"It's tail," remarked Mr. Courtaine. "So the stroll will turn out best. Let's be moving."
They moved along, and as they passed a fruit stand Mr. Ince remarked: "Hello! there are some strawberries."
"Ze first-a of ze season a-Signore," said the Neapolitan nobleman, who presided over the destinies of the stand, with a bow of invitation, "ze very first-a, only feefty cent-a ze box-a."
"By Jove!" cried Mr. Courtaine, picking out three of the finest and leaving the box a quarter empty, "now, then, Ince, make a wish."
"What for?" demanded Mr. Ince, making a raid on the box on his own account.
"Never mind," replied Mr. Courtaine, evasively, "only whenever you eat new fruit or vegetables make a wish."
And he posted the strawberries into his oratorical orifice, and walked off, leaving the fruit vender foaming at the mouth, and snarling "corpo di diavola! zese actor 'ave-a ze sheek-a of a policeman. Oh! Madonna mia! Eef zem boys 'ad not steal-a my club!"
The stroll was varied by no further incidents except that Mr. Courtaine walked a block around to avoid passing a drunken man, and nearly lost his life snatching a cast horseshoe up from in front of a street-car. As they turned homeward Mr. Courtaine's eyes singled out a lady approaching with an armful of bundles, and he commenced a species of maniac gavotte, waving his hands at her and shouting: "Go into the street. Hey! Hey! look out for the ladder!"
And when in spite of his adjurations, Mrs. Courtaine—for the lady was none other—walked under a ladder leaning against the side of a rising building. He sank upon a row of beer kegs and fastened a cumulative grip on Mr. Ince's arm, exclaiming—"Did you witness it wasn't my fault? I warned her in time, didn't I?"
* * * * *