Not that these harrowin' details was passed on to Aunt Elvira. The Mallorys begun by doctorin' the returns, and they developed into reg'lar experts at the game of representin' to Aunty what a sainted little fellow Dyke was growin' to be. The more practice they got, the harder their imaginations was worked; for by the time Dyckman was strugglin' through his last year at college he'd got to be such a full blown hickey boy that he'd have been spotted for a sport in a blind asylum.

So they had to invent one excuse after another to keep Aunt Elvira from seein' him, all the while givin' her tales about how he was soon to break into the divinity school; hoping, of course, that Aunty would get tired of waitin' and begin to unbelt.

"They overdid it, that's all," says Dyke. "Healthy looking Bishop I'd make! What?"

"You ain't got just the style for a right reverend, that's a fact," says I.

Which wa'n't any wild statement of the case, either. He's a tall, loose jointed, slope shouldered young gent, with a long, narrow face, gen'rally ornamented by a cigarette; and he has his straw colored hair cut plush.

His costume is neat but expensive,--double reefed trousers, wide soled shoes, and a green yodler's hat with the bow on behind. He talks with the kind of English accent they pick up at New Haven, and when he's in repose he tries to let on he's so bored with life that he's in danger of fallin'

asleep any minute.

Judgin' from Dyke's past performances, though, there wa'n't many somnolent hours in it. But in spite of all the trouble he'd got into, I couldn't figure him out as anything more'n playful. Course, rough housin'

in rathskellers until they called out the reserves, and turnin' the fire hose on a vaudeville artist from a box, and runnin' wild with a captured trolley car wa'n't what you might call innocent boyishness; but, after all, there wa'n't anything real vicious about Dyke.

Playful states it. Give him a high powered tourin' car, with a bunch of eight or nine from the football squad aboard, and he liked to tear around the State of Connecticut burnin' the midnight gasolene and lullin' the villagers to sleep with the Boula-Boula song. Perfectly harmless fun--if the highways was kept clear. All the frat crowd said he was a good fellow, and it was a shame to bar him out from takin' a degree just on account of his layin' down on a few exams. But that's what the faculty did, and the folks at home was wild.

Dyke had been back and on the unclassified list for nearly a year now, and the prospects of his breakin' into the divinity school was growin'

worse every day. He'd jollied Mr. Mallory into lettin' him have a little two-cylinder roadster, and his only real pleasure in life was when he could load a few old grads on the runnin' board and go off for a joy ride.

But after the old man had spent the cost of a new machine in police court fines and repairs, even this little diversion was yanked away. The last broken axle had done the business, and the nearest Dyke could come to real enjoyment was when he had the price to charter a pink taxi and inspire the chauffeur with highballs enough so he'd throw her wide open on the way back.

Not bein' responsible for Dyke, I didn't mind having him around. I kind of enjoyed the cheerful way he had of tellin' about the fam'ly boycott on him, and every time I thinks of Aunt Elvira still havin' him framed up for a comer in the Bishop class, I has to smile.

You see, having gone so far with their fairy tales, the Mallorys never got a chance to hedge; and, accordin' to Dyke, they was all scared stiff for fear she'd dig up the facts some day, and make a new will leavin' her rentroll to the foreign missions society.

Maybe it was because I took more or less interest in him, but perhaps it was just because he wanted company and I happened to be handy; anyway, here the other afternoon Dyke comes poundin' up the stairs two at a time, rushes into the front office, and grabs me by the arm.

"Come on, Shorty!" says he. "Something fruity is on the schedule."

"Hope it don't taste like a lemon," says I. "What's the grand rush?"

"Aunt Elvira is coming down, and she's called for me," says Dyke, grinnin' wide. "She must suspect something; for she sent word that if I wasn't on hand this time she'd never come again. What do you think of that?"

"Aunty's got a treat in store for her, eh?" says I, givin' Dyke the wink.

"I should gurgle!" says he. "I'm good and tired of this fake Bishop business, and if I don't jolt the old lady out of that nonsense, I'm a duffer. You can help some, I guess. Come on."

Well, I didn't exactly like the idea of mixin' up with a fam'ly surprise party like that; but Dyke is so anxious for me to go along, and he gets me so curious to see what'll happen at the reunion, that I fin'lly grabs my coat and hat, and out we trails.

