i-starvation, tumbled over each other in their eagerness to "hustle
up and beat it to the kitchen." Our oiler of troubled waters followed,
and there was assurance of a brief lull.

"What shall we do!" I exclaimed helplessly when the door had closed on
the last Polydore. I felt too limp and impotent to cope with the
situation. Not so Silvia.

"Do!" she echoed with an intensity of tone and feeling I had never
known her to display. "Do! We'll do something, I am sure! I will not
for a moment submit to such an imposition. Who ever heard of such
colossal nerve! That father and mother should be brought back and
prosecuted. I shall report them to the Society for the Prevention of
Cruelty to Children. But we won't wait for such procedure. We'll
express each and every Polydore to them at once."

"I should certainly do that P.D.Q. and C.O.D.," I acquiesced, "if the
Polydore parents could be located, but you know the abodes of
aborigines are many and scattered."

My remarks seemed to fall as flat as the flapjacks I was siruping.

Silvia arose, determination in every lineament and muscle, and crossed
the room. She opened the door leading into the kitchen.

"Ptolemy," she demanded, "where have your father and mother gone?"

He came forward and replied in a voice somewhat smothered by cakes and
sirup.

"I don't know. They didn't say."

"We can find out from the ticket-agent," I optimistically assured
her.

"They never bother to buy tickets. Pay on the train," Ptolemy
explained.

My legal habit of counter-argument asserted itself.

"We can easily ascertain to what point their baggage was checked," I
remarked, again essaying to maintain a role of good cheer.

But the pessimistic Ptolemy was right there with another of his
gloom-casting retaliations.

"They only took suit-cases and they always keep them in the car.
Here's a check father said to give you to pay for our board. He said
you could write in any amount you wanted to."

"He got a lot of dough yesterday," informed Pythagoras, "and he put
half of it in the bank here."

Ptolemy handed over a check which was blank except for Felix
Polydore's signature.

"I don't see," I weakly exclaimed when my wife had closed the kitchen
door, "why she put them off on _us_. Why didn't she trade her brats
off for antiques?"

Silvia eyed the check wistfully. I could read the unspoken thought
that here, perhaps, was the opportunity for our much-desired trip.

"No, Silvia," I