WHEN LUNACY WAS TRUMPS
Tib, cheerily, in his old free-and-easy way, as we pedalled up to the gang.
"Instantly they turned, and an old man with a Chris Kringle beard started back as though faced by a hooded-cobra, and with one dramatic, lean finger pointed at us, cried, 'By my faith! he has come! It is he!'
"‘Odd bodkins, put him to death!' cheerfully advised an urchin, who impressed my startled gaze as being eighteen feet in height.
"‘Odd Hooligans!' cried Tib. 'And why?'
"Well, sir, the old man threw back his head and pealed out a laugh that sounded about as mellow as a rusty buzz-saw eating a rock-maple knot, and as he chortled in unseemly glee he ejaculated, 'Walked into the trap! Stap my vitals, and had he called on me at St. James, or Whitehall, I had not been more surprised.'
"From his tone I realized, sir, that we were about as popular with them as a safety-deposit vault full of scarlet-fever germs. Tib was impressed after the same fashion, for he whispered to me:
"‘What's up, Billy? Have we struck them at the harvest-time of lunacy? Their speech savors of ye olden time and good Queen Bess, sith it please ye.' Then he asked, aloud, 'Kindly identify us, reverend sir, and then yourselves.'
"‘Monmouth, thou wert ever a false-hearted
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