to a lady. But, with his loafer's love for the more artistic and
less strenuous way, he chose diplomacy first, the high card in the
game--the assumed attitude of success already attained.

"You have a dollar," he said, loftily, but significantly in the tone
that goes with the lighting of a cigar--when the properties are at
hand.

"I have," said Mrs. Peters, producing the bill from her bosom and
crackling it, teasingly.

"I am offered a position in a--in a tea store," said Mr. Peters. "I
am to begin work to-morrow. But it will be necessary for me to buy a
pair of--"

"You are a liar," said Mrs. Peters, reinterring the note. "No tea
store, nor no A B C store, nor no junk shop would have you. I rubbed
the skin off both me hands washin' jumpers and overalls to make that
dollar. Do you think it come out of them suds to buy the kind you put
into you? Skiddoo! Get your mind off of money."

Evidently the poses of Talleyrand were not worth one hundred cents on
that dollar. But diplomacy is dexterous. The artistic temperament of
Mr. Peters lifted him by the straps of his congress gaiters and set
him on new ground. He called up a look of desperate melancholy to his
eyes.

"Clara," he said, hollowly, "to struggle further is useless. You have
always misunderstood me. Heaven knows I have striven with all my
might to keep my head above the waves of misfortune, but--"

"Cut out the rainbow of hope and that stuff about walkin' one by one
through the narrow isles of Spain," said Mrs. Peters, with a sigh.
"I've heard it so often. There's an ounce bottle of carbolic on the
shelf behind the empty coffee can. Drink hearty."

Mr. Peters reflected. What next! The old expedients had failed.
The two musty musketeers were awaiting him hard by the ruined
chateau--that is to say, on a park bench with rickety cast-iron
legs. His honor was at stake. He had engaged to storm the castle
single-handed and bring back the treasure that was to furnish them
wassail and solace. And all that stood between him and the coveted
dollar was his wife, once a little girl whom he could--aha!--why not
again? Once with soft words he could, as they say, twist her around
his little finger. Why not again? Not for years had he tried it. Grim
poverty and mutual hatred had killed all that. But Ragsy and Kidd
were waiting for him to bring the dollar!

Mr. Peters took a surreptitiously keen look at his wife. Her formless
bulk overflowed the chair. She kept her eyes