One Sunday, as he sat reading, the door opened, and Klaus Brock entered
whistling, with his cap on the back of his head.

"Hullo, old boy! So this is where you live?"

"Yes, it is--and that's a chair over there."

But Klaus remained standing, with his hands in his pockets and his cap
on, staring about the room. "Well, I'm blest!" he said at last. "If he
hasn't stuck up a photograph of himself on his table!"

"Well, did you never see one before? Don't you know everybody has them?"

"Not their own photos, you ass! If anybody sees that, you'll never hear
the last of it."

Peer took up the photograph and flung it under the bed. "Well, it was a
rubbishy thing," he muttered. Evidently he had made a mistake. "But what
about this?"--pointing to a coloured picture he had nailed up on the
wall.

Klaus put on his most manly air and bit off a piece of tobacco plug.
"Ah! that!" he said, trying not to laugh too soon.

"Yes; it's a fine painting, isn't it? I got it for fourpence."

"Painting! Ha-ha! that's good! Why, you silly cow, can't you see it's
only an oleograph?"

"Oh, of course you know all about it. You always do."