ye on the monkeys, and the other
on the right of way ahead. "If the circus people don't know enough to
shut their damned beasts up properly it's their own lookout--it's not
our funeral, whatever happens."

The advance guard of the monkeys had approached too close to the crest
of the high-piled coal, and as a result, while they scrambled back for
firmer footing, they sent a small avalanche of it rolling into the cab.
This was touching Coussirat personally--and Coussirat glared.

Coussirat was no nature faker--he knew nothing about animals, their
habits, peculiarities, or characteristics. He snatched up a piece of
coal, and heaved it at the nearest monkey.

"Get out, you little devil--_scut_!" he shouted--and missed--and the
effect was disconcerting to Coussirat.

Monkeys are essentially imitative, earnestly so--and not over-timid
when in force--they imitated Coussirat. Before he could get his
breath, first one and then another began to pick up hunks of coal and
heave them back--and into the cab poured a rain of missiles. For an
instant, a bare instant, Coussirat stood his ground, then he dove for
the shelter of his seat. Soft coal? Yes--but there are some fairish
lumps even in soft coal.

Crash went the plate-glass face of the steam gauge! It was a good
game, a joyous game--and there was plenty of coal, hunks and hunks of
it--and plenty of monkeys, "the largest and most intelligent collection
on earth," the billboards said.

Crash went the cab glass behind Fatty Hogan's head--and the monkeys
shrieked delight. They hopped and jumped and performed gyrations over
each other, those in the rear; while those on the firing line, with
stern, screwed up, wizened faces, blinking furiously, swung their hairy
arms--and into the cab still poured the hail of coal.

With a yell of rage, clasping at his neck where the glass had cut him,
Fatty Hogan bounced forward in his seat.

"You double-blanked, blankety-blanked, triple-plated ass!" he bellowed
at Coussirat. "You--you _damned_ fool, you!" he screamed. "Didn't you
know any better than that! Drive 'em off with the hose--turn the hose
on them!"

"Turn it on yourself," said Coussirat sullenly; he was full length on
his seat, and mindful that his own glass might go as Hogan's had.
"D'ye think I'm looking for glory and a wreath of immortelles?"

Funny? Well, perhaps. Is this sacrilege--to say it wasn't luck?

Crash! There was a hiss of steam, a scalding stream of