hoped to bring the gastronomical duel to a close. But a loud, wailing
scream downstairs caused both her and Mr. McCaskey to pause in a sort of
involuntary armistice.

On the sidewalk at the corner of the house Policeman Cleary was standing
with one ear upturned, listening to the crash of household utensils.

"'Tis Jawn McCaskey and his missis at it again," meditated the
policeman. "I wonder shall I go up and stop the row. I will not. Married
folks they are; and few pleasures they have. 'Twill not last long. Sure,
they'll have to borrow more dishes to keep it up with."

And just then came the loud scream below-stairs, betokening fear or dire
extremity. "'Tis probably the cat," said Policeman Cleary, and walked
hastily in the other direction.

The boarders on the steps were fluttered. Mr. Toomey, an insurance
solicitor by birth and an investigator by profession, went inside
to analyse the scream. He returned with the news that Mrs. Murphy's
little boy, Mike, was lost. Following the messenger, out bounced Mrs.
Murphy--two hundred pounds in tears and hysterics, clutching the air
and howling to the sky for the loss of thirty pounds of freckles and
mischief. Bathos, truly; but Mr. Toomey sat down at the side of Miss
Purdy, millinery, and their hands came together in sympathy. The two old
maids, Misses Walsh, who complained every day about the noise in the
halls, inquired immediately if anybody had looked behind the clock.

Major Grigg, who sat by his fat wife on the top step, arose and buttoned
his coat. "The little one lost?" he exclaimed. "I will scour the city."
His wife never allowed him out after dark. But now she said: "Go,