nty. West broke into a laugh.

"Well, do you think you'll have the nerve to fire _him_?"

II

_Mrs. Paynter's Boarding-House: which was not founded as an
Eleemosynary Institution._

There was something of a flutter among the gathered boarders when Miss
Weyland was seen to be entering the house, and William Klinker, who
announced the fact from his place by the window, added that that had
ought to help some with the supper. He reminded the parlor that there
had been Porterhouse the last time. Miss Miller, from the sofa, told Mr.
Klinker archly that he was _so_ material. She had only the other day
mastered the word, but even that is more than could be said for Mr.
Klinker. Major Brooke stood by the Latrobe heater, reading the evening
paper under a flaring gas-light. He habitually came down early to get it
before anybody else had a chance. By Miss Miller on the sofa sat Mr.
Bylash, stroking the glossy moustache which other ladies before her time
had admired intensely. Despite her archness Miss Miller had heard with a
pang that Miss Weyland was coming to supper, and her reason was not
unconnected with this same Mr. Bylash. In earlier meetings she had
vaguely noted differences between Mrs. Paynter's pretty niece and
herself. True, she considered these differences all in her own favor,
as, for example, her far larger back pompadour, with the puffs, but you
never could tell about gentlemen.

"I'm surprised," she said to Mr. Klinker, "Mr. Bylash didn't go out to
give her the glad hand, and welcome her into our humble _coturee_."

Mr. Bylash, who had been thinking of doing that very thing, said rather
shortly that the ladies present quite satisfied _him_.

"And who do you think brought her around and right up to the door?"
continued William Klinker, taking no notice of their blandishments.
"Hon. West--Charles Gardenia West--"

A scream from Miss Miller applauded the witty hit.

"Oh, it ain't mine," said Mr. Klinker modestly. "I heard a fellow get it
off at the shop the other day. He's a pretty smooth fellow, Charles
Gardenia is--a little too smooth for my way of thinking. A fellow that's
always so smilin'--Oh, you Smithy!" he suddenly yelled out the
window--"Smithy! Hey!--Aw, I can beat the face off you!--Awright--eight
sharp at the same place.--Go on, you fat Mohawk you!... But say," he
resumed to the parlor, "y'know that little woman is a stormy petrel for
this house--that's right. Remember the last