We're a queer lot, down there, Isabel--perfect menagerie.

If it hadn't been that Fulkerson got us together, and really seems to know what he did it for, I should say he was the oddest stick among us.

But when I think of myself and my own crankiness for the literary department; and young Dryfoos, who ought really to be in the pulpit, or a monastery, or something, for publisher; and that young Beaton, who probably hasn't a moral fibre in his composition, for the art man, I don't know but we could give Fulkerson odds and still beat him in oddity." His wife heaved a deep sigh of apprehension, of renunciation, of monition.

"Well, I'm glad you can feel so light about it, Basil." "Light?
I feel gay! With Fulkerson at the helm, I tell you the rocks and the lee shore had better keep out of the way." He laughed with pleasure in his metaphor.

"Just when you think Fulkerson has taken leave of his senses he says or does something that shows he is on the most intimate and inalienable terms with them all the time.