"Very good, sir," I replied amiably. "I will appear better, no doubt, as a listener; but if my father was alive"
"Sir," beseeched my friend, "the great Fancher, the immortal critic, is about to speak."
"Let him," said I, still amiable.
A portly gentleman of middle age now addressed Bobbs amid a general and respectful silence.
"Sir," he remarked, your words concerning the great age of what I shall call the five-minutes-intelligent-explanation theory was first developed by the Chinese, and is contemporaneous, I believe, with their adoption of the custom of roasting their meat instead of eating it raw."
"Sir, I am interested and instructed," rejoined Bobbs.
Here old Fullbil let go two or three growls of scornful disapproval.
"Fancher," said he, "my delight in your company is sometimes dimmed by my appreciation of your facilities for being entirely wrong. The great theory of which you speak so confidently, sir, was born no earlier than seven o'clock on the morning of this day. I was in my bed, sir; the maid had come in with my tea and toast. 'Stop,' said I, sternly. She stopped. And in those few moments of undisturbed reflection, sir, the thought came to life, the thought which you so falsely attribute to the Chinese, a savage tribe whose sole distinction is its ability to fly kites."
After the murmurs of glee had died away, Fancher answered with spirit:
"Sir, that you are subject to periods of reflection I will not deny, I cannot deny. Nor can I say honour-
