he Toronto paper, could evade his liability in the matter was
unfathomable to the Murchisons; it was certainly illiberal; they had a
feeling that it was illegal. A little teasing was generally necessary,
but the resistance today had begun to look ominous and Alec, as we know,
too temerarious, had retired in disorder to the woodpile.

Oliver was wiping Advena's dishes. He exercised himself ostentatiously
upon a plate, standing in the door to be within earshot of his father.

"Eph Wheeler," he informed his family, "Eph Wheeler, he's got
twenty-five cents, an' a English sixpence, an' a Yankee nickel. An' Mr
Wheeler's only a common working man, a lot poorer'n we are."

Mr Murchison removed his pipe from his lips in order, apparently, to
follow unimpeded the trend of the Dominion's leading article. Oliver
eyed him anxiously. "Do, Father," he continued in logical sequence. "Aw
do."

"Make him, Mother," said Abby indignantly. "It's the Queen's BIRTHDAY!"

"Time enough when the butter bill's paid," said Mrs Murchison.

"Oh the BUTTER bill! Say, Father, aren't you going to?"

"What?" asked John Murchison, and again took out his pipe, as if this
were the first he had heard of the matter.

"Give us our fifteen cents each to celebrate with. You can't do it under
that," Oliver added firmly. "Crackers are eight cents a packet this
year, the small size."

"Nonsense," said Mr Murchison. The reply was definite and final, and its
ambiguity was merely due to the fact that their father disliked giving
a plump refusal. "Nonsense" was easier to say, if not to hear than "No."
Oliver considered for a moment, drew Abby to colloquy by the pump, and
sought his brother behind the woodpile. Then he returned to the charge.

"Look here, Father," he said, "CASH DOWN, we'll take ten."

John Murchison was a man of few words, but they were usually impregnated
with meaning, especially in anger. "No more of this," he said.
"Celebrate fiddlesticks! Go and make yourselves of some use. You'll get
nothing from me, for I haven't got it." So saying, he went through the
kitchen with a step that forbade him to be followed. His eldest son,
arriving over the backyard fence in a state of heat, was just in time
to hear him. Lorne's apprehension of the situation was instant, and his
face fell, but the depression plainly covered such splendid spirits that
his brother asked resentfully, "Well, what's the matter with YOU?"

"Matter? Oh, not much. I'm going to