quiet. But we were mistaken; for, with the same breath with which
he finished the dog rigmarole, our talkative companion added:

"But I can tell you a funnier thing than that--"

We all felt we could believe that assertion. If he had boasted that
he could tell a duller, more uninteresting story, we should have
doubted him; but the possibility of his being able to relate
something funnier, we could readily grasp.

But it was not a bit funnier, after all. It was only longer and
more involved. It was the history of a man who grew his own celery;
and then, later on, it turned out that his wife was the niece, by
the mother's side, of a man who had made an ottoman out of an old
packing-case.

The friend glanced round the carriage apologetically about the
middle of this story, with an expression that said:

"I'm awfully sorry, gentlemen; but it really is not my fault. You
see the position I'm in. Don't blame me. Don't make it worse for
me to bear than it is."

And we each replied with pitying, sympathetic looks that implied:

"That's all right, my dear sir; don't you fret about that. We see
how it is. We only wish we could do something to help you."

The poor fellow seemed happier and more resigned after that.