look-over as soon as I answered roll
call.

Uncle Peter is a very stout, old gentleman. When he squeezes into
our little flat the walls act like they are bow-legged.

Uncle Peter always goes through the folding doors sideways and
every time he sits down the man in the flat below kicks because we
move the piano so often.

Tacks was also present.

Tacks is my youthful brother-in-law with a mind like a walking
delegate because he's always looking for trouble and when he finds
it he passes it up to somebody who doesn't need it.

"Evening, John!" gurgled Uncle Peter; "late, aren't you?"

"Cars blocked, delayed me," I sighed.

"New York will be a nice place when they get it finished, won't
it?" chirped Tacks.

Just then Aunt Martha squeezed in from a shopping excursion and I