nervously.

Charlotte seized and shook him with vigour, "O Jerry," she cried
piteously, "if you're not going to be good, how ever shall I tell
you my story?"

Jerry's face was injured innocence itself. "Blame if you like,
Madam," he seemed to say, "the eternal laws of gravitation, but
not a helpless puppet, who is also an orphan and a stranger in
the land."

"Now we'll go on," began Charlotte once more. "So she got into
the garden at last--I've left out a lot, but you won't care, I'll
tell you some other time--and they were all playing croquet, and
that's where the flamingo comes in, and the Queen shouted out,
`Off with her head!'"

At this point Jerry collapsed forward, suddenly and completely,
his bald pate between his knees. Charlotte was not very angry
this time. The sudden development of tragedy in the story had
evidently been too much for the poor fellow. She straightened
him out, wiped his nose, and, after trying him in various
positions, to which he refused to adapt himself, she propped him
against the shoulder of the (apparently) unconscious Rosa. Then
my eyes were opened, and the full measure of Jerry's infamy
became apparent. This, then, was what he had been playing up
for. The fellow had designs. I resolved to keep him under close
observation.

"If you'd been in the garden," went on Charlotte, reproachfully,