hook it at the tailor with
a wicked grin that showed all his sharp little teeth. Mrs. Hoffman
wanted to call a policeman and the board of health, but the thirst for
vengeance suggested a more effective plan to the tailor.

"Wait! I fix him! I fix him good!" he vowed, and forthwith betook
himself to the kitchen, where stood the ice-box.

From his attic lookout Jocko saw the tailor take from the ice-box a
bottle of beer, and drawing the cork with careful attention to detail,
partake of its contents with apparent relish. Finally the tailor put
back the bottle and went away, after locking the ice-box, but leaving
the key in the lock.

His step was yet on the stairs when the monkey peered through the
window, reached the ice-box with a bound and turned the key. There was
the bottle, just as the tailor had left it. Jocko held it as he had
seen him do, and pulled the cork. It came out easily. He held the
bottle to his mouth. After a while he put it down, and thoughtfully
rubbed the pit of his stomach. Then he took another pull, following
directions to the letter.

The last ray of the evening sun stole through the open window as Jocko
arose and wandered unsteadily toward the bedroom, the door of which
stood ajar. There was no one within. On the wall hung Mrs. Hoffman's
brocade shawl and Sunday hat. Jocko had often watched her put them on.
Now he possessed himself of both, and gravely carried them to his
attic.

In the early twilight such a wail of bereavement arose in the rear
house that the tenants hurried from every floor to learn what was the
matter. It was Mrs. Hoffman, bemoaning the loss of her shawl and
Sunday hat.

A hurried search left no doubt who was the thief. There was the open
window, and the empty bottle on the door by the ice-box. Jocko's hour
of expiation had come. In the uproar that swelled louder as the angry
crowd of tenants made for the attic, his name was heard coupled with
direful threats. Foremost in the mob was Jim's father, with the stick
he had peeled and seasoned against the boy's return. In some way, not
clear to himself, he connected the monkey with Jim's truancy, and it
was something to be able to avenge himself on its hairy hide.

But Jocko was not in the attic. The mob ranged downstairs, searching
every nook and getting angrier as it went. The advance-guard had
reached the first floor landing, when a shout of discovery from one of
the boy scouts directed all eyes to the wall niche at the