osition entails the risk of a fall. Crawford was but
eighteen and a good fellow, but he had been worshiped a good deal. He
was quite as sensible as other young chaps of his age, which statement
means exactly that and no more.

"Well," he said, with a complacent grin, "we learned how to pronounce
'pomegranate' at any rate. You begin with a pup-pup-pup, as if you were
calling a dog, and you finish with a grunt like a pig. I wish I had
asked him for a persimmon; then he'd have made a noise like a cat."

Miss Keith, when she recovered from her spasm of merriment, declared her
companion "perfectly killing."

"But we must hurry," she said. "We really must Crawford, you buy the
things. I should think of that fruit man and laugh all the time, I know
I should."

She remained by the door and the young gentleman strolled to the
counter. He cast an amused glance about the store; its display of stock
was, thanks to Mary-'Gusta's recent efforts at tidiness, not quite the
conglomerate mass it had been when the partners were solely responsible,
but the variety was still strikingly obvious.

"Humph!" observed Crawford; "I've forgotten what we came to buy, but I'm
sure it is here, whatever it is. Some emporium, this! Introduce me to
the proprietor, will you, Edna?"

Edna giggled.

"She isn't the proprietor," she said. "She is just the clerk, that's
all. Her name is--I've forgotten your name, dear. What is it?"

"Mary Lathrop," replied Mary-'Gusta, shortly. She objected to being
addressed as "dear" and she strongly objected to the patronizing tone in
which it was uttered. Edna Keith was older than she, but not old enough
to patronize.

"Oh, yes, so it is," said the young lady. "But that isn't what everyone
calls you. They call you something else--something funny--Oh, I know!
Mary-'Gusta, that's it. I knew it was funny. Mary-'Gusta, this is Mr.
Smith. He wants to buy some things. And he's in a GREAT hurry."

"Charmed, Mary-'Gusta," said Mr. Smith. Mary-'Gusta did not appear
charmed. She asked him what he wanted.

"Search ME," said the young gentleman, cheerfully. "There was a list,
wasn't there, Edna? You have it, I think."

Edna produced the list, scrawled in pencil on the back of an envelope.
Crawford looked it over.

"Sam's writing isn't exactly print," he observed, "but I can guess at
it. Let's see--a pound of butter. Where's the butter department of this
Bon Marche, Edna?"

Edna, after another convulsion, declared sh