animal could not be found. Well, it happened that the family with whom
my cousin was stopping consisted of father and mother and one son about
ten years old. The boy, whose name was Mike, was a regular limb. Always
in mischief and----"

"As I was saying," broke in Tom at this juncture, "when I was about to
leave the hospital, a man in the upper ward concluded to depart this
world for a better one. It happened about eight o'clock in the evening,
and, as was usual in such cases, the nurse on watch was supposed to get
several convalescent patients and a stretcher and carry the body down to
a little wooden house a hundred yards from the main building. The nurse,
with whom I was on friendly terms, had an important case to attend to
just then and he asked me if I wouldn't take charge of the stretcher
party. Well, we started down the yard, I leading the way with a lantern,
and we finally reached the little house. We entered and----"

"Some people think they are the only story tellers in the group,"
remarked "Bill" with mild sarcasm at that interesting point. "To tell a
good story with a point to it is an art. Now, as I was saying, this boy
Mike would rather get into mischief than eat a--what's the Irish for
potato?"

"Spud," suggested "Hod."

"Murphy," said "Stump."

"Well, it's immaterial. Anyway the boy was full of mischief. The night
the monk got away he had been sent to bed early because of some trick he
had played. He slept in a little room at the head of the stairs leading
to the second story. His window opened on a lean-to shed, and, as it was