With that I steps in and shows myself to the kids. They yells and
makes a dash for me. Inside of two minutes I've been introduced to
Grandfather and Aunt Sabina, made to do a duck before both jars, and am
planted on the haircloth sofa with a kid holdin' either arm, while they
puts me through the third degree. They want information.

"Did you ever see folks burned and put in jars?" says Jack.

"No," says I; "but I've seen pickled ones jugged. I hear you've got
some ponies."

"Two," says Jill; "spotted ones. Would you want to be burned after you
was a deader?"

"Better after than before," says I. "Where's the ponies now?"

"What do the ashes look like?" says Jack.

"Are there any clinkers?" says Jill.

Say, I was down and out in the first round. For every word I could get
in about ponies they got in ten about them bloomin' jars, and when I
leaves 'em they was organisin' a circus, with Grandfather and Aunt
Sabina supposed to be occupyin' the reserved seats. Honest, it was
enough to chill the spine of a morgue keeper. By good luck I runs
across Snivens snoopin' through the hall.

"See here, you!" says I. "I want to talk to you."

"Beg pardon, sir," says he, backin' off, real stiff and dignified;
"but----"

"Ah, chuck it!" says I, reachin' out and gettin' hold of his collar,
playful like. "You've been listenin' at the door. Now what do you
think of the way them kids is carryin' on in there?"

"It's outrageous, sir!" says he, puffin' up his cheeks, "It's
scandalous! They're young imps, so they are, sir."

"Want to stop all that nonsense?" says I.

He says he does.

"Then," says I, "you take them jars down cellar and hide 'em in the
coal bin."

He holds up both hands at that. "It can't be done, sir," says he.
"They've been right there for twenty years without bein' so much as
moved. They were very superior folks, sir, very superior."

"Couldn't you put 'em in the attic, then?" says I.

He couldn't. He says it's in the lease that the jars wa'n't to be
touched.

"Snivens," says I, shovin' a twenty at him, "forget the lease."

Say, he looks at that yellowback as longin' as an East Side kid sizin'
up a fruit cart. Then he gives a shiver and shakes his head. "Not for
a thousand, sir," says he. "I wouldn't dare."

"You're an old billygoat, Snivens," says I.

And that's all the good I did with my little whirl at the game; but I
tries to cheer Pinckney up by tellin' him the kids wa'n't do