The Ragged Edge. Chapter XXX SIR JOHN’S NECKTIE Sir John, in a quiet dark travelling suit, was sitting in a pokey little room writing letters. The moment my escape is known, a large reward will be placed on my head. Lucy had snuck in the back door by the kitchen and Sheila was ready for her, standing between the stove 124 and the refrigerator. The house was full of aunts, uncles, and cousins meandering about, stuffed until their seams and zippers were bursting. “One moment, if you please!” She stopped short and looked round. On this side stood the instruments with which the latter piece of pleasantry had been effected,—namely, a bucket filled with paint and a brush: on that was erected a trophy, consisting of a watchman's rattle, a laced hat, with the crown knocked out, and its place supplied by a lantern, a campaign wig saturated with punch, a torn steen-kirk and ruffles, some halfdozen staves, and a broken sword. I had a hard fight to begin with to win my way into the Upper Division—I was third on a list of fortyseven—and since then I have found myself promoted almost yearly in a widening sphere of social service. Mac would have some new yarns to spin and a fresh turn-over to his celebrated liver.
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