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My thanks were few and awkward, for there still hung to the missive a basting thread, and it was as warm as a nestling bird. I bent low--everybody was emotional in those days--kissed the fragrant thing, thrust it into my bosom, and blushed worse than Camille.

"Cockerel, did you say?"

Rills of perspiration tickled my back like flies. "Can't one man do the work?"

"Why, I can read my safety in your face. You can't read anything in mine; you're afraid to look."

"Oh! And where is the battery?"

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