Friend wife met me by appointment to take dinner at the Saint Astormore the other evening and with her was her little brother, Stephen, aged nine.
"I brought Stevie with me because I had some shopping to do and he's so much company," Peaches explained as we sat down in the restaurant.
"Stevie is always pleasant company," I agreed, politely, but with a watchful eye on my youthful brother-in-law all the while.
That kid was born with an abnormal bump of mischief and, by painstaking endeavor, he has won the world's championship as an organizer of impromptu riots.
"Oh, John!" said Peaches, when I began to make faces at the menu card, "I didn't notice until now how pale you look. Have you had a busy day?"
"Busy!" I repeated; "well, rather. I've been giving imitations of a bull fight. Everybody I met was the bull and I was the fight. Nominate your eats! What'll it be, Stevie?"
"Sponge cake," said Stephen, promptly.
"What else?" asked Peaches.
"More sponge cake," the youth replied, and just then the smiling and sympathetic waiter stooped down to pick up a fork Stephen had dropped.
In his anxiety not to miss anything, Stevie rubbered acrobatically with the result that he upset a glass of ice water down the waiter's neck, and three seconds later the tray-trotter had issued an Extra and was saying things in French that would sound scandalous if translated.