could have earned $50 at my profession in the time I was trying to beat an honest coal dealer out of $6.60.

Well, when we finally got the furnace working I hopped into the shower bath.

May good fortune attend the man who thought of putting a shower bath in That House I Bought! The water comes from overhead for one thing, and shoots into the delighted legs of the languorous for another, from the sides. It invigorates, cleanses, and tickles.

Ballington Booth says man is regenerated by soup, soap, and salvation. But I would say, at first blush, that no man can get the full effect of regeneration on anything short of a shower bath in his house.

I began by reducing my costume to a pleasant frame of mind and doing a few acrobatic stunts, deep breathing, setting-up exercises, and various liver-limberings. A free and easy perspiration set in. That, say all the doctors, is good for the system. Then I stepped blithely into the shower, drew the rubber curtain close and, commending my soul to all the gods I could call to mind, took a long breath and turned her on.

At first the water was icy cold, but as soon as that in the pipes had run out I was violently assaulted by a steaming deluge straight from the bowels of Hades. Calmly removing the first layer of skin as it was boiled off, I reached for the spigot and turned as per directions, to the right. Instantly some one threw an iceberg into the tank and at the first shower of Chilkootian damp I was converted into an icicle.

Boiled to a color that would excite the envy of an ambitious lobster, on one side, and frozen to a consistency that would inspire a Harlequin block on the other, my emotions ran correspondingly hot and cold to a delirium of despair, as I found that no matter how I turned I got either hot or cold, and never a happy medium. My wife, who was downstairs with the kitchen door shut, said she could hear my remarks distinctly, and added that she would have forever hung her head in shame had company been calling at the time.

Women are too sensitive.

It didn't occur to me, until I had been cooked and uncooked a dozen times that this thing might be done from the outside just as well. I stepped out and manipulated with a broom handle, poking it behind the curtain and jabbing, pushing, and pulling, hauling, twisting at those infernal mechanical devices with an energy born of insanity. Finally, by some accident or other, I got the water just right and stepped in again.

It was delicious. Never was there such a grateful sense of appreciation as that I felt as I recovered my temper and went back to my beneficent gods. The water was not too cold, not too hot.

Then it stopped altogether.

I looked up and around, tried all the valves, hammered on the wall, and then yelled to my wife:

"What's the matter with the water?"

She replied cheerily:

"The man has come to fix the pipes in the furnace, and it's turned off!"

With good things it were always thus. The minute a man really begins to enjoy life it's time to die. There is always a fly in the custard.

FOURTH PERIOD

Our porch is one of those accommodating porches with plenty of room, a standing invitation to company. Whenever company comes I have to convert myself into a moving van and tote all the furniture out from the parlor.

The Duke of Mont Alto, and the Duchess, dropped in one evening with the Purdys, and I began to move the parlor. What with spade pushing and furniture moving, I've got Sandow backed off the board. It's wonderful what a little regular training will do for a fellow! But what gets me is, how on earth did Murphy ever maneuver the big chair with the green upholstery into the house at all? It is exactly half an inch wider in every dimension than our door—but as Murphy got it in it was up to me to get it out. I was pushing and shoving and twisting, trying it sideways and upside down, straight ahead and backing like a mule, stealing a fraction of space by half-closing the screen door, when my wife took hold of a leg to help me. That settled it. We stuck, in such a position that I could neither get myself out nor the chair in again.

The Duke and the Duchess and the Purdys all volunteered to assist by suggesting various things that they thought I hadn't thought of thinking of. I kept my temper and formed my mouth into a counterfeit smile, to show how polite a Southern gentleman could be in trying circumstances. Then I gave one mighty heave, determined to push the chair through or the jam down, and stuck worse than ever.

"Can't you get through?" asked my wife sympathetically.

"Certainly I can get through," I replied; "I'm just doing this to make it look difficult!"

The Purdys laughed at that, and the Duke said I was a comical cuss. You see, he had an idea I was trying to amuse the company. That made me so mad that I dropped the chair to spit on my hands, and when I dropped the chair the stubborn thing fell right through the door of its own accord, and I straightened up like a General, and remarked:

"Now I suppose you'll make a pool among you and gobble all the credit for that!"

And hanged if they didn't!

To amble back to our muttons, it was a nice, quiet little visit.

During the evening my wife got out some grape-fruit, and in the stilly night, the stars twinkling overhead and the grass growing silently, hardly disturbing us at all, it was exceedingly pleasant to hear the spoons go slippety-slosh into the evasive juices that reluctantly gave up about half what the labor was worth.

But what I started to write about was the house party across the street. When you're sitting on the porch of your own house doing nothing but listening to the ebb and flow of grape-fruit juice, you can't help noticing the strings of Japanese lanterns over yonder, and listening to the gay laughter of young people as they madly hurl bean-bags into a hole in a plank, shrieking the while and guying each other apace. O, Postoffice! O, clap-in-an-clap-out! O, Puss-in-the-corner! O, Youth!

The Duke was saying something about the time when suburban streets would be two hundred feet wide to make landing places for aeroplanes, and when the human appetite would be regulated by push-buttons ranged along the diaphragm. But I didn't hear a word.

I yearned to be across the street. That was uncomplimentary to company, but nevertheless I yearned. So did all the rest, only they aren't telling about it. When a man has passed into the sere and yellow he has a right to the consolation of retrospect. Frankly, for a moment I wished I didn't have any house. I wanted to be over there where the young folks were, pitching bean-bags. And later, when they gathered around the piano and sang discordantly all the popular songs, I wanted to be there and join my voice in the music. It was awful music, but I wanted to howl right along with the young ones.

When the company had gone I wrestled the green chair back into the house by way of the widest window, but my mind was still full of the thought that had seized me—of the youth, and gaiety, and glory of green years. As I went to close the shutters, the last of the young people had just gone up the street singing. I gave one good night glance at the parlor