"Quilt Arnold, is that you?" "It is, Sir," sputtered the janizary. I never intended it to be anything but a short story, for I had never completed even the shortest of stories unless forced to in grammar school. The galleries adjoining it were crowded with spectators,—so was the roof of a large tavern, then the only house standing at the end of the Edgeware Road,—so were the trees,—the walls of Hyde Park,—a neighbouring barn, a shed,—in short, every available position. She was glad not to be baking in it anymore, or feeling the fiberglass splinters 64 invading her rear end from sitting on the bleachers. . She had fallen into it naturally, the only expression of the dance she had ever seen or known, and that a stolen sweet. “I had lunch very late to-day, and I did not get home in time for dinner.
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