AT THE CORNER OF LOVERS' LANE
fierce night, not a quiet one—one of our Jersey storms, you know, that make lots of our awful mud and play the deuce with football practice. So the fat old gentleman was stuck several times—you know how bad the road is down there a little ways—and they waited and waited while the wind blew and the rain swept across and the leaves were carried away, and they shivered with cold and excitement until just a little past two o'clock."
"What's that?" said one of the listeners, starting. "Oh," he added laughing, "it's old North strikin' two o'clock; doesn't it sound queer, though?"
"Billy," said one of the others, "you've got this timed well, anyway."
"Yes, I had it all arranged beforehand," he said smiling, though he, too, seemed to be somewhat surprised.
"Well, don't let it happen again," put in one of the others, and they all laughed at this remark rather boisterously.
"To be the real thing," the story teller went on, "it ought to be storming, I suppose. However, at a few minutes past two
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