"It will frighten the girls half to death. A gray horse and a bay;
oh, I won't make any mistake. Let me see; I'll start about twelve
o'clock. That'll get me on the spot just as the boys leave. This is
the richest yet. I'll wager that there will be some tall screaming."
He continued chuckling as he helped himself to his brother's
perfectos and fine old Scotch. I don't know what book he found in the
private case; some old rascal's merry tales, no doubt; for my hero's
face was never in repose.

We had left Mrs. Secretary-of-the-Interior's and were entering the
red brick mansion on Connecticut Avenue. Carriages lined both sides
of the street, and mounted police patrolled up and down.

"I do hope Bob will not wake up the baby," said Mrs. W.

"Probably he won't even take the trouble to look at him," replied
Jack; "not if he gets into that private case of mine."

"I can't understand what you men see in those horrid chronicles,"
Nancy declared.

"My dear girl," said Jack, "in those days there were no historians;
they were simply story-tellers, and we get our history from these
tales. The tales themselves are not very lofty, I am willing to
admit; but they give us a general idea of the times in which the
characters lived. This is called literature by the wise critics."

"Critics!" said I; "humph! Criticism is always a lazy man's job. When
no two critics think alike, of what use is criticism?"