(even yet) and is capable of asking where we are invited to dine after we are in the taxi.
This smouldering warmth of interest presently broke into the flame of activity and the unfeeling suggestion followed that the cuckoo part of the clock be suppressed. The gong, he said, wasn't so bad, rather a sweet-toned one and would be distinctly pleasing if it weren't for that absurd cackle. This was a shock to me. I liked the soft coaxing little coo-coo, especially at night when I couldn't sleep and nothing more exhilarating came to my mind than the mounting price of beefsteak.
But a still greater shock awaited me. I went into the sitting-room one Sunday afternoon (Sunday afternoon!) to find the cuckoo-clock down, dismembered and strewn in sections all over the table and chairs. I was greeted with no apologetic explanation such as the circumstances seemed to me to call for, but with an immediate, not to say explosive demand to know where the pincers were.
I stopped short in an exclamation mark attitude, letting my astonishment fully reveal itself.
"Bring me the pincers," Pater said in un-
