the desk and pulled from beneath the pile of loose papers and tissue
patterns with which it was littered the large blankbook in which
Mrs. Fenelby, in one of her spurts of economical system, had once
begun a record of household expenditures--a bothersome business that
lasted until she had to foot up the first week's figures, and then
stopped. There were plenty of blank leaves in the book. Mr. Fenelby
dipped his pen in the ink. Mrs. Fenelby took up her sewing, and
began to stitch a seam. Bobberts lay asleep on the lounge at the
other side of the room.

Mr. Fenelby was not over thirty. His chubby, smiling face radiated
enthusiasm, and if he was not very tall he had a noble forehead that
rounded up to meet the baldness that began so far back that his hat
showed a little half-moon of baldness at the back. He looked
cheerfully at the world through rather strong spectacles, and
everyone said how much he looked like Bobberts. Mrs. Fenelby was
younger, but she took a much more matter-of-fact view of life and
things, and Mr. Fenelby never ceased congratulating himself on
having married her. "My wife Laura," he would say to his friends,
"has great executive ability. She is a wonder. I let her attend to
the little details." The truth was that she managed him, and managed
the house, and managed all their affairs. She took to the management
naturally and Mr. Fenelby did not know that he was being managed.
They were very happy.

Mr. Fenelby turned toward his wife suddenly, still holding his pen
in his hand. He had not written a word, but his face glowed.

"I tell you, Laura!" he exclaimed. "This is the best idea we have
had since we were married! It is a big idea! What we ought to
do--what we _will_ do--is to have a family congress and adopt this
tariff in the right way, and write it down. That is what we will
do--and then, any time we want to change the tariff we will have a
session of the family congress, and vote on it."

"That will be nice, Tom," said Mrs. Fenelby, biting off her thread,
but not looking up. Mr. Fenelby turned back to his blankbook. He
dipped his pen in the ink again, and hesitated.

"How would it do," he asked, turning to Laura again, "to call it
the 'United States of Fenelby?' Or the 'Commonwealth of Fenelby?'
No!" he exclaimed, "I'll tell you what we will call it--we will call
it the 'Commonwealth of Bobberts,' for that is what it is. 'The
Domestic Tariff of the Commonwealth of Bobberts!'"

"Yes," sai