It seems that Aunt Elvira is due at the Grand Central. Never having tried the subway, she's come to town just as she used to thirty years ago: drivin' to Kingsbridge station, and takin' a Harlem river local down. We finds the whole fam'ly, includin' Mr. and Mrs. Craig Mallory, and their two married daughters, waitin' outside the gates, with the gloom about 'em so thick you'd almost think it was a sea turn.

From the chilly looks they shot at Dyke you could tell just how they'd forecasted the result when Aunt Elvira got him all sized up; for, with his collar turned up and his green hat slouched, he looks as much like a divinity student as a bulldog looks like Mary's lamb. And they can almost see them blocks of apartment houses bein' handed over to the heathen.

As for Mr. Craig Mallory, he never so much as gives his only son a second glance, but turns his back and stands there, twistin' the ends of his close cropped gray mustache, and tryin' to look like he wa'n't concerned at all. Good old sport, Craig,--one of the kind that can sit behind a pair of sevens and raise the opener out of his socks. Lucky for his nerves he didn't have to wait long. Pretty soon in pulls the train, and the folks from Yonkers and Tarrytown begin to file past.

[Illustration: "Most of Auntie was obscured by the luggage she carries"]

"There she is!" whispers Dyke, givin' me the nudge. "That's Aunt Elvira, with her bonnet on one ear."

It's one of the few black velvet lids of the 1869 model still in captivity, ornamented with a bunch of indigo tinted violets, and kept from bein' lost off altogether by purple strings tied under the chin.

Most of the rest of Aunty was obscured by the hand luggage she carries, which includes four assorted parcels done up in wrappin' paper, and a big, brass wire cage holdin' a ragged lookin' gray parrot that was tryin'

to stick his bill through the bars and sample the passersby.

She's a wrinkled faced, but well colored and hearty lookin' old girl, and the eyes that peeks out under the rim of the velvet lid is as keen and shrewd as a squirrel's. Whatever else she might be, it was plain Aunt Elvira wa'n't feeble minded. Behind her comes a couple of station porters, one cartin' an old-time black valise, and the other with his arms wrapped around a full sized featherbed in a blue and white tick.

"Gee!" says I. "Aunty carries her own scenery with her, don't she?"

"That's Bismarck in the cage," says Dyke.

"How Bizzy has changed!" says I. "But why the feather mattress?"

"She won't sleep on anything else," says he. "Watch how pleased my sisters look. They just love this--not! But she insists on having the whole family here to meet her."

I must say for Mr. Mallory that he stood it well, a heavy swell like him givin' the glad hand in public to a quaint old freak like that. But Aunt Elvira don't waste much time swappin' fam'ly greetin's.

"Where is Dyckman?" says she, settin' her chin for trouble. "Isn't he here?"

"Oh, yes," says Mr. Mallory. "Right over there," and he points his cane handle to where Dyke and me are grouped on the side lines.

"Here, hold Bismarck!" says Aunty, jammin' the brass cage into Mr.

Mallory's arm, and with that she pikes straight over to us. I never mistrusted she'd be in any doubt as to which was which, until I sees her look from one to the other, kind of waverin'. No wonder, though; for, from the descriptions she'd had, neither of us came up to the divinity student specifications. Yet it was something of a shock when she fixes them sharp old lamps on me and says:

"Land to goodness! You?"

"Reverse!" says I. "Here's the guilty party," and I pushes Dyke to the front.

She don't gasp, or go up in the air, or throw any kind of a fit, like I expected. As she looks him over careful, from the sporty hat to the wide soled shoes, I notices her eyes twinkle.

"Hum! I thought as much!" says she. "Craig always could lie easier than he could tell the truth. Young man, you don't look to me like a person called to hold orders."

"Glad of it, Aunty," says Dyke, with a grin. "I don't feel that way."

"And you don't look as if you had broken down your health studying for the ministry, either!" she goes on.

"You don't mean to say they filled you up with that?" says Dyke.

"Hee-haw!"

"Huh!" says Aunty. "It's a joke, is it? At least you're not afraid to tell the truth. I guess I want to have a little private talk with you.

Who's this other young man?"

"This is Professor McCabe," says Dyke. "He's a friend of mine."

"Let him come along, too," says Aunty. "Perhaps he can supply what you leave out."

And, say, the old girl knew what she wanted and when she wanted it, all right! There was no bunkoin' her out of it, either. Mr. Mallory leads her out to his brougham and does his best to shoo her in with him and Mrs.

Mallory and away from Dyke; but it was no go.

"I will ride up with Dyckman and his friend," says she. "And I want to go in one of those new automobile cabs I've heard so much about."