case we were so eager to hear the conclusion of the stories being
related by the rival yarn-spinners, that we were fain to brave
"Cutlets'" displeasure. Led by Bill and Tom, we piled inside.

"What I was trying to say," spoke up the former, getting the first
opening, "was that when Patrick reached the top of the stairs, something
struck him full in the chest, and two hairy arms were thrown about his
neck. The sudden shock sent him tumbling backward, and he fell kerflop!
down the steps. Up above, his wife was howling to beat the band, 'Mike,
Mike, ye spalpane! You do be killing your poor father. Och! why did I
live to see this day?' In the meantime the real Mike--for the one inside
was the escaped monk from the menagerie--had scooted for the police.
They came, a half dozen of them, and as they entered the front door--"

"Time!" chuckled "Stump." "Give Tom a chance."

"As I opened the front door of the little wooden house where we had
placed the body," said Tom, prompt to take advantage of the opportunity,
"I saw two gleaming eyes glaring at me from the inner room. I tell you,
my heart fell clean down into my boots."

"Should think it would," muttered the "Kid," peering about the
wheel-house with a shiver. "Ugh!"

"I dropped the lantern," resumed Tom, "and staggered back. Just then
a----"

"Half dozen policemen entered the front door just as Patrick and the
supposed Mike reached the bottom of the stairs," broke in Bill, taking
up the thread of his story. "Well, when the Irish coppers saw Pat with