t up and leave the aquarium.

In the meantime Tacks decided to do some bait fishing, so with an
old case knife he sat down behind Uncle Peter and began to dig
under the rock for worms.

"Fishing is the sport of kings," the old man chuckled; "an it's a
long eel that won't turn when trodden upon. If you're not going to
fish, John, do sit down! You're throwing a shadow over the water
and that scares the finny monsters. A fish diet is great for the
brain, John! You should eat more fish."

"There's many a true word spoken from the chest," I sighed, just as
Uncle Peter made his first cast and cleverly wound about eight feet
of line around a spruce tree on the opposite bank.

The old man began to boil with excitement as he pulled and tugged
in an effort to untangle his line, and just about this time Tacks
became the author of another spectacular drama.

In the search for the elusive worm that feverish youth known as
Tacks the Human Catastrophe, had finally succeeded in prying the
rock loose and immediately thereafter Uncle Peter dropped his rod
with a yell of terror and proceeded to follow the man from Cook's.

[Illustration: Tacks--the Boy Disaster.]

The rock reached the brook first, but the old gentleman gave it a
warm hustle down the bank and finished a close second. He was in
the money, all right.

Tacks also ran--but in an opposite direction.

For some little time my spluttering relative sat dumfounded in
about two feet of dirty water, and when finally I dipped him out of
the drink he looked like a busy wash-day. Everything was damp hut
his ardor.

However, with characteristic good nature he squeezed the water out
of his pockets and declared that it was just the kind of exercise
he needed. He made me promise not to tell Aunt Martha, because she
was very much opposed to his going in bathing on account of the
undertow. Then I sneaked him up to his room and left him to change
his clothes.

On the piazza I found Clara J., her face shrouded in the after-glow
of a wintry sunset.

She handed me a telegram minus the envelope and asked me, with a
voice that was intended to be cuttingly sarcastic, "Is there any
answer?"

I opened the message and read:

New York.

John Henry,
Jiggersville, N. Y.

The two queens will be out this afternoon. They are good girls so
treat them white.

Bunch.

The unspeakable idiot, to send me a wire worded like that! No
wonder Clara J. was sitting