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“Sure. All the kids. But Clarence especially,—he’s my son, you know.” Billy grinned. Guinea pigs, pigeons, and other and larger live stock, normal or otherwise, masqueraded as marvellous creatures from foreign lands. “Come home to dinner with me, Mr. Zalhambra, you’ll p’raps find some folks there that will appreciate the dope you hand out.”.

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“Oh, no, not a fairy; only Cinderella. Last night I was the poor little cinder girl; now my fairy godmothers, two, have touched me with their wands, needles, and I’m so fine even the Prince didn’t know me.” Rational people laughed at these stories, declared them the fancies of brains fuddled by too long a stay at the saloons in town. But Billy was not so easily satisfied. He wished to see for himself those shadowy forms; to prove to the small, scared children that, contrary to general belief, the brothers sometimes had guests. And he had a queer feeling that some way the house would have a place in his life. He admired its gloomy grandeur; planned the additions he would make if it were his own, and the gardens, the hedges of roses, and banks of fragrant smilax, that should grow there. Through the open door could be heard the strains of “Pull for the shore” sung with heart and soul by the intermediate class, and to that lively air Moses made for the exit as expeditiously as his sodden garments would allow. Clarence had crossed the Pons Asinorum; a series of intoxicated circles, with sharp-cornered triangles piercing their fat sides, bore eloquent testimony to his faltering steps..