fool—I—I—I believe I'll pick him tip by the neck and kick him till I feel better."
Almost immediately he came on the object of his search—a little, stout man in white flannels, smoking a long, thick cheroot. The little, stout man held himself importantly, and blew out the smoke by way of a little crooked nose that turned up at the end. The scarf around his helmet was positively garish, likewise his flowing cravat. A broad leathern belt held up his trousers snugly, and made you distinctly aware that the girth of what he was pleased to call his waist was greater than that of his chest Beauling's anger melted at the sight of the good-natured and odious little man.
"Hallo there!" he said.
"Why, it's you!" said Tibbs. "Well met! Boys, here's Beauling—Tom Beauling."
He extended a pudgy little hand, which Beauling squeezed to some purpose.
"Ouch—ouch!" said Tibbs. "My dear boy—my dear boy—" and he looked sadly at the afficted member, which had
