ed casually, "Where, my dear, where
are the other 21,219 pictures you snapped to-day?"

"Only these two came out good because, don't you see, I'm an amateur
yet," was her come-back.

Then she looked lovingly at the result of her day's work and began to
peel some bicarbonate of magnesia off her knuckles with the nutcracker.

"Only two out of 21,219--I think you ought to call it a long shot
instead of a snap shot," I whispered, after I had dodged behind a sofa.

She went out of the room without saying a word, and I took out my
pocketbook and looked at it wistfully.

CHAPTER VII

YOU SHOULD WORRY ABOUT THE SERVANTS

When Peaches and I get tired of the Big Town--tired of its noises and
hullabaloo; tired of being tagged by taxis as we cross a street; tired
of watching grocers and butchers hoisting higher the highest cost of
living--that's our cue to grab a choo-choo and breeze out to Uncle Peter
Grant's farm and bungalow in the wilds of Westchester, which he calls
Troolyrooral.

Just to even matters up Uncle Peter and his wife visit us from time to
time in our amateur apartment in the Big Town.

Uncle Peter is a very stout old gentleman. When he squeezes into our
little flat the walls act as if they were bow-legged.

Uncle Peter always goes through the folding doors sideways and every
time he sits down the man in the apartment below us kicks because we
move the piano so often.

Aunt Martha is Uncle Peter's wife and she weighs more and breathes
oftener.

When the two of them visit our bird-cage at the same time the janitor
has to go out and stand in front of the building with a view to catching
it if it falls.

When we reached Troolyrooral we found that "Cousin" Elsie Schulz was
also a visitor there.

"Cousin" Elsie is a sort of privileged character in the family, having
lived with Aunt Martha for over twenty years as a sort of housekeeper.

They call her "Cousin Elsie" just to make it more difficult.

Three or four years ago Elsie married Gustave Bierbauer and quit her
job.

"Cousin" Elsie believes that conversation was invented for her exclusive
use, and the way she can grab a bundle of the English language and
break it up is a caution.

Language is the same to Elsie as a syphon is to a highball--and that's a
whole lot.

Two years after their marriage old Gustave stopped living so abruptly
that the coroner had to sit on him.

The post mortem found out that Gustave had died from a rush of w