with which Chinese ivory-carvers love to ornament their work. Hardly more than five feet tall, his girth was so great that he seemed to overflow the confines of the armchair in which he lounged. His head, almost totally void of hair, was nearly globular in shape, and the smooth, hairless skin seemed stretched drum-tight over the fat with which his skull was generously upholstered. Cheeks plump to the point of puffiness almost forced his oblique eyes shut; yet, though his eyes could scarcely be seen, it required no deep intuition to know that they always saw. Between his broad, flat nose and a succession of chins was set incongruously a small, sensitive mouth, full-lipped but mobile, and drooping at the comers in a sort of perpetual sad smile.
"Dr. Peng," de Grandin introduced, "this is my very good friend. Dr. Trowbridge. Trowbridge, my friend, this is Dr. Peng Yuin-han, whose wisdom is about to enable us to foil the machinations of those wicked ones who threaten Mademoiselle Haroldine. Proceed, if you please, cher ami," he motioned the fat little Chinaman to continue the remark he had cut short to acknowledge the introduction.
"It is rather difficult to explain," the visitor returned in a soft, unaccented voice, "but if we stop to remember that the bird stands midway between the reptile and the mammal we may perhaps understand why it is that the cock's blood is most acceptable to those elemental forces which my unfortunate superstitious countrymen seek to propitiate in their temples. These malignant influences were undoubtedly potent in the days we refer to as the age of reptiles, and it may be the cock's lineal descent from the pterodactyl gives his blood the quality of possessing certain emanations soothing to the tempest spirits. In any event, I think you would be well advised to employ such blood in your protective experiments."
"And the ashes?" de Grandin put in eagerly.
"Those I can procure for you by noon tomorrow. Camphor wood is something of a rarity here, but I can obtain enough for your purpose, I am sure."
"Bon, très bon!" the Frenchman exclaimed delightedly. "If those camel-faces will but have the consideration to wait our preparations, I damn think we shall tender them the party of surprize. Yes. Parbleu, we shall astonish them!"
Shortly after noon the following day an asthmatic Ford delivery wagon bearing the picture of a crowing cockerel and the legend
P. GRASSO
Vendita di Pollame Vivi
on its weatherworn leatherette sides drew up before the house, and an Italian youth in badly soiled corduroys and with a permanent expression indicative of some secret sorrow climbed lugubriously from the driver's seat, took a covered two-gallon can, obviously originally intended as a container for Quick's Grade A Lard, from the interior of the vehicle and advanced toward the front porch.
"Docta de Grandin 'ere?" he demanded as Nora McGinnis, my household factotum, answered his ring.
"No, he ain't," the indignant Nora informed him, "an' if he wuz, 'tis at th' back door th' likes o' you should be inquirin' fer 'im!"
The descendant of the Cæsars was in no mood for argument. "You taka dissa bucket an' tella heem I breeng it—Pete Grasso," he returned, thrusting the lard tin into the scandalized housekeeper's hands. "You tella heem I sella da han, I sella da roosta, too, an' I keela heem w'an my customers ask for it; but I no lika for sella da blood. No, santissimo Dio, not me!
(Continued on page 567)
