behind them, causing a sudden stir among the leaves, his shaggy
beard whirled round with every symptom of panic. Little by little
this apprehension began to infect the journalist also. At first he
had hardly restrained his mirth at the sight of this burly athlete
framed in the bush of Santa Claus. Now he began to wonder whether
his escapade had been consummated at too great a risk.

That old-fashioned quarter of the city was incredibly still. As
the light ebbed slowly, and broad blue shadows crept across the
patch of turf, they sat in a silence broken only by the wiry cheep
of sparrows and the distant moan of trolley cars. The arrows of
the decumbent sun gilded the ripening grapes above them. Suddenly
there were two loud bangs and a vicious whistle sang through the
arbor. Broken twigs eddied down upon the table cloth.

"Spotted mackerel!" cried Bleak. "Is some one shooting at us?"

Quimbleton reappeared presently from under the table. "All
serene," he said. "We're safe now. That was only Chuff. Every
night about this time he comes out on his back gallery and enjoys
a little sharp-shooting. He's a very good shot, and picks off the
grapes that have ripened during the day. There were only two that
were really purple this evening, so now we can go ahead. Unless he
should send over a raiding party, we're all right."

The editor solaced himself with another beaker of the dandelion
wine and they finished their meal in thoughtful silence.

"Mr. Bleak," said the other at last, "it was something more than
mere desire to give you a pleasant surprise that led me to your