J. Archibald McKackney
Mr. Wilkins sputtered and choked as four fingers of aged whisky slid down his dusty throat. Then like one in a dream he rolled in the wake of the footman, nor did I observe at the time that the decanter was still tightly clutched in the fist of my guest.
It befell, therefore, that while the outer man was being adorned, the inner man was being mightily refreshed. Before the valet swept the crimson beard aside to encircle the bull-neck of Mr. Wilkins with a white tie, the blithe little devils in the decanter had banished all his fears. Beaming, but by no means befogged, the sailorman returned below stairs, a heroic figure in evening clothes whose dazzling front was wholly eclipsed by the magnificent torrent of his beard. I saw him do a few steps of a hornpipe in the hall and bow low before a mirror, but he assumed an imposing dignity of bearing as he joined me in the library.
"If I don't come out of this pipe-dream soon, and I'm to shift myself into these clothes again," said my guest with great em-
