“What has he done, Cecil dear?” 
“Been fishing on our property again, 
that’s all. Tompkins says he laughed 
at him when he told him to get off. I 
say, do you know, I think I’ll have to 
adopt rough methods with that chap. 
Hang it all, what right has he to catch 
our fish?” 
“Oh, how I hate that man!” 
claimed her ladyship petulantly. 
“But I’ve given Thompson final in- 
structions.” 
“And what are they?” 
“To throw him in the river nexi 
time.” 
“Oh, if he only could!” rapturously. 
“Could? My dear, Tompkins is an 
American. He can handle these chaps 
{in their own way. At any rate, I told 
Tompkins if his nerve failed him at the 
last minute to come and notify me. I'll 
attend to this confounded popinjay?”’ 
“Good for you, Cecil!’ called out an- 
other young woman from the broad 
hammock in which she had been daw- 
dling with half alert ears through the 
foregoing conversation. “Spoken like 
a true Briton. What is this popinjay 
like?” 
“Hullo, sister! Hang it all, what’s he 
like? He’s like an ass, that’s all. I’ve 
never seen him, but if I’m ever called 
upon to—but you don’t care to listen te 
details. You remember the big log that 
lies out in the river up at the bend? 
Well, it marks the property line. One- 
half of its stump belongs to the Shaw 
man, the other half to m—to us, Hve- 
lyn. He shan’t fish below that log—no, 
sir!” His lordship glared fiercely 
through his monocle in the direction of 
the faraway log, his watery blue eyes 
blinking as malevolently as possible, 
his long, aristocratic nose wrinkling at 
its base in fine disdain. His five feet 
four of stature quivered with illy sub- 
dued emotion, but whether it was rage 
or the sudden recollection of the dog 
trot through the woods it is beyond me 
to suggest. 
“But suppose our fish venture inta 
his waters, Cecil. What then? Isn’t 
that trespass?’ demanded the Hon. 
Penelope Drake, youngest and moat 
cherished sister of his lordship. 
“Now, don’t be silly, Pen,” cried het 
sister-in-law. “Of course we can’t reg: 
ulate, the fish.” 
“But I dave say his fish will come 
below the log, so what’s the odds?’ 
said his lordship quickly. “A trout’s 
a lawless brute at best.” 
“Is he big?’ asked the Hon, Penelope 
lazily. 
“They vary, my dear girl.” 
“T mean Mr. Shaw.” 
“Oh, I thought you meant the—but 
I don’t know. What difference does 
that make? Big or little, he has to 
stay off my grounds.” Was it a look of 
pride that his tall young wife bestowed 
upon him as he drew himself proudly 
erect, or was it akin to pity? At any 
rate, her gay young American head 
was inches above his own when she 
arose and suggested that they go in- 
ex- 
NORTH SHORE BREEZE 
Slde and prepare for the housing of 
the guests who were to come over 
from the evening train. 
“The drag has gone over to the sta- 
tion, Cecil, and it should be here by 
7 o’clock.” 
“Confound his impudence, Ill show 
him,” grumbled his lordship as he fol- 
lowed her, stiff legged, toward the 
door, 
“What’s up, Cecil, with your legs?” 
called his sister. “Are you getting 
old?’ ‘This suggestion always irritat- 
ed him. 
“Old? Silly question. You know 
how old I am. No; it’s that beastly 
American horse. Evelyn, I told you 
they have no decent horses in this 
beastly country. They jiggle the life 
out of one’’—but he was obliged to 
unbend himself perceptibly in order to 
keep pace with her as she hurried 
through the door. 
The Hon. Penelope allowed her in- 
dolent gaze to follow them. A per- 
plexed pucker finally developed on her 
fair brow and her thought was almost 
expressed aloud: “By Jove, I wonder 
if she really loves him.” Penelope 
was very pretty and very bright. She 
was visiting America for the first 
time, and she was learning rapidly. 
“Cecil’s a good sort, you know, even”’— 
but she was loyal enough to send her 
thoughts into other channels. 
Nightfall brought half a dozen guests 
to Bazelhurst Villa. They were fash- 
fonable to the point where ennui is the 
chief characteristic, and they came 
only for bridge and sleep. There was 
a duke among them and also a French 
count, besides the bored New Yorkers; 
they wanted brandy and soda as soon 
as they got into the house, and they 
went to bed early because it was so 
much easier to sleep lying down than 
sitting up. 
All were up by noon the next day, 
more bored than ever, fondly praying 
that nothing might happen before bead- 
time. The duke was making desultory 
love to Mrs. De Peyton and Mrs. De 
Peyton was leading him aimlessly to- 
ward the shadier and more secluded 
nooks in the park surrounding the 
villa. Penelope, fresh and full of the 
purpose of life, was off alone for a 
long stroll. By this means she avoided 
the attentions of the duke, who want- 
ed to marry her; those of the count, 
who also said he wanted to marry her, 
but couldn’t because his wife would 
not consent; those of one New Yorker, 
who liked her because she was Eng- 
lish, and the pallid chatter of the wom- 
en who bored her with their conjugal 
eynicisms. 
“What the deuce is this coming down 
the road?’’ queried the duke, returning 
from the secluded nook at luncheon 
time. 
“Some one has been hurt,” exclaim- 
ed his companion. Others were looking 
down the leafy road from the gallery. ° 
“By Jove, it’s Penelope, don’t you 
know!” ejaculated the duke. dropping 
bis monocle and blinding his eve as if 
to rest it for the time being. 
“But she’s not hurt. She’s helping 
to support one of those men.” 
“Hey!” shouted his lordship from 
the gallery as Penelope and two dilapi- 
dated male companions abruptly start- 
ed to cut across the park in the direc- 
tion of the stables. “What’s up?” 
Penelope waved her hand aimlessly, 
but did not change her course. Where- 
upon the entire house party sallied 
forth in more or less trepidation to in- 
tercept the strange party. 
“Who are these men?’ demanded 
Lady Bazelhurst as they came up ta 
the fast breathing young Englishwo- 
man, 
“Don’t bother me, please. We must 
get him to bed at once. He’ll have 
pneumonia,” replied Penelope. 
Both men were dripping wet, and 
the one in the middle limped painfully, 
“Who are you?” demanded his lordship. 
probably because both eyes were swol- 
len tight and his nose was bleeding. 
Penelope’s face was beaming with ex- 
zitement and interest. 
“Who are you?” demanded his lord- 
ship, planting himself in front of the 
shivering twain. 
“Tompkins,” murmured the blind one 
feebly, tears starting from the blue 
slits and rolling down his cheeks. 
“James, sir,’ answered the other, 
touching his damp forelock. 
“Are they drunk?’ asked Mrs. De 
Pevtouo. with fresh enthusiasm 
To be continued 
