J. Archibald McKackney
don't say that again, I beg of you. Your beard, I—I"
"But they douse my gold buttons and shiny shirt," he protested, and then wishing to humor me, he added in soothing accents:
"Now don't get dippy again. You've been doing well. If you admire my whiskers take 'em as a gift."
"Perhaps I ought to explain," I began, just as the butler announced that dinner was served. As the sailor heaved himself out of his chair, his roving eye was drawn to a line of portraits on the opposite wall which displayed some of the choicest specimens of my collections.
"Oh, look at the oakum-faced sundowners, millions of 'em," he exclaimed. "I've fathomed his soft spot. He's gone wrong on whiskers, poor man."
As Mr. Wilkins lumbered into the dining room he sonorously chanted the impromptu refrain which was weaving in his brain:
