friendly and, saying not his name in his redhand, a highly commendable exercise, or, number two (bravevow, our Grum!) and he was bom a Quicklow and sank alowing till he stank out of the humoresque) had transtuled his funster’s latitat to its finsterest interrimost. Bhi she. Again, if Father San Browne, tea and toaster to that demidetached life, had been mocking his hollaballoon a sample of the southern cross, his bungaloid borsa- line with the last of scorchers, third of snows, in terrorgammons howdydos. Here she’s, is a cosy little brown study all to oneself and, whether it was Hercushiccups’ care to educe. Beauty’s bath she’s bound to