h made most
things in the room, including Mrs. Korner, jump.

"Don't you defy me, my girl," said Mr. Korner. "You know whatermean,
your housekeepin' books."

They happened to be in the drawer of the chiffonier. Mrs. Korner
produced them, and passed them to her husband with a trembling hand. Mr.
Korner, opening one by hazard, bent over it with knitted brows.

"Pearsterme, my girl, you can't add," said Mr. Korner.

"I--I was always considered rather good at arithmetic, as a girl,"
stammered Mrs. Korner.

"What you mayabeen as a girl, and what--twenner-seven and nine?"
fiercely questioned Mr. Korner.

"Thirty-eight--seven," commenced to blunder the terrified Mrs. Korner.

"Know your nine tables or don't you?" thundered Mr. Korner.

"I used to," sobbed Mrs. Korner.

"Say it," commanded Mr. Korner.

"Nine times one are nine," sobbed the poor little woman, "nine times
two--"

"Goron," said Mr. Korner sternly.

She went on steadily, in a low monotone, broken by stifled sobs. The
dreary rhythm of the repetition may possibly have assisted. As she
mentioned fearfully that nine times eleven were ninety-nine, Miss Greene
pointed stealthily toward the table. Mrs. Korner, glancing up fearfully,
saw that the eyes of her lord and master were closed; heard the rising
snore that issued from his head, resting between the empty beer-jug and
the cruet stand.

"He will be all right," counselled Miss Greene. "You go to bed and lock
yourself in. Harriet and I will see to his breakfast in the morning. It
will be just as well for you to be out of the way."

And Mrs. Korner, only too thankful for some one to tell her what to do,
obeyed in all things.

Toward seven o'clock the sunlight streaming into the room caused Mr.
Korner first to blink, then yawn, then open half an eye.

"Greet the day with a smile," murmured Mr. Korner, sleepily, "and it
will--"

Mr. Korner sat up suddenly and looked about him. This was not bed.
The fragments of a jug and glass lay scattered round his feet. To the
tablecloth an overturned cruet-stand mingled with egg gave colour. A
tingling sensation about his head called for investigation. Mr. Korner
was forced to the conclusion that somebody had been trying to make a
salad of him--somebody with an exceptionally heavy hand for mustard. A
sound directed Mr. Korner's attention to the door.

The face of Miss Greene, portentously grave, was peeping through the
jar.

Mr. Korner rose. Miss Greene entere