acquainted with Uncle Cornelius and Aunt Flora."

Whereupon I grabbed my hat and ducked for another eat shop without ever glancing at Bunch.

CHAPTER V.

JOHN HENRY GETS EXCITED.

The next day being Sunday, I determined to forget all my troubles and take Peaches out buggy riding.

I felt sure that Bunch was rid of his grouch by this time, and that he wouldn't have a rock in his hat for me for pulling that "Uncle Cornelius" gag.

I rather expected he'd show up at Ruraldene some time Sunday evening. At any rate, I was sure Skinski and the Dodo bird had conned him back to real life, and that by Monday morning he'd be ripe for work again.

Peaches and Aunt Martha said very little about Bunch's new relatives. They decided that "Uncle Cornelius" was eccentric and rather interesting, but when they thought of "Aunt Flora" they both got nervous and changed the subject.

When I suggested the buggy ride to Peaches she was delighted, and I moseyed for the Ruraldene livery stable to get staked to a horse.

Anybody who has ever lived in a suburban town will doubtless recall what handsome specimens of equine perfection may be found in the local livery stable—not.

The livery man at Ruraldene is named Henlopen Diffenbingle, and he looks the part,

I judged from the excited manner in which he grabbed my deposit money that morning that he had a note falling due next day.

Then Henlopen shut his eyes, counted six, turned around twice, multiplied the day of the week by 19, subtracted 17, and the answer was a cream-colored horse with four pink feet and a frightened face, which looked at me sadly, sighed deeply and then backed up into the shafts of a buggy with red wheels and white sulphur springs.

[Illustration: The answer was a cream-colored horse which looked at me sadly.]

The livery man said that the name of the horse was Parsifal, because it seemed to go better in German.

I drove Parsifal up to our modest home, and all the way there we ran neck and neck with a coal cart.

Parsifal used to be a fast horse, but quite some time ago he stopped eating his wild oats and now leads a slower life.

When I reached the gate I whistled for Peaches, because I was afraid to get out and leave Parsifal alone. He might go to sleep and fall down.

My wife came out, looked at the rig, and then went back in the house and bade everybody an affecting farewell.

There were tears in her eyes when she came out and climbed into the buggy. She said she was crying because Aunt Martha wasn't there to see us driving away and have the laugh of her life.

We started off and we were rushing along the road, passing a fence and overtaking a telegraph pole every once in a while, when suddenly we heard behind us a very insistent choof-choof-choof-choof!

"It's one of those Careless Wagons," I whispered to Peaches, and then we both looked at Parsifal to see if there was a mental struggle going on in his forehead, but he was rushing onward with his head down, watching his feet to make sure they didn't step on each other.

Choof-choof-choof! came the Torpedo Destroyer behind us, and I wrapped the reins around my wrist, in case Parsifal should get uneasy and want to print horseshoes all over that automobile.

The next minute the machine passed us, going at the rate of 14 constables an hour, and as it did so Parsifal stopped still and seemed to be biting his lips with suppressed emotion.

I coaxed him to proceed in English, in Spanish and Italian, and then in a pale blue language of my own, but he just stood there and bit his lips.

I believe if he had possessed fingernails he would have bitten them too.

I gave the reins to my wife with instructions how to act if the horse started, and I jumped out to argue with him.

Just when I had picked out a good-sized rock, which was to be my argument, Parsifal came out of his trance and started off, but Peaches forgot her instructions and spoke above a whisper and he stopped again.

Then I took the reins, cracked the whip, shouted a couple of banzais from the Japanese national anthem, and away we rushed like the wind—when it isn't blowing hard.

The hours flew by and we must have gone at least half a mile, when another Kerosene Wagon came bouncing towards us from the opposite direction.

In it was a happy party of ladies and gentlemen, who were laughing and chatting about some people they had just run over.

Parsifal saw them coming and stopped still in the middle of the road. Then he hung his head as low as he could, and I believe if that horse had been supplied with hands he would have put them over his ears.

The people in the Bubble began to shout at us, and I began to shout at the horse, and my wife began to shout at me, while Parsifal stood there and scratched his left ankle with his right heel.

Then the big machine made a sudden jump to the right and hiked by us at the rate of about a $100 fine, while the lady passengers on the hurricane deck stood up and began to hand out medals to each other because they didn't run us down.

Ten minutes later Parsifal came to and looked over his shoulder at us with a smile as serene as the morning and once more resumed his mad career onward, ever onward.

We were now about two miles from home, and suddenly we came across a big red Bubble which stood in front of a road-house, sneezing inwardly and sobbing with all its corrugated heart.

Parsifal saw the machine before we did.

We knew there must be an automobile somewhere near, because he stopped still and quietly passed away.

I jumped out and tried to lead him by the Coroner's Delight, but he planted his four feet in the middle of the road and refused to be coaxed.

I took that horse by the ear and whispered therein just what I thought about him, but he wouldn't talk back.

I told him my wife's honor was at stake, but he looked my wife over and his lips curled with an expression which seemed to say, "Impossible."

It was all off with us.

Parsifal simply wouldn't move until that sobbing Choo Choo Wagon had left the neighborhood, so I went inside the road-house to find the owner.

I found him. He consisted of a German chauffeur and eight bottles of beer.

When I explained the pitiful situation to him the chauffeur swallowed two bottles of beer and began to cry.

Then he told the waiter to call him at 7:30, and he put his head down on the table and went to sleep with his face in a cute little nest of hard-boiled cigarettes.

I rushed to the telephone and called up the liveryman, but before I could think of a word strong enough to fit the occasion he whispered over the wire, "I know your voice, Mr. Henry. I suppose Parsifal is waiting for you outside!"

Forthwith I tried to tell that liveryman just what I thought about him and Parsifal, but the telephone girl short-circuited my remarks and they came back and set fire to the woodwork.

"My, my!" I could hear the liveryman saying. "Parsifal's hesitation must be the result of the epidemic of automobiles which is now raging over our country roads. The automobile has a strange effect on Parsifal. It seems to cover him with a pause and gives him inflammation of the speed."

I thought of poor Peaches sitting out