When Mrs. Greensleeve first laid eyes on her baby she knew it was

different from the other children.

"What is the matter with it?" she asked.

The preoccupied physician replied that there was nothing the matter.

In point of fact he had been admiring the newly born little girl when

her mother asked the question.

"She's about as perfect as they make 'em," he concluded, placing the

baby beside her mother.

The mother said nothing. From moment to moment she turned her head on

the pillow and gazed down at her new daughter with a curious,

questioning expression. She had never gazed at any of her other

children so uneasily. Even after she fell asleep the slightly puzzled

expression remained as a faint crease between her brows.

Her husband, who had been wandering about from the bar to the office,

from the office to the veranda, and occasionally entirely around the

exterior of the road-house, came in on tiptoe and looked rather

vacantly at them both.

Then he went out again as though he was not sure where he might be

going. He was a little man and mild, and he did not look as though he

had been created for anything in particular, not even for the purpose

of procreation.

It was one of those early April days when birds make a great fuss over

their vocal accomplishments, and the brown earth grows green over

night--when the hot spring sun draws vapours from the soil, and the

characteristic Long Island odour of manure is far too prevalent to

please anybody but a native.

Peter Greensleeve, wandering at hazard around the corner of the

tavern, came upon his business partner, Archer B. Ledlie leisurely

digging for bait in the barn-yard. The latter was in his

shirt-sleeves--always a good sign for continued fair weather.

"Boy?" inquired Ledlie, resting one soil-incrusted boot on his spade.

"Another girl," admitted Greensleeve.

"Gawsh!" After a moment's rumination he picked up a squirming

angle-worm from the edge of the shallow excavation and dropped it into

the empty tomato can.

"Going fishing?" inquired Greensleeve without interest.

"I dunno. Mebbe. Your boy Jack seen a trout into Spring Pond."

Ledlie, who was a large, heavy, red-faced man with a noticeably small

mouth, faded blue eyes, and grey chin whiskers, picked a budding sprig

from a bush, nibbled it, and gravely seated himself on the edge of the

horse-trough. He was wearing a cigar behind his ear which he

presently extracted, gazed at, then reconsidering the extravagance,

replaced.

[Illustration: "'Boy?' inquired Ledlie, resting one soil-incrusted

boot on his spade."] "Three gals, Pete--that's your record," he remarked, gazing

reproachfully out across the salt meadows beyond the causeway. "They

won't bring you in nothin'," he added, shutting his thin lips.




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