with him and the twins at some
nice place up in Westchester? One glimpse of Jack and Jill with their
comp'ny manners on wins her. Sure, she will!

So it's tip to Pinckney to hire a happy home for the summer, all found.
Got any idea of how he tackles a job like that? Most folks would take
a week off and do a lot of travelling sizin' up different joints.
They'd want to know how many bath rooms, if there was malaria, and all
about the plumbin', and what the neighbours was like. But livin' at
the club don't put you wise to them tricks. Pinckney, he just rings up
a real estate agent, gets him to read off a list, says, "I'll take No.
3," and it's all over. Next day they move out.

Was he stung? Well, not so bad as you'd think. Course, he's stuck
about two prices for rent, and he signs a lease without readin' farther
than the "Whereas"; but, barrin' a few things like haircloth furniture
and rooms that have been shut up so long they smell like the subcellars
in a brewery, he says the ranch wa'n't so bad. The outdoors was good,
anyway. There was lots of it, acres and acres, with trees, and flower
gardens, and walks, and fish ponds, and everything you could want for a
pair of youngsters that needed room. I could see that myself.

"Say, Pinckney," says I, as we drives in through the grounds, "if you
can't get along with Jack and Jill in a place of this kind you'd better
give up. Why, all you got to do is to turn 'em loose."

"Wait!" says he. "You haven't heard it all."

"Let it come, then," says I.

"We will look at the house first," says he.

The kids wa'n't anywhere in sight; so we starts right in on the tour of
inspection. It was a big, old, slate roofed baracks, with jigsaw work
on the eaves, and a lot of dinky towers frescoed with lightnin' rods.
There was furniture to match, mostly the marble topped, black walnut
kind, that was real stylish back in the '70's.

In the hall we runs across Snivens. He was the butler; but you
wouldn't guess it unless you was told. Kind of a cross between a horse
doctor and a missionary, I should call him--one of these short legged,
barrel podded gents, with a pair of white wind harps framin' up a putty
coloured face that was ornamented with a set of the solemnest lookin'
lamps you ever saw off a stuffed owl.

"Gee, Pinckney!" says I, "who unloaded that on you!"

"Snivens came with the place," says he.

"He looks it," says I. "I should think that face would sour milk