"Stay thee, maidens, I pray thee," Bert begged. "I am only a Small
Potato. Yet am I unafraid. I shall beard the dragon. I shall beard him
in his gullet, and, while he lingeringly chokes to death over my
unpalatableness and general spinefulness, do you, fair damsels, flee
to the mountains lest the valleys fall upon you. Yolo, Petaluma, and
West Sacramento are about to be overwhelmed by a tidal wave and many
big fishes."

"Off with his head!" the young things chanted. "Slay him in his blood
and barbecue him!"

"Thumbs down," Forrest groaned. "I am undone. Trust to the unstrained
quality of mercy possessed by Christian young women in the year 1914
who will vote some day if ever they grow up and do not marry
foreigners. Consider my head off, Saint George. I am expired. Further
deponent sayeth not."

And Forrest, with sobs and slubberings, with realistic shudders and
kicks and a great jingling of spurs, lay down on the floor and
expired.

Lute crawled out from under the piano, and was joined by Rita and
Ernestine in an extemporized dance of the harpies about the slain.

In the midst of it, Forrest sat up, protesting. Also, he was guilty of
a significant and privy wink to Lute.

"The hero!" he cried. "Forget him not. Crown him with flowers."

And Bert was crowned with flowers from the vases, unchanged from the