to this humble roof," he says, "it's stuck in my mind that I'd seen the
said countenance somewhere before. The other night when our conversation
was trifling with the razor subject and the Grand Lama here"--that's the
name he called the count--"was throwing in details about his carving his
friends, it flashed across me where I'd seen it. About a couple of years
ago I was selling the guileless rural druggists contiguous to Scranton,
Pennsylvania, the tasty and happy combination called 'Dr. Bulger's
Electric Liver Cure,' the same being a sort of electric light for shady
livers, so to speak. I made my headquarters at Scranton, and, while
there, my hair was shortened and my chin smoothed in a neat but gaudy
barber shop, presided over by my friend Spaghetti here, and my equally
valued friend the count."

"So," says Peter, smiling and cool as ever, "when it all came back
to me, as the song says, I journeyed to Scranton accompanied by a
photograph of his lordship. I was lucky enough to find Macaroni in the
same old shop. He knew the count's classic profile at once. It seems his
majesty had hit up the lottery a short time previous for a few hundred
and had given up barbering. I suppose he'd read in the papers that the
imitation count line was stylish and profitable and so he tried it on.
It may be," says Brown, offhand, "that he thought he might marry some
rich girl. There's some fool fathers, judging by the papers, that are
willing to sell their daughters for the proper kind of tag on a package
like him."

Old man Dillaway kind of made a face, as if he'd ate something that
tasted bad, but he didn't speak.

"And so," says Peter, "Spaghetti and I came to the Old Home together,
he to shave for twelve per, and I to set traps, etcetera. That's a good