clothes--moth-eaten, stained, battered, and torn. Also a muffler and
an old hat. Can you find me some?"

"No, sir, I don't--that is, yessir, I do. Hexcuse me, sir--'arf a
moment, sir." Saying which, Mr. Brimberly bowed and went from the room
with one hand still clutching his whisker very much as though he had
taken himself into custody and were leading himself out.

"Say," exclaimed Spike in a hoarse whisper and edging nearer to Mr.
Ravenslee, "who's His Whiskers--de swell guy with d' face trimmings?"

"Why, since you ask, Spike, he is a very worthy person who devotes his
life to--er--looking after my welfare and--other things."

"Holy Gee!" exclaimed Spike, staring, "I should have thought you was big
'nuff to do that fer yourself, unless--" and here he broke off suddenly
and gazed on Mr. Ravenslee's long figure with a new and more particular
interest.

"Unless what?"

"Say--you ain't got bats in your belfry, have you--you ain't weak in the
think-box, or soft in the nut, are ye?"

"No--at least not more than the average, I believe."

"I mean His Whiskers don't have to lead you around on a string or watch
out you don't set fire to yourself, does he?"

"Well, strictly speaking, I can't say that his duties are quite